“He wasn’t sure how he ought to feel about this. On the other hand . . . boiled meat!”

“But he wanted to smile. He would have done, if he'd been able. Surely that had to be the most important thing.The jabbing at his leg stopped for a bit, then started up again. Then there was a lovely, short pause, and then-Damn, that hurt.But not enough to cry out. Although he might have moaned. He wasn't sure. They'd poured hot water on him. Lots of it. He wondered if they were trying to poach his leg.Boiled meat. How terribly British of them.He chuckled. He was funny. Who knew he was so funny?"Oh, my God!" he heard Honoria yell. "What did I do to him?"He laughed some more. Because she sounded ridiculous.Almost as if she were speaking through a foghorn.Oooorrrrhhhh myyy Grrrrrrrrrd.He wondered if she could hear it,too.Wait a moment..Honoria was asking what she'd done to him?Did that mean she was wielding the scissors now?He wasn't sure how he ought to feel about this.On the other hand...boiled meat!He laughed again,deciding he didn't care.God,he was funny.How was it possible no one had ever told him he was funny before?”

“She’d ceased spying upon him, that was true, but the damage was done. Every time he sat at his desk, he could feel her eyes upon him, even though he knew very well she’d shut her curtains tight. But clearly, reality had very little to do with the matter, because all he had to do, it seemed, was glance at her window, and he lost an entire hour’s work.It happened thus: He looked at the window, because it was there, and he couldn’t very well never happen to glance upon it unless he also shut his curtains tight, which he was not willing to do, given the amount of time he spent in his office. So he saw the window, and he thought of her, because, really, what else would he think of upon seeing her bedroom window? At that point, annoyance set in, because A) she wasn’t worth the energy, B) she wasn’t even there, and C) he wasn’t getting any work done because of her.C always led into a bout of even deeper irritation, this time directed at himself, because D) he really ought to have better powers of concentration, E) it was just a stupid window, and F) if he was going to get agitated about a female, it ought to be one he at least liked.F was where he generally let out a loud growl and forced himself to get back to his translation. It usually worked for a minute or two, and then he’d look back up, and happen to see the window, and the whole bloody nonsense cycled back to the beginning.”

“He blinked a few times, each motion so slow that he was never quite sure if he’d get his eyes open again. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Funny how he was only just realizing it. Funnier still that he couldn’t seem to summon any concern for her maidenly sensibilities.She might be blushing. He couldn’t tell. It was too dark to see. But it didn’t matter. This was Honoria. She was a good egg. A sensible egg. She wouldn’t be scarred forever by the sight of his chest.”

“He’d spent his life being a perfect gentleman. He’d never been a flirt. He’d never been a rogue. He hated being the center of attention, but by God, he wanted to be the center of her attention. He wanted to do the wrong thing, the bad thing. He wanted to pull her into his arms and carry her to her bed. He wanted to peel every last inch of her clothing from her body, and then he wanted to worship her. He wanted to show her all the things he wasn’t sure he knew how to say.”

“And then, well . . . He might have slept for a bit. He rather hoped he was sleeping, because he was quite certain he’d seen a six-foot rabbit hopping through his bedchamber, and if that wasn’t a dream, they were all in very big trouble. Although really, it wasn’t the rabbit that was so dangerous as much as the giant carrot he was swinging about like a mace. That carrot would feed an entire village.”

“Honoria nodded and was about to say something utterlyforgettable when she saw that his hand had been bandaged.“I hope your injury is not severe,” she said politely.“Oh, this?” he held up his hand. His fingers were free to waggle,but the rest of it looked rather like a mitt. “It’s nothing. Analtercation with a letter opener.”“Well, please do be careful of infection,” Honoria said,somewhat more forcefully than was de rigueur. “If it grows red, orswollen, or even worse, yellow, then you must see a doctor atonce.”“Green?” he quipped.“I beg your pardon?”“You listed so many colors about which I must be wary.”For a moment Honoria could only stare. Wound infection wasnot a laughing matter.“Lady Honoria?” he murmured.She decided to proceed as if he’d said nothing. “Mostimportantly, you must watch for reddish streaks spreading from thewound. Those are the worst.”He blinked, but if he was startled by the turn of theconversation, he did not show it. Instead he looked down at hishand with a curious eye and said, “How red?”“I beg your pardon?”“How red do the streaks have to be before I must worry?”“How do you know so much about medicine?” Lady Danburycut in.“Do you know, I’m not sure how red,” Honoria told Mr.Bridgerton. “I would think anything stripey ought to be a cause foralarm.”