The Unlikely Lady (Playful Brides #3)(47)

“She’s breathing,” he announced. A collective sigh went up among them.

He stroked her cheek. “Miss Lowndes.” He leaned closer. “Jane.” She looked so helpless and vulnerable. And so pretty without her glasses. Just like the night he’d kissed her. Her hair had come askew out of her topknot. He traced her cheekbone with his fingertips, heedless of what the others might think. Seeing her silent and helpless and hurt brought out a fierce protective streak in him. One he hadn’t known he possessed.

“Jane,” he whispered again. Her eyes fluttered open and regarded him with their usual dark, sparkling intelligence.

“Garrett?”

Something stirred deep in Garrett’s belly when she called him by his Christian name.

“Yes, it’s me,” he replied softly, pulling a bit of grass from her hair and tossing it aside.

She made as if to sit up but winced and lay back down.

“Stay still. Claringdon’s gone to fetch the doctor.”

Jane smiled and let her head rest in his lap again. “Upton?” she asked softly.

He bent to hear her. “Yes, Jane?”

Her voice was a croak. “Did I win?”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Later that afternoon, Jane sat propped up in bed with her foot on a pillow. She could boast a small lump on the back of her head, but it only hurt when she touched it. She also had a painful twist of her ankle, but the maids brought cold compresses to wrap it, and Lucy brought her hot buttered rum.

Jane stared at the bright white blur that was her stockinged foot. Without her spectacles, she couldn’t read. Regardless, resting comfortably in bed was much preferable to house party outings. The doctor had informed her she’d most likely be able to walk after a day or two, assuring her she could attend the wedding.

A knock sounded on her bedchamber door, and Jane stretched and yawned. It was high time for her afternoon nap. “Who is it?”

The door opened and shut and the dark blur of a man strode toward her. She gasped and pulled the covers to her neck. “Sir, who are you?”

Garrett’s laughter followed. “You don’t recognize me?”

It was Upton? What was he doing here? “I don’t have my spectacles,” she admitted sheepishly, “but you shouldn’t be in here. It’s shamelessly inappropriate.”

It was better this way, without her spectacles. If she couldn’t see how handsome he was, she was much less likely to fantasize about kissing him again, and that was good for everyone. Ever since he’d adamantly and convincingly denied that Mrs. Langford was his mistress and then called Jane stunningly beautiful, well, that in itself had been a bit irresistible. But it had really been too much when he’d asked her when—not if—they would repeat their interlude in the drawing room. The fact was she’d been distracted by that thought far too much since he’d said it.

Upton’s laughter was warm and genuine. “I like that, the perpetrator of the Mrs. Bunbury plot telling me what is shamelessly inappropriate. I had to come see how you’re doing, didn’t I?”

Jane continued to clutch at the covers. “But I’m in my night rail.”

“Yes. I saw a bit of it unfortunately. It’s a night rail that looks like something my grandmama would wear and you have blankets up to your neck on top of that. I have absolutely no hope of catching so much as a glimpse of your skin.”

She had to laugh. He was right. The frothy lace of her long night rail was anything but revealing. She pushed the covers back down to her waist and nestled back against the pillows. “You are shameless, Upton. Don’t allow anyone to ever tell you differently.”

“Duly noted,” he replied. “Where are your spectacles?” He sounded nearly … caring.

Jane sighed. “I’m afraid they were hopelessly bent. Cass has sent to London to fetch me another pair.”

“You look … pretty without your glasses.” He cleared his throat. “Quite pretty.”

Heavens. Had Upton just called her pretty? Quite pretty?

“How is your ankle?” he asked. She could see enough of his blurry form to know he’d pulled a chair close to the edge of her bed and taken a seat.

“Twisted. And sore. Lady Moreland offered me a bowl of cream as if I were a cat. I told her I’d be ever so much more interested in a teacake. I suppose I should consider it a victory as long as she doesn’t send a servant with a bit of salmon. Mrs. Cat would love a bit of salmon.”

“Who is Mrs. Cat?”

“A cat. Not my cat. I don’t own a cat. She’s just a cat I feed sometimes.”

The flash of his white teeth was unmistakable. “I hate to tell you this but if you’re feeding her, she’s your cat.”

“No. She’s not. I’m certain of it.”

“I know better than to argue with you,” he said with a laugh. “But tell me, why are you feeding her if you care so little about her?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t care about her. She’s a perfectly good cat. But you see, there are kittens, and well, I couldn’t allow them to go hungry.”

“Why, Jane Lowndes, you are tenderhearted.”

Her eyes widened. “No. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re quite tenderhearted if you’re feeding a mother cat in order to care for her kittens.”