She . . . She shouldn’t be . . . He swallowed. He didn’t want her to cry. He was so tired. He didn’t feel like he knew much, but he knew that.
“You scared me,” she said. “I’d wager you didn’t think you could do that.” She sounded as if she was trying to joke with him, but he could tell she was faking it. He appreciated the effort, though.
“Where is Mrs. Wetherby?” he asked.
“I sent her to bed. She was exhausted."
“Good."
“She has been caring for you quite diligently."
He nodded again, that tiny little motion he hoped she could see.
His housekeeper had cared for him the last time he’d had a fever, back when he was eleven. His father had not entered the room once, but Mrs. Wetherby had not left his side. He wanted to tell Honoria about that, or maybe about the time his father had left home before Christmas and she had taken it upon herself to put up so much holly that Fensmore had smelled like a forest for weeks. It had been the best Christmas ever, until the year he’d been invited to spend it with the Smythe-Smiths.
That had been the best. That would always be the best.
“Do you want more water?” Honoria asked.
He did, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to swallow it properly.
“I’ll help you,” she said, placing the glass to his lips.
He took a tiny sip, then let out a tired sigh. “My leg hurts."
“It’s probably still sprained,” she said with a nod.
He yawned. “Feels . . . little fiery. Little poker.” Her eyes widened. He couldn’t blame her. He had no idea what he meant either.
She leaned forward, her brow knit with concern, and she once again touched her hand to his forehead. “You’re starting to feel warm again."
He tried to smile. He thought he might have managed it on at least one side of his mouth. “Was I ever not?” “No,” she said frankly. “But you feel warmer now."
“It comes and goes."
“The fever?"
He nodded.
Her lips tightened, and she looked older than he’d ever seen her before. Not old; she couldn’t possibly look old. But she looked worried. Her hair looked the same, pulled back in her usual loose bun. And she moved the same way, with that bright little gait that was so singularly hers.
But her eyes were different. Darker, somehow. Pulled into her face with worry. He didn’t like it.
“May I have some more water?” he asked. He couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty.
“Of course,” she said quickly, then poured more water from the pitcher to the cup.
He gulped it down, once again too quickly, but this time he wiped the excess water away with the back of his hand. “It will probably come back,” he warned her.
“The fever.” This time, when she said it, it wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “I thought you should know."
“I don’t understand,” she said, taking the glass from his trembling hand. “You were perfectly well when I saw you last."
He tried to raise a brow. He wasn’t sure if he was successful.
“Oh, very well,” she amended. “Not perfectly well, but you were clearly mending."
“There was that cough,” he reminded her.
“I know. But I just don’t think . . .” She let out a self- deprecating snort and shook her head. “What am I saying? I don’t know anything about illness. I don’t even know why I thought I might be able to take care of you. I didn’t think, actually.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but for some inexplicable reason, it was making him happy.
She sat in the chair next to him. “I just came. I got the letter from Mrs. Wetherby, and I didn’t even stop to think about the fact that there was nothing I could do to help you. I just came."
“You’re helping,” he whispered. And she was.
He was feeling better already.
Chapter Nine
Honoria woke the following morning in pain. Her neck was stiff, her back ached, and her left foot had fallen completely asleep. And she was hot and sweaty, which, in addition to making her uncomfortable, made her feel remarkably unattractive. And possibly fragrant. And by fragrant, she meant— Oh, bother, she knew what she meant, and so would anyone else who came within five feet of her.
She’d closed the window after Marcus had dozed off. It had nearly killed her to do so; it went against all common sense. But she was not confident enough to defy the doctor’s instructions and leave it open.
She shook out her foot, wincing as tiny needles of pain shot through her. Blast it all, she hated when her foot fell asleep. She reached down to squeeze it, trying to restore her circulation, but this just made her entire lower leg feel as if she’d set it on fire.
With a yawn and a groan, she pushed herself to her feet, trying to ignore the ominous creaking in her joints. There was a reason human beings didn’t sleep in chairs, she decided. If she was still here the next night, she was taking to the floor.
Half walking and half hobbling, she made her way over to the window, eager to pull back the curtains and allow at least a little sunshine in. Marcus was sleeping, so she didn’t want to make it too bright, but she was feeling a rather urgent need to see him. The color of his skin, the circles under his eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with this information, but then again, she hadn’t been sure of anything since she’d entered his room the night before.
And she needed a reason to get out of the bloody chair.
She pulled back one side of the curtains, blinking in the flood of early morning light. It couldn’t be too much past dawn; the sky was still hung with wisps of pink and peach, and the morning mist was flowing softly across the lawn.
It looked lovely out there, gentle and fresh, and Honoria cracked the window open again, even pressing her face up to the small opening, just to breathe in the cool moisture.
But she had a job to do. So she took a step back and turned around, with every intention of laying a gentle hand on Marcus’s forehead to check if his fever had returned. But before she’d taken more than two steps, he rolled over in his sleep and— Good God, had his face been so red the night before?
She hurried to his side, stumbling over her still tingling left foot.
He looked awful—red and puffy, and when she touched him his skin was dry and parched.
And hot. Terrifyingly hot.
Quickly, Honoria ran to the pitcher of water. She didn’t see any towels or handkerchiefs, so she just dunked her hands in, then laid them on his cheeks, trying to cool him down. But it was clear that this was not going to be a tenable solution, so she dashed over to a set of drawers, yanking them open in turn until she found what she thought were handkerchiefs. It was only when she shook one out to dunk it in the pitcher of water that she realized it was something else altogether.
Oh, dear Lord. She was about to put his unmentionables on his face.
She felt her own face go red as she squeezed out the excess water and hurried back to his side. She mumbled an apology—not that he was sensible enough to understand it, or the offense she was about to commit—and pressed the wet linen against his forehead.
He immediately began to toss and turn, making strange, worrisome sounds—grunts and half-words, sentences with no beginnings or ends. She heard “Stop,” and “No,” but she also thought she might have heard “Facilitate,” “Monkfish,” and “Footbridge."
She definitely heard him say, “Daniel."
Blinking back tears, she left his side for a moment to bring the pitcher of water closer. He’d knocked the cooling cloth from his face by the time she returned, and when she tried to reapply it, he pushed her away.
“Marcus,” she said sternly, even though she knew he wouldn’t hear her, “you have to let me help you."