Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(43)

“Well, anyway,” she said, trying to bring the conversation back to the previous topic, which was now so “previous” that it took her a moment to remember what it was, “I’m sure I won’t skip the season. I was just talking. Making conversation.” She swallowed. “Babbling, really.”

“It is better to marry a good man than to rush into a disaster,” her mother said, sounding terribly sage. “Your sisters all found good husbands.”

Honoria agreed, even if her brothers-in-law were not generally the sort of men to whom she might find herself attracted. But they treated their wives with respect, every last one of them.

“They did not all marry in their first season, either,” Lady Winstead added, not looking up from her work.

“True, but I believe they all did by the end of their second.”

“Is that so?” Her mother looked up and blinked. “I suppose you’re right. Even Henrietta . . . ? Well, yes, I suppose she did, right at the end.” She turned back to her task. “You’ll find someone. I’m not worried.”

Honoria let out a little snort. “I’m glad you’re not.”

“I’m not sure what happened last year. I truly thought Travers would propose. Or if not him, then Lord Fotheringham.”

Honoria shook her head. “I have no idea. I thought they would, too. Lord Bailey in particular seemed quite keen. But then, all of a sudden . . . nothing. It was as if they lost interest overnight.” She shrugged and looked back down at Marcus. “Maybe it’s for the best. What do you think, Marcus? You didn’t much like any of them, I think.” She sighed. “Not that that has anything to do with it, but I suppose I value your opinion.” She let out a tiny snort of laughter. “Can you believe I just said that?”

He turned his head.

“Marcus?” Was he awake? She peered down at him more closely, searching his face for some sign of . . . anything.

“What is it?” her mother asked.

“I’m not certain. He moved his head. I mean, of course he’s done that before, but this was different.” She squeezed his shoulder, praying that he could feel her through the haze of his fever. “Marcus? Can you hear me?”

His lips, dry and cracked, moved the tiniest bit. “Hon— Hon—”

Oh, thank God.

“Don’t speak,” she said. “It’s all right.”

“Hurts,” he gasped. “Like the . . . devil.”

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Is he conscious?” her mother asked.

“Barely.” Honoria stretched her arm down along the bed so that she could take Marcus’s hand. She laced her fingers through his and held tight. “You have a terrible cut on your leg. We’re trying to clean it. It’s going to hurt. Rather badly, I’m afraid, but it must be done.”

He gave a small nod.

Honoria looked over at Mrs. Wetherby. “Do we have any laudanum? Perhaps we should give him some while he is able to swallow.”

“I believe so,” the housekeeper said. She had not stopped wringing her hands since she’d come back with the hot water and towels, and she looked relieved to have something to do. “I can go look right now. There is only one place it would be.”

“Good idea,” Lady Winstead said. Then she stood and moved toward the head of the bed. “Can you hear me, Marcus?”

His chin moved. Not much, but a bit.

“You’re very ill,” she said.

He actually smiled.

“Yes, yes,” Lady Winstead said, smiling in return, “stating the obvious, I know. But you’re going to be perfectly fine, I assure you. It’s just going to be a little painful at first.”

“Little?”

Honoria felt a wobbly smile touch upon her lips. She couldn’t believe that he could joke at such a moment. She was so proud of him. “We’ll get you through this, Marcus,” she said, and then, before she had a clue what she was about, she leaned down and kissed his brow.

He turned again to face her, his eyes now almost fully open. His breathing was labored, and his skin was still so terribly heated. But when she looked in his eyes, she saw him there, through the fever, under the pain.

He was still Marcus, and she would not let anything happen to him.

Thirty minutes later, Marcus’s eyes were closed again, his sleep aided considerably by a dose of laudanum. Honoria had adjusted his position so that she could hold his hand, and she had kept up a steady stream of conversation. It didn’t seem to matter what she said, but she was not the only one who noticed that the sound of her voice soothed him.

Or at least she hoped it did, because if it didn’t, then she was utterly useless. And that was more than she could bear.

“I think we’re almost finished,” she told him. She cast a wary glance at her mother, who was still working diligently at his leg. “I think we’d have to be. I can’t imagine what there is left to clean.”

But her mother let out a frustrated breath and sat back, pausing to wipe her brow.

“Is there a problem?” Honoria asked.

Her mother shook her head and resumed her work, but after only a moment she pulled away. “I can’t see.”

“What? No, that’s impossible.” Honoria took a breath, trying to keep calm. “Just put your head closer.”