“And do give him my regards,” Mrs. Royle continued.

Honoria hurried down the steps to wait for the carriage to be brought around.

“And tell him that Mr. Royle and I pray for his speedy recovery."

“He might not be sick, Mother,” Cecily said.

Mrs. Royle scowled at her. “But if he is . . ."

“I shall relate your good wishes,” Cecily finished for her.

“Here comes the carriage,” Honoria said, nearly desperate to escape.

“Remember!” Mrs. Royle called out as Honoria and Cecily were helped up by a footman. “If he’s sick, bring him—"

But they were already rolling away.


Marcus was still in bed when his butler quietly entered his room and informed him that Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith and Miss Royle had arrived and were waiting in the yellow drawing room.

“Shall I tell them you are not available to receive guests?” the butler inquired.

For a moment Marcus was tempted to say yes. He felt awful, and he was sure he looked worse. By the time Jimmy had found him the previous evening, he had been shivering so hard he was amazed he hadn’t knocked out his own teeth. Then when he got home they had to cut the boot from him. Which would have been bad enough—he rather liked those boots—but his valet had been a bit more aggressive than necessary, and Marcus now sported a four-inch gash on his left leg.

But if their situations had been reversed, he would have insisted upon ascertaining Honoria’s welfare with his own eyes, so it seemed that he would have to allow her to do the same with him.

As for the other girl—Miss Royle, he thought the butler had said— he just hoped she was not a female of delicate sensibilities.

Because the last time he’d looked in the mirror, he could have sworn his skin had been green.

With help from his valet—both in dressing and making it downstairs to the drawing room—Marcus thought he looked moderately presentable when he greeted the two ladies.

“Good God, Marcus,” Honoria exclaimed as she came to her feet. “You look like death."

Apparently, he was wrong. “Lovely to see you, too, Honoria."

He motioned to a nearby sofa. “Do you mind if I sit?"

“No, please, go ahead. Your eyes are terribly sunken in.” She grimaced as she watched him attempt to maneuver his way around a table. “Shall I help you?"

“No, no, I’m quite all right.” He hopped twice to get to the edge of the cushions and then practically fell backward onto the sofa.

Dignity, it seemed, had no place in a sickroom.

“Miss Royle,” he said, giving a nod to the other lady. He’d met her once or twice over the years, he was fairly certain.

“Lord Chatteris,” she said politely. “My parents send their regards and wish you a speedy recovery."

“Thank you,” he said, giving her a weak nod. He felt overpoweringly tired all of a sudden. The trip from his bedroom downstairs must have been more difficult than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t slept well the night before, either. He’d started coughing the moment his head had touched his pillow, and he hadn’t stopped since.

“Excuse me,” he said to the two ladies as he placed a cushion on the table in front of him, then propped his foot on it. “I’m told I’m meant to elevate it."

“Marcus,” Honoria said, immediately dispensing with any pretense of polite conversation, “you should not be out of bed."

“It’s where I was,” he said dryly, “until I was informed that I had visitors."

This earned him a look of such reproach that it brought to mind Miss Pimm, his nurse from oh-so-many years ago. “You should have told your butler you were not receiving,” she said.

“Really?” he murmured. “I’m sure you would have accepted that meekly and gone home assured of my welfare.” He looked over at the other lady with an ironic tilt to his head. “What do you think, Miss Royle? Would Lady Honoria have left without comment?"

“No, my lord,” Miss Royle said, her lips twitching with amusement. “She was most firm in her wish to see you for herself.” “Cecily!” Honoria said indignantly. Marcus decided to ignore her.

“Is that so, Miss Royle?” he said, twisting even more in her direction. “My heart warms at her concern."

“Marcus,” Honoria said, “stop this right now.” “She is a dogged little thing,” he said.

“Marcus Holroyd,” Honoria said sternly, “if you do not stop poking fun at me this instant, I shall inform Mrs. Royle that indeed you do wish to be moved to Bricstan for the remainder of your convalescence."

Marcus froze, trying not to laugh. He looked at Miss Royle, who was also trying not to laugh. They both lost the battle.

“Mrs. Royle is most eager to show off her nursing skills,"

Honoria added with a devilishly placid smile.

“You win, Honoria,” Marcus said, sitting back against the sofa cushions. But his laughter gave way to a fit of coughing, and it took him nearly a minute before he felt himself again.

“How long were you in the rain last night?” Honoria demanded.

She rose to her feet and touched his forehead, causing Miss Royle’s eyes to widen at the intimacy.

“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.