Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(35)

“Please.” He was begging—hell, he almost sounded as if he might cry. But he didn’t care. He just wanted her to open the damned window.

“Marcus, I can’t . . .” But she looked torn.

“I can’t breathe,” he told her. And honestly, he did not think he was exaggerating.

“Oh, all right,” she said, bustling over to the window. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“Promise,” he mumbled. He couldn’t rouse himself to turn his head to watch, but he could hear her every movement in the thick silence of the night.

“Mrs. Wetherby was quite firm,” she said, pulling back the curtain. “The room was to remain hot.”

Marcus grunted and tried to lift a hand in a dismissive wave.

“I don’t know anything about caring for invalids”—ah, now there was the sound of the window being shoved open—“but I can’t imagine it’s healthy to bake in such heat when one has a fever.”

Marcus felt the first stirrings of cooler air touch his skin, and he almost cried with happiness.

“I’ve never had a fever,” Honoria said, coming back to his side. “Or at least not that I can remember. Isn’t that odd?”

He could hear the smile in her voice. He even knew exactly what sort of smile it was—a little bit sheepish, with just a touch of wonderment. She often smiled like that. And every time, the right side of her mouth tipped ever-so-slightly higher than the left.

And now he could hear it. It was lovely. And strange. How odd that he knew her so well. He knew her, of course, better than almost anyone. But that wasn’t the same as knowing someone’s smiles.

Or was it?

She pulled a chair closer to his bed and sat. “It never even occurred to me until I came here to care for you. That I’d never had a fever, I mean. My mother says they’re dreadful.”

She came for him? He didn’t know why he found this so remarkable. There was no one else at Fensmore she would have come for, and she was here, in his sickroom, but still, somehow it seemed . . . Well, not odd. Not surprising, either. Just . . .

Unexpected.

He tried to nudge his tired mind. Could something be not surprising and unexpected? Because that’s what it was. He would never have expected Honoria to drop everything and come to Fensmore to care for him. And yet now that she was here, it wasn’t surprising at all.

It felt almost normal.

“Thank you for opening the window,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome.” She tried to smile, but she could not hide the worry on her face. “I’m sure it didn’t take much to convince me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hot in my life.”

“Nor I,” he tried to joke.

She smiled then, and it was a real one. “Oh, Marcus,” she said, reaching forward to smooth his hair from his forehead. She shook her head, but she didn’t look as if she knew why she was doing so. Her own hair was falling in her face, poker-straight as always. She blew at it, trying to move it away from her mouth, but it flopped right back down. Finally, she batted it away with her fingers, shoving it behind her ear.

It fell back onto her face.

“You look tired,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Said the man who cannot keep his eyes open.”

“Touché,” he said, somehow managing to punctuate the statement with a little flick of his forefinger.

She was silent for a moment, then gave a little start. “Would you like something to drink?”

He nodded.

“I’m so sorry. I should have asked the moment you woke up. You must be terribly thirsty.”

“Just a bit,” he lied.

“Mrs. Wetherby left a pitcher of water,” she said, reaching for something on the table behind her. “It’s not cold, but I think it will still be refreshing.”

He nodded again. Anything short of boiling would be refreshing.

She held out a glass, then realized that he wasn’t going to be able to use it in his current, supine pose. “Here, let me help you up,” she said, setting the glass back down on the table. She reached around him and, with more determination than strength, helped him into a sitting position. “Here you are,” she said, sounding as efficient as a governess. “Just, ehrm, we should tuck in that blanket, and have some water.”

He blinked a few times, each motion so slow that he was never quite sure if he’d get his eyes open again. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Funny how he was only just realizing it. Funnier still that he couldn’t seem to summon any concern for her maidenly sensibilities.

She might be blushing. He couldn’t tell. It was too dark to see. But it didn’t matter. This was Honoria. She was a good egg. A sensible egg. She wouldn’t be scarred forever by the sight of his chest.

He took a gulp of water, and then another, barely noticing when some of it dribbled down his chin. Dear Lord, it felt good in his mouth. His tongue had been thick and dry.

Honoria made a little murmuring sound, then reached forward and wiped the moisture from his skin with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have a handkerchief.”

He nodded slowly, something within him memorizing the way her fingers felt against his cheek. “You were here before,” he said.

She looked at him in question.