Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(32)

Mrs. Wetherby put her forefinger to her lips, signaling to Honoria to be quiet as they entered the room. She turned the doorknob slowly, and the door pushed open on soundless hinges.

“He’s sleeping,” Mrs. Wetherby whispered.

Honoria nodded and stepped forward, blinking in the dim light. It was very warm inside, and the air was thick and dense. “Isn’t he hot?” she whispered to Mrs. Wetherby. She could barely breathe in the stuffy room, and Marcus appeared to be buried under a mound of blankets and quilts.

“It is what the doctor said to do,” Mrs. Wetherby replied. “Under no circumstances were we to allow him to become chilled.”

Honoria tugged at the neck of her day dress, wishing there were some way to loosen the collar. And good heavens, if she was uncomfortable, Marcus must be in agony. She couldn’t imagine it was healthy to be cocooned in such heat.

But if he was overheated, at least he was sleeping. His breathing sounded normal, or at least what Honoria thought was normal. She had no idea what one might listen for at a sickbed; she supposed anything out of the ordinary. She moved a little closer, bending down. He looked terribly sweaty. She could only see one side of his face, but his skin glistened unnaturally, and the air held the stale scent of human exertion.

“I really don’t think he should be under so many blankets,” Honoria whispered.

Mrs. Wetherby gave a helpless little shrug. “The doctor was most explicit.”

Honoria stepped even closer, until her legs touched the side of his bed. “It doesn’t look comfortable.”

“I know,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed.

Honoria reached a tentative hand out to see if she might be able to pull his covers back, even if just for an inch or two. She caught hold of the edge of the topmost quilt, gave the tiniest of tugs, and then—

“Aaaaaach!”

Honoria shrieked and jumped back, grabbing onto Mrs. Wetherby’s arm. Marcus had practically thrown himself into a sitting position and was looking wildly around the room.

And he did not appear to be wearing any clothing. At least not from the waist up, which was what she could see.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” she said, but her voice lacked confidence. It didn’t seem all right to her, and she didn’t know how to sound as if she thought otherwise.

He was breathing hard, and he was terribly agitated, but his eyes did not seem to focus on her. Indeed, she wasn’t sure if he realized she was there. His head snapped back and forth, as if he were looking for something, and then it seemed to speed up into a strange shake. “No,” he said, although not forcefully. He didn’t sound angry, just upset. “No.”

“He’s not awake,” Mrs. Wetherby said softly.

Honoria nodded slowly, and the enormity of what she had undertaken finally settled upon her. She didn’t know anything about sickness, and she certainly didn’t know how to care for someone with a fever.

Was that why she had come? To care for him? She had been so frantic with worry after reading Mrs. Wetherby’s message that all she’d been able to think about was seeing him for herself. She hadn’t thought ahead to anything past that.

What an idiot she had been. What had she thought she was going to do once she saw him? Turn around and go home?

She was going to have to care for him. She was here now, and to do anything else would be unthinkable. But the prospect terrified her. What if she did something wrong? What if she made him worse?

But what else could she do? He needed her. Marcus had no one, and Honoria was startled—and a little bit ashamed—that she had not realized this until now.

“I’ll sit with him,” she told Mrs. Wetherby.

“Oh, no, miss, you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be—”

“Someone should be with him,” Honoria said firmly. “He should not be alone.” She took the housekeeper’s arm and led her to the far side of the room. It was impossible to conduct a conversation so close to Marcus. He had lain back down, but he was tossing and turning with such violence that Honoria flinched every time she looked at him.

“I will stay,” Mrs. Wetherby said. But she didn’t sound as if she truly wanted to.

“I suspect you have spent many hours at his side already,” Honoria said. “I will take a turn. You need to rest.”

Mrs. Wetherby nodded gratefully, and as she reached the door to the corridor, she said, “No one will say anything. About your being in his room. I promise you, not a soul at Fensmore would say a word.”

Honoria gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “My mother is here. Perhaps not here in the room, but she is here at Fensmore. That ought to be enough to keep the gossip away.”

With a nod, Mrs. Wetherby slipped out of the room, and Honoria listened to the sound of her footsteps until they retreated into silence.

“Oh, Marcus,” she said softly, moving slowly back to his side. “What happened to you?” She reached out to touch him, then thought, No, better not. It wouldn’t be proper, and besides, she didn’t want to disturb him any more than she already had.

He threw an arm out from under the covers, rolling about until he settled into position on his side, his free arm lying atop the quilt. She hadn’t realized he was so muscular. Of course she knew he was strong. It was obvious. He was— She stopped for a moment, thinking. Actually, it wasn’t obvious. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him lift anything. But he seemed strong. He just had that look about him. Capable. Not all men had it. In fact, most didn’t, at least most of Honoria’s acquaintance.