Just Like Heaven (10 page)

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.

Still, she hadn't realized that the muscles of a man's arm would be so well defined.

Interesting.

She leaned forward a little more, tilting her head to the side, then moving the candle a bit forward. What was that muscle on the shoulder called? His was really quite nice.

She gasped, horrified by the inappropriate direction of her thoughts, and took a step back. She wasn't here to ogle the poor man, she was here to take care of him. And furthermore, if she was going to ogle someone, it absolutely shouldn't be Marcus Holroyd.

There was a chair just a few feet away, so she took it and pulled it forward, close enough to his bed that she could jump up and be with him in an instant, but not so close that he could strike her in his flailings.

He looked thinner. She wasn't sure how she could tell this amidst all the quilts and coverlets, but he had definitely lost weight. His face was gaunt, and even in the dim light of her candle, she could see unfamiliar shadows beneath his eyes.

She sat very still for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, actually. It seemed as if she should be
doing
something. She supposed watching him was something, but it didn't feel like much, especially since she was trying so hard
not
to watch certain parts of him. He seemed to have calmed down; every now and then he would shift restlessly beneath his covers, but for the most part, he slept.

But, Lord, it was hot. Honoria was still in her day dress, a pretty little frock that buttoned up the back. It was one of those ridiculous pieces of feminine attire that she could not possibly get into (or out of) on her own.

She smiled. Rather like Marcus's boots. It was nice to know that men could be as impractically devoted to fashion as women.

Still, the frock was the absolute wrong thing to be wearing in a sickroom. She managed to undo a few of the top buttons, practically gasping for breath when she got them loose.

“This cannot be healthy,” she said aloud, holding onto her collar with two fingers and moving it back and forth in an attempt to fan her sweaty neck.

She looked over at Marcus. He did not seem to have been disturbed by her voice.

She kicked off her shoes, and then, because really, she was already undressed enough to ruin her reputation should anyone come upon her, she reached down and peeled off her stockings.

“Ew.” She looked down at her legs in dismay. The stockings were almost soaked through.

With a sigh of resignation she laid them out over the back of a chair, then thought the better of it. Probably best not to have them on such display. So she crumpled them into a ball and shoved them into her shoes. And while she was standing, she grasped her skirt in her hands and swished it back and forth, trying to cool off her legs.

This was intolerable. She didn't care what the doctor had said. She could not believe that this was healthy. She walked back over to his bed to peer down at him again, keeping a safe distance in case he lashed out.

Carefully, gingerly, she reached out a hand. She didn't touch him, but she came close. The air near his shoulder was at least ten degrees warmer than the rest of the room.

Allowing for slight exaggeration, which she thought she was entitled to, given her overheated state. But still.

She looked around the room for something with which she might fan him. Drat, she should have nicked one of her mother's Chinese silk fans. Mama was
always
fanning herself these days. She never went anywhere without at least three packed in her trunk. Which was really for the best, since she tended to leave them all over town.

But there was nothing suitable for fanning, so Honoria leaned over and blew gently at Marcus. He didn't stir, which she took as a good sign. Emboldened by her success (if indeed that was what it was; she really had no idea) she tried it again, with a little more force. This time he gave a little shiver.

She frowned, unsure if that was a good thing or not. If he was as sweaty as he looked, she risked overchilling him, which was precisely what the doctor had warned against.

She sat down again, then stood, then sat, tapping her hand restlessly against her thigh. It got so bad that she had to practically slam her other hand down on top of it, just to keep it still.

This was ridiculous. She jumped to her feet and walked back over to him. He was moving about again, thrashing under his covers, although not with enough force to actually throw them off.

She should touch him. She really should. It was the only way to determine just how hot his skin was. What she was going to do with that information she wasn't sure, but that didn't matter. If she was his nurse—and it appeared she was—she needed to be more observant about his condition.

She reached forward and lightly touched her fingers to his shoulder. He didn't feel quite as warm as she'd expected, but that might have been due to the fact that she, too, was roasting. He was sweaty, though, and this close up she could see that his sheets were soaked.

Should she try to remove them? He'd still have all the other blankets. She reached out and gave the sheet a tug, holding the top quilt with her other hand to keep it in place. It didn't work, though; the whole set came sliding toward her, revealing one long, slightly bent leg.

