Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(28)

“Have I a fever?” he murmured.

“I don’t think so.” But she was frowning as she spoke. “You might be a little warm. Perhaps I should get you a blanket.”

Marcus started to tell her that that would not be necessary, but then he realized that a blanket sounded rather nice, actually. And he was strangely grateful that she had suggested it. So he nodded.

“I’ll get it,” Miss Royle said, hopping to her feet. “I saw a maid in the hall.”

As she left, Honoria sat back down, looking over at him with concern in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said once they were alone. “I feel terrible about what happened to you.”

He waved away her apology. “I’ll be fine.”

“You never told me how long you were out in the rain,” she reminded him.

“An hour?” he guessed. “Probably two.”

She let out a miserable sigh. “I’m so sorry.”

He quirked a small smile. “You said that already.”

“Well, I am.”

He tried to smile at her again, because really, it was a ridiculous conversation, but he was overtaken by another fit of coughing.

She frowned with concern. “Maybe you should come to Bricstan.”

He couldn’t yet speak, but he speared her with a glare nonetheless.

“I worry about you here all alone.”

“Honoria,” he managed, coughing two more times before saying, “you’ll be going back to London soon. Mrs. Royle is the kindest of neighbors, I’m sure, but I would much prefer to recuperate in my own home.”

“Yes,” Honoria answered, shaking her head, “not to mention that she’d probably have you married off to Cecily before the end of the month.”

“Did someone say my name?” Cecily asked brightly, returning to the room with a dark blue blanket.

Marcus was overcome with another fit of coughing, this one only slightly feigned.

“Here you are,” Cecily said. She walked over with the blanket, then appeared not to know what to do with it herself. “Perhaps you should help him,” she said to Honoria.

Honoria took the blanket from her and walked over, unfolding it as she approached. “Here you are,” she said softly, leaning over to spread the soft wool over him. She smiled gently as she tucked the corners in. “Is that too tight?”

He shook his head. It was strange, being cared for.

When she was done with her task, she straightened, taking a deep breath before announcing that he needed tea.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Royle agreed. “That would be just the thing.”

Marcus didn’t even try to protest this time. He was sure he looked pathetic, all wrapped in a blanket with his foot stuck up on the table, and he couldn’t even imagine what they thought every time he started coughing. But he was finding it rather comforting to be fussed over, and if Honoria wanted to insist that he needed tea, he would be glad to make her happy by drinking it.

He told her where to find the pull to ring for tea, and she did so, settling back in her spot across from him after a maid came in and took their order.

“Has a surgeon been by to look at your ankle?” she asked.

“It’s not necessary,” he told her. “It’s not broken.”

“Are you certain? It’s not the sort of thing one wants to take chances with.”

“I’m certain.”

“I would feel better if—”

“Honoria, hush. It’s not broken.”

“And your boot?”

“His boot?” Miss Royle asked. She looked perplexed.

“That, I’m afraid, is broken,” he answered.

“Oh, dear,” Honoria said. “I thought they might have to cut it off.”

“They had to cut off your boot?” Miss Royle echoed. “Oh, but that’s terrible.”

“His ankle was horribly swollen,” Honoria told her. “It was the only way.”

“But a boot,” Miss Royle persisted.

“It wasn’t one of my favorite boots,” Marcus said, trying to cheer poor Miss Royle up. She looked as if someone had decapitated a puppy.

“I wonder if one could have a single boot made,” Honoria mused. “To match the other. Then it wouldn’t be a complete waste.”

“Oh, no, that would never work,” Miss Royle said, apparently an expert on such topics. “The leather would never quite match.”

Marcus was saved from a lengthy discussion of footwear by the arrival of Mrs. Wetherby, his longtime housekeeper. “I had already started on the tea before you asked for it,” she announced, bustling in with a tray.

He smiled, unsurprised. She was always doing things like that. He introduced her to Honoria and Miss Royle, and when she greeted Honoria her eyes lit up.

“Oh, you must be Master Daniel’s sister!” Mrs. Wetherby exclaimed, setting down the tea service.

“I am,” Honoria replied, beaming. “Do you know him, then?”

“I do. He visited a few times, usually when the previous earl was out of town. And of course he has come by once or twice since Master Marcus became the earl.”

Marcus felt himself blush at her use of his childhood honorific. But he would never correct her. Mrs. Wetherby had been like a mother to him growing up, often the only warm smile or encouraging word in all of Fensmore.