Just Like Heaven

Chapter Eight

Marcus 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."

“Touchй,” 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.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but for some inexplicable reason, it was making him happy.

She sat in the chair next to him. “I just came. I got the letter from Mrs. Wetherby, and I didn’t even stop to think about the fact that there was nothing I could do to help you. I just came."

“You’re helping,” he whispered. And she was.

He was feeling better already.