Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(43)

“What happened to the gardener?” Annabelle asked through chattering teeth. She was overcome with continuous shivers, as if she had been immersed in ice water. “Did he die?”

Hunt’s expression did not change, but she sensed that her question had startled him. “No,” he said gently, drawing closer. “No, sweetheart…” Taking her trembling hand in his, he warmed her fingers in a gentle grip. “Hampshire adders don’t produce enough venom to kill anything larger than a cat, or a very small dog.” His gaze was caressing as he continued. “You’ll be fine. Uncomfortable as hell for the next few days, but after that you’ll be back to normal.”

“You’re not trying to be kind, are you?” she asked anxiously.

Bending over her, Hunt stroked back a few tendrils of hair that had stuck to her sweat-shimmered forehead. Despite the size of his hand, his touch was light and tender. “I never lie for the sake of kindness,” he murmured, smiling. “One of my many flaws.”

Having given instructions to a footman, Daisy hastened back to the bedside. Although she raised her slender dark brows at the sight of Hunt leaning over Annabelle, she forbore to comment. Instead, she asked, “Shouldn’t we cut across the puncture wounds to let the poison out?”

Annabelle sent her a warning glance and croaked, “Don’t give him ideas, Daisy!”

Hunt looked up briefly as he replied. “Not for an adder bite.” His eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to Annabelle, noting that her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Is it difficult to breathe?”

Annabelle nodded, struggling to pull air into lungs that seemed to have shrunk to a third of their usual size. It felt as if bands were drawing more tightly around her chest with every breath she took, until her ribs threatened to crack from the pressure.

Hunt touched her face softly, his thumb passing over the dry surface of her lips. “Open your mouth.” Looking beyond her parted lips, he observed, “Your tongue isn’t swelling—you’ll be fine. Your corset has to come off, however. Turn over.”

Before Annabelle could form a reply, Daisy protested indignantly. “I’ll help Annabelle with her corset. Leave the room, please.”

“I’ve seen a woman’s corset before,” he informed her sarcastically.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Mr. Hunt. Obviously you’re not the one I’m worried about. Men don’t remove young ladies’ corsets for any reason, unless the circumstances are life-threatening— which you have just assured us that they are not.”

Hunt regarded her with a long-suffering expression. “Dammit, woman—”

“Swear all you like,” Daisy said implacably. “My older sister could outcurse you ten times over.” She drew herself up to her full height, though at five feet and one debatable inch, the effect was hardly impressive. “Miss Peyton’s corset stays on until you leave the room.”

Hunt glanced down at Annabelle, who suddenly craved air too badly to care who removed her corset, so long as it was done. “For God’s sake,” he said impatiently, and strode to the window, turning his back to them. “I’m not looking. Do it.”

Seeming to realize that it was the only concession he was prepared to make, Daisy obeyed hurriedly. She eased the coat away from Annabelle’s stiff body. “I’ll untie the laces in the back and slip it off beneath your gown,” she murmured to Annabelle. “That way you’ll remain decently covered.”

Annabelle couldn’t summon sufficient breath to tell her that any concerns she might have had about modesty had paled in comparison to the far more immediate problem of not being able to breathe. Wheezing harshly, she turned to her side and felt Daisy’s fingers plucking at the slippery back of her ball gown. Her lungs spasmed in their frustrated attempts to pull in precious air. Letting out an anxious moan, she began to pant desperately.

Daisy let out a few choice curses. “Mr. Hunt, I’m afraid I must borrow your knife—the corset strings are knotted, and I can’t—oof!” The last exclamation came as Hunt strode to the bed, shoved her unceremoniously aside, and set to work on the corset himself. A few judicious applications of his knife, and suddenly the obstinate garment released its punishing clasp around Annabelle’s ribs.

She felt him tug the boned garment away from her body, leaving only the thin veil of her chemise between his gaze and her bare skin. In Annabelle’s current condition, the exposure was of little concern. However, she knew in the back of her mind that she would later die of embarrassment.

Turning Annabelle to her back as easily if she were a rag doll, Hunt bent over her. “Don’t try so hard, sweetheart.” His hand flattened over the upper reach of her chest. Holding her frightened gaze intently, he rubbed in a soothing circle. “Slowly. Just relax.”

Staring into the compelling dark glitter of his eyes, Annabelle tried to obey, but her throat clenched around every wheezing breath. She was going to die of suffocation, right there and then.

He wouldn’t let her look away from him. “You’ll be all right. Let your breath ease in and out. Slowly. That’s it. Yes.” Somehow the gentle weight of his hand on her chest seemed to help her, as if he had the power to will her lungs back to their normal rhythm. “You’re going through the worst of it right now,” he said.