Honoria's lips parted. He was rather muscular there, too.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no
. She was not looking at Marcus. She was not. Not at him. Definitely not at him. And furthermore, she had to get a blanket back into place before he rolled over and revealed himself entirely, because she had no idea if he was wearing any undergarments. He had nothing on his arms, and nothing on his legs, so it stood to reason . . .

She looked down at his midsection. She couldn't not. He was still covered, of course, but if she accidentally bumped into the bed . . .

She grabbed a piece of the quilt and shoved, trying to get him covered back up. Someone else was going to have to change his sheets. Good Lord, she was hot. How on earth could it have grown warmer in here? Maybe she could go outside for a moment. Or go open the window a crack and stand near it.

She fanned the air near her face with her hand. She should sit back down. There was a perfectly good chair, and she could sit there with her hands demurely in her lap until morning. She'd just take one more peek at him, just to be sure he was all right.

She picked up the candle and held it up over his face.

His eyes were open.

She took a careful step back. He'd opened his eyes before. This didn't mean he was awake.

“Honoria? What are you doing here?”

That, however, did.

Chapter Eight

M
arcus felt like hell.

No, he felt like he'd been to hell. And come back. And perhaps gone again, just because it hadn't been hot enough the first time.

He had no idea how long he'd been sick. A day, maybe? Two? The fever had started . . . Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday, although that didn't really signify, as he had no idea what day it was now.

Or night. He thought it might be night. It seemed dark, and—God damn, it was hot. Truly, it was difficult to think of anything other than the overwhelming heat.

Maybe he'd been to hell and then brought the whole damned place back with him. Or maybe he still was in hell, although if so, the beds were certainly comfortable.

Which did seem to contradict everything he'd learned in church.

He yawned, stretching his neck to the left and the right before settling his head back into his pillow. He knew this pillow. It was soft, and goosedown, and just the right thickness. He was in his own bed, in his own bedchamber. And it was definitely night. It was dark. He could tell that even though he couldn't quite muster the energy to open his eyelids.

He could hear Mrs. Wetherby shuffling about the room. He supposed she'd been at his bedside throughout his illness. This didn't surprise him, but still, he was grateful for her care. She had brought him broth when he had first begun to feel sick, and he vaguely recalled her consulting with a doctor. The couple of times he'd broken through his feverish haze, she'd been in the room, watching over him.

She touched his shoulder, her fingers soft and light. It wasn't enough to rouse him from his stupor, though. He couldn't move. He was so tired. He couldn't remember ever being so tired. His whole body ached, and his leg
really
hurt. He just wanted to go back to sleep. But it was so hot. Why would anyone keep a room so hot?

As if eavesdropping on his thoughts, Mrs. Wetherby tugged at his quilt, and Marcus happily rolled to his side, throwing his good leg out from under the covers. Air! Dear God, it felt good. Maybe he could shove off his covers entirely. Would she be completely scandalized if he just lay there almost naked? Probably, but if it was for the sake of medicine . . .

But then she started shoving the blankets back on top of him, which was almost enough to make him want to cry. Summoning every last reserve of energy, he opened his eyes, and—

It wasn't Mrs. Wetherby.

“Honoria?” he croaked. “What are you doing here?”

She jumped back about a foot, letting out an odd chirping sound that hurt his ears. He closed his eyes again. He didn't have the energy to talk to her, although her presence was quite curious.

“Marcus?” she said, her voice strangely urgent. “Can you say something? Are you awake?”

He gave a very small nod.

“Marcus?” She was closer now, and he could feel her breath on his neck. It was awful. Too hot, and too close.

“Why are you here?” he asked again, his words slurring on his tongue like hot syrup. “You should be . . .” Where
should
she be? London, he thought. Wasn't that right?

“Oh, thank heavens.” She touched his forehead with her hand. Her skin felt hot, but then again, everything felt hot.

“Hon— Honor—” He couldn't quite manage the rest of her name. He tried; he moved his lips, and he took a few more breaths. But it was all too much effort, especially since she wouldn't seem to answer his question. Why was she here?

“You've been very ill,” she said.

He nodded. Or he might have done. He thought about nodding, at least.

“Mrs. Wetherby wrote to me in London.”

