The pain in my ankle pulses like a second heartbeat as I lie on the hard cot, jostled by the cart's wheels. The last thing I remember is the sickening crack when my foot twisted beneath me and the horse bolting into the trees. Then darkness, and the sound of a voice—gentle, concerned, male.

I wake in a陌生房间, sunlight streaming through heavy curtains. The room is elegant but not ostentatious, with faded chintz upholstery and bookshelves lining one wall. My leg is elevated, splinted and bandaged. A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

The man who enters takes my breath away. Tall with chestnut brown hair falling around his face, he moves with quiet grace despite his obvious nervousness. "You're awake," he says, his voice the same one I heard in my delirium. "I'm Quentin Coldwater. You've been with us three days, since the accident."

I try to sit up, wincing as pain shoots through my leg. He crosses the room quickly, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder to stop me. His touch burns through the thin fabric of my shirt.

"Please don't move," he says, his brown eyes intense with concern. "The doctor says you must rest. How are you feeling?"

Before I can respond, a footman enters with a tray—tea, broth, medications. Quentin lingers, watching me with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something I recognize instantly as attraction. In that moment, I realize my six-week convalescence might not be the hardship I anticipated.

"Better now that I can properly thank my rescuer," I say, letting my gaze linger on his lips. "I'm Eliot Waugh. And I believe I'm in your debt, Lord Coldwater."

He smiles faintly, his cheeks flushing pink. "Please—call me Quentin."

The formality between us cracks, and in that small fracture, I see the possibility for something dangerous and delicious to grow between us.