Jeremy cocked his head against the pillows. Usually he was sitting erect by this time in the afternoon, but today he was lying on his back. Beatrice felt a frisson of fear bolt through her vitals. Was he worse?
“I can’t think who else’s viscount he might be if not yours,” he teased. “Isn’t this the same man as the pretty youth in that portrait in your sitting room? I’ve watched you moon over that thing for years.”
Beatrice twisted her fingers guiltily. “Was I so obvious as all that?”
“Only to me, darling,” Jeremy replied fondly. “Only to me.”
“Oh, Jeremy, I’m such a wigeon!”
“Well, yes, but an adorable one, you must admit.”
Beatrice sighed forlornly. “It’s just that he’s not at all what I thought he’d be like. Well, if I thought about him still being alive, which of course I didn’t, because we all thought him dead.”
“What? He’s ugly?” Jeremy contorted his features into a grotesque scowl.
“Nooo, although he has a beard and terribly long hair at the moment.”
“Beards are disgusting.”
“Not on ship captains,” Beatrice objected.
“Especially on ship captains,” Jeremy said sternly. “There’s no point in trying to make exceptions. One must be firm on the subject.”
“Granted.” Beatrice waved a hand. “But believe me, the beard is the least of it in Viscount Hope’s case. He’s been tattooed.”
“Scandalous,” Jeremy breathed in delight. Flags of high color were flaming on his cheeks.
“I’m overexciting you.” Beatrice frowned.
“Not at all,” he replied. “But even if you were, I’d beg you to go on. I’m here every day, all day and night, Bea, dear. I need the excitement. So, tell me. What is the real problem with Lord Hope? He may have a bushy beard and tattooed himself with anchors and snakes, but I don’t think that’s what’s troubling you.”
“Triangular birds,” Beatrice said absently.
urned to a table near the window—well out of reach of the bed.
“What are you babbling about?” Hope muttered.
“Hmm?” The table was already occupied by a vase and a brass candelabra, and Beatrice had to maneuver the tea tray carefully to avoid yet another spill.
“The misapprehension you said I was under,” Hope growled in a testy voice.
“Oh.” The tray settled, Beatrice looked over at him and smiled, even though he still had his back to her. “You seem to think I’m one of the servants.”
There was a silence from the bed as Beatrice poured the tea. Perhaps he was covered in shame at her mild set-down.
“You do keep bringing me tea.”
Or perhaps not.
“Tea is very fortifying, I find, especially when one feels under the weather.” She added sugar to the tea—she’d noticed he seemed to like his tea very sweet—and brought the teacup to the bed. “But that does not mean I enjoy being addressed in such sour tones.”
He still faced the wall. She hesitated a moment, the cup held uncertainly in her hand; then she placed it carefully on the table. It was an ugly cup with an orange and black decoration depicting a rather lopsided bridge, but still. One didn’t like to see the china smashed.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
One large shoulder shrugged, but otherwise he didn’t move. What had happened between him and Lord Vale?
“It’ll warm your spirits,” she whispered.