Ah, so that was it. Still, very odd.

She took his hand in hers, patting it in a nervous, fluttery gesture. “I came up just as soon as I could. My mother is here, as well.”

Lady Winstead? He tried to smile. He liked Lady Winstead.

“I think you still have a fever,” Honoria said, sounding unsure of herself. “Your forehead is quite warm. Although I must say, it is bursting hot in this room. I don't know that I can tell how much of the heat is you, and how much is simply the air.”

“Please,” he groaned, lurching one arm forward to bat against hers. He opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light. “The window.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I wish I could. Mrs. Wetherby said the doctor said—”

“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.

“You touched me. My shoulder.”

A faint smile tilted at her lips. “That was only a few minutes ago.”

“It was?” He thought about that. “Oh.”

“I've been here for several hours,” she said.

His chin bobbed a fraction of an inch. “Thank you.” Was that his voice? Damn, he sounded weak.

“I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you up. I mean, you look terrible, but you look so much better than you did before. You're speaking. And you're making sense.” Her hands came up and she clasped them together, the gesture nervous and maybe even a little bit frantic. “Which is more than I can say for myself right now.”

“Don't be silly,” he said.

She shook her head quickly, then looked away. But he saw her wipe a quick hand at her eyes.

He'd made her cry. He felt his head droop a little to one side. Just the thought of it was exhausting. Heartbreaking. He'd never wanted to make Honoria cry.

She . . . She shouldn't be . . . He swallowed. He didn't want her to cry. He was so tired. He didn't feel like he knew much, but he knew that.

“You scared me,” she said. “I'd wager you didn't think you could do that.” She sounded as if she was trying to joke with him, but he could tell she was faking it. He appreciated the effort, though.

“Where is Mrs. Wetherby?” he asked.

“I sent her to bed. She was exhausted.”

“Good.”

“She has been caring for you quite diligently.”

He nodded again, that tiny little motion he hoped she could see. His housekeeper had cared for him the last time he'd had a fever, back when he was eleven. His father had not entered the room once, but Mrs. Wetherby had not left his side. He wanted to tell Honoria about that, or maybe about the time his father had left home before Christmas and she had taken it upon herself to put up so much holly that Fensmore had smelled like a forest for weeks. It had been the best Christmas ever, until the year he'd been invited to spend it with the Smythe-Smiths.

That had been the best. That would always be the best.

“Do you want more water?” Honoria asked.

He did, but he wasn't sure he had the energy to swallow it properly.

“I'll help you,” she said, placing the glass to his lips.

He took a tiny sip, then let out a tired sigh. “My leg hurts.”

“It's probably still sprained,” she said with a nod.

He yawned. “Feels . . . little fiery. Little poker.”

Her eyes widened. He couldn't blame her. He had no idea what he meant either.

She leaned forward, her brow knit with concern, and she once again touched her hand to his forehead. “You're starting to feel warm again.”

He tried to smile. He thought he might have managed it on at least one side of his mouth. “Was I ever not?”

“No,” she said frankly. “But you feel warmer now.”

“It comes and goes.”

“The fever?”

He nodded.

Her lips tightened, and she looked older than he'd ever seen her before. Not old; she couldn't possibly look old. But she looked worried. Her hair looked the same, pulled back in her usual loose bun. And she moved the same way, with that bright little gait that was so singularly hers.

But her eyes were different. Darker, somehow. Pulled into her face with worry. He didn't like it.

“May I have some more water?” he asked. He couldn't remember ever being so thirsty.

“Of course,” she said quickly, then poured more water from the pitcher to the cup.

He gulped it down, once again too quickly, but this time he wiped the excess water away with the back of his hand. “It will probably come back,” he warned her.

“The fever.” This time, when she said it, it wasn't a question.

He nodded. “I thought you should know.”

“I don't understand,” she said, taking the glass from his trembling hand. “You were perfectly well when I saw you last.”

He tried to raise a brow. He wasn't sure if he was successful.

“Oh, very well,” she amended. “Not perfectly well, but you were clearly mending.”

“There was that cough,” he reminded her.

“I know. But I just don't think . . .” She let out a self-deprecating snort and shook her head. “What am I saying? I don't know anything about illness. I don't even know why I thought I might be able to take care of you. I didn't think, actually.”