Page 38 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“I’ll fetch the basin and a clean cloth,” she said. “It sounds like the fever’s coming on again.”

She was right—he was feeling exceedingly hot. Once again, he tried to struggle out of his stifling nightshirt, but felt weak as a kitten. He’d almost given up when he heard the door open again.

Emma set an ewer and basin by his bedside and speared him with an unfriendly eye. Reaching for his nightshirt, she wrenched it off, then pushed him back against his pillows, flung aside the shutters, and opened the window, letting the sunshine flood in.

Returning smartly to the bed, she dabbed his hot face and neck, then moved the cloth down to moisten his chest with the cooling water. He was thus able to get a better look at her and martial his thoughts.

What trouble he must have put her to—the poor girl’s eyes were rimmed with red and deeply shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept a wink. Her face was pale, her delicate pink mouth set in a grim line, accentuating the pertness of her chin. How long had he been ill, he wondered, to have worn out the indefatigable governess to this degree?

No wonder she seemed angry. A sick viscount on her hands was probably the last thing she needed.

“Oh dear.”

Damnation! Those were not the words he’d intended. He’d meant to apologize, to promise to make it up to her in whatever way he could, and express his undying gratitude.

But the fever was taking hold, and words no longer held any meaning. He shifted restlessly on the makeshift bed and tried again to communicate with his taciturn nurse, but his mouth was completely dry. He plucked at her sleeve, and when she finally looked up, licked his lips, and sent her a mute appeal with his eyes.

After a very penetrating look and considerable hesitation, she took his meaning and filled a cup for him, then helped him hold it to his lips as he drank.

When the cup was empty, he took her hand to kiss it, hoping the gesture would convey what his voice could not. But she snatched her hand away as if his lips had burned her, shooting him a look of white-hot fury.

Startled, he collapsed back against his pillows and stared in confusion at the ceiling while she continued to swab vigorously at his chest.

Had he, in his febrile state, imagined the anger? Surely she wouldn’t be so kind if she were angry? It must be part of the illness, seeing, remembering things that weren’t real.

How very fortunate that he’d fallen ill at this house, with this woman to care for him! He must forgive her unconditionally for spoiling his chances with Belinda. And as soon as he was well enough to have control over his speech, he would tell her so.

Ah! She was gone.

Perhaps it was for the best. He didn’t want Emma to see him like this, his body slick with sweat, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, his breath foul from the illness.

As soon as he recovered, he’d show her what he was like at his very best. A true gentleman and aristocrat.

Only, he’d need to catch up on his sleep first.

Closing his eyes, he spread his limbs atop the bedclothes, trying to capture the cooling breeze from the open window, and schooled his mind to sleep.

But it was not to come.

“Where is the viscount?” came a voice from someone outside. “I wish to see him immediately.”

He started up in bed. The voice came again, and it sounded like someone he knew, but he shouldn’t be hearing those crystal tones here, surely?

A vigorous discussion took place just outside his door, then the familiar voice said in tones of acid politeness, “I appreciate that, but I must see him. Is this the room?”

The door opened, and his papa strode in, followed by Mama, their stern expressions vanishing when they saw him. Mortified, he sat upright, pulling the sheet to his chin. His mother hadn’t seen him shirtless since he was in leading strings, and was never permitted to watch him boxing. But here he was, half naked, helpless and humiliated.

Papa waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be discomfited, James. We understand you’re too ill to greet us properly. But why are you so shocked? Did you think us too toplofty to come and visit your sickbed?”

James’s tongue felt rough as unworked leather, cleaving to the roof of his mouth when he tried to speak. “No,” he croaked.

Mama immediately went to the open door and called, “You there! The viscount needs a drink.”

Emma came in, her demeanor stony. He knew immediately she must have tried to forbid his parents entry—and lost the battle. Nobody forbade the Earl and Countess of Rossbury anything.

Emma filled his cup—something Mama could have done perfectly well herself—and helped him drink it. Her lowered eyes hid her thoughts, but the enmity emanating from her was palpable. She was in high dudgeon with the entire Markham clan today, and the fact distressed him. He meekly accepted her help, then watched her retreating back with regret.

“You didn’t expect us to come, I can see,” his father said stiffly.