She pointed at his face. “Because of the look in your eyes.”
Scott wrapped his hand lightly around hers, lowering it even as his expression grew more mischievous. “This look in my eyes means only that I’ve decided, since you asked me to tell a few tales and I’ll be staying a little longer than expected, that I ought to seize the opportunity to truly embrace that role.”
What did he mean by that?
Scott grinned, and heaven help her, Gillian’s heart pounded at the sight. “Now it’s the look inyoureyes you ought to be worried about.”
He motioned her toward the door, releasing her hand as she stepped past him. She looked back at him briefly only to see the amusement in his expression grow. Amusement. That was reassuring. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely put out with her after all. Perhaps she hadn’t made things horribly worse for him.
Mrs. Brownlow was sitting up in bed with ample pillows behind her back to provide support. She was improving.
A small table and two chairs had been brought in and placed near the bed, and Scott saw Gillian seated in one of the chairs, managing the thing with a sedate, gentlemanly air, except for the twinkle in his eyes.
“You are plotting,” Gillian whispered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke far too innocently to be believed.
He wasn’t angry with her. She was so relieved she could have cried. Instead, she smiled back at him.
“It is good to see you smiling, Gillian.” Mrs. Brownlow sounded stronger than she had all day. “When she was . . . a little girl, she had such a love of . . . laughing and silliness.”
“Most little children indulge in such things,” Gillian said. “One can hardly expect someone of my age—”
“Yes. We must remember how incredibly old Gillian is,” Scott said in serious tones. “I have heard the wordancientused.Antiquated.Decrepit.”
Gillian gave his shoulder a shove. He held his arm, pretending she’d done him a great injury.
Supper arrived in the very next moment, carried by a footman and her father. She let her smile remain in place as she watched him, hoping to see an answering one from him, or at least a hint of happiness in his eyes as he looked at her, some sign he was pleased to see her joyful.
Nothing in his staid demeanor changed in the least.
Mr. Walkermotioned for the footman to set the tray of food on the table, then set the plates, utensils, and cups he carried there as well.
“Thank you,” Gillian said but received nothing beyond the butler-y dip of his head he always offered.
As the butler and footman stepped out, Scott sat in the chair beside Gillian. “Do you not like the butler?” he asked in a whisper.
“I do,” she answered just as quietly.
“Then why do you always seem upset when you look at him?”
She was typically good at hiding her feelings. Scott Sarvol was proving a bit too insightful for her comfort. “I don’t dislike him,” she repeated. “Please leave it at that.”
He gave a quick nod before returning his attention to Mrs. Brownlow. “Allow me to prepare a plate for you. Tell me what you would like and what you feel equal to eating.”
“Nothing too heavy,” she said. “A bit of toasted bread.” She paused a moment for a slow breath. “A soft boiled potato, perhaps.”
“You are fortunate. Cook has sent up both, as well as some mashed peas.”
Mrs. Brownlow nodded. “That will be perfect.”
Scott placed the chosen food on her plate and brought it to her. “Are you equal to feeding yourself, or would it be helpful to have assistance?” There was no pity or condescension in his tone.
“If you’ll set it . . . on the bedside table,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “I’ll start with the toast and see how I do with the rest.”
“Gillian and I are both here and will be offended if you do not tell us when you need something.”
Mrs. Brownlow looked to Gillian. “Offended?”