In the end, they'd talked long into the night, and the longer they spoke, the more amenable to Jocelynn's ideas he'd seemed. His defenses against her suggestions evaporated entirely, and she felt more genuine affection from him in that one evening dinner than she had in months of verbally sparring with the keen-witted Marquis.
And now, as she sat next to his bed, dining on the same roasted hen's breast and beef cheeks that the cooks had prepared for him, she felt a genuine warmth in her chest as she teased him about making a mess of himself if he tried to use a knife and fork to eat in bed rather than letting her cut up his food for him.
"I'll make a mess of you," Bors said, pointing at Jocelynn with a forkful of beet salad. "But not tonight," he said as he broke off in a fit of light coughs. "Tonight, I'm not fit company for anyone," he said once he recovered from the coughing fit.
