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What must he have suffered, and not just regarding the pain he was experiencing now, but in general? He seemed to be a complicated man, but kind-hearted. He clearly cared for his niece. And he didn’t give tuppence for what everyone else thought of him.

A surgeon in the horrors of war. Then a physician at Bedlam, to study the mind, he’d said.

He wanted to heal people, he’d said, in mind and body… It was something to be admired, not to be despised. How unfair the workings of the world were that he had received the opposite.

Thus, ruminating on the earl, Anna’s eyes became heavier, her head dropped onto her arm, and she fell asleep, her hand still on the earl’s forehead.

* * *

He suffered these attacks with increasing frequency now. Where once they struck no more than once a month, he now endured them two, three times in closer succession. The change worried him.

It always began the same way: an overwhelming weariness, as though his body could no longer support its own weight, followed by a disorienting dizziness and irritability. These were the first heralds. On occasion, he could stop the attack in its tracks by retreating to a dark, quiet room and lying still on the bed. If fortune smiled upon him, it might pass. But if he ignored the signs, the pain would build. By the time he experienced those strange flashes and sparks in his vision, he knew it was too late. The pain descended like an iron vice clamping down, threatening to shatter his skull. At other times, it was a sharp, stabbing agony, like ice picks hacking into his temple. The pain was always one-sided.

Any movement, sound, or light intensified the torment. He could do nothing but lie still in the dark, his head heavy on the pillow and pray for it to end. When the pain finally loosened its grip, it left him utterly exhausted and drained. He would sleep for hours afterwards.

His medical knowledge reached its limit here. Were these symptoms the prelude to madness? The rational part of him scoffed at the idea. His mother had suffered from the same, as had his grandmother. No, this was an illness, a severe form of headache, commonly labelled by physicians as ‘sick headaches’ or ‘megrims’. There was no real cure. Bloodletting only weakened him further, and the herbal teas made him nauseous. Other than performing the impossible feat of opening his own brain to check what was the matter, he was utterly helpless.

In desperation, he had begun to keep a diary, tracking the circumstances of each attack, in the hope of identifying patterns. He suspected mental strain and emotional upheaval played their parts, along with sleepless nights. Coffee, he’d found, sometimes staved off the worst of the symptoms if taken early enough. Red wine, however, was another story; he was fairly certain it did the opposite. He had been foolish enough to drink a glass of it at dinner with Miss Hilversham last night. Nerves had got the better of him in her company. An anxiety, a restlessness, an inexplicable urge to…please her. His pulse definitely increased when in her company and his heart… He placed a hand over his heart and noted with irritation that the thumping increased by merely thinking of her. Surely, that could not have been the trigger for this latest episode?

He felt something soft and soothing on his forehead. He turned his head and nearly jumped out of his skin. Dear sweet heaven! The woman had materialised out of his dreams and was now right beside him. She was seated on the floor, her upper body half on the bed, her head resting on her arm, one hand gently laid across his forehead. The first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over her delicate features, the upturned curve of her nose, the smooth line of her forehead, and her perfect, heart-shaped lips. She was peacefully asleep, and the morning light dappled over her dark hair.

Was he dreaming?

Was she truly here and had she truly spent the entire night beside him? He recalled that the attack had been so strong, he’d toppled out of his bed. She must have heard the noise and come in. She’d placed a cold compress on his forehead, which he’d found unpleasant. Then, she’d placed her hand on his aching head instead, and it had been a healing balm, spreading from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, and he’d found it so soothing that he couldn’t bear it when she’d removed her hand, and he’d fallen asleep…

This was why she was still here.

He didn’t dare to move lest it would disturb her sleep. Her head was close to his, her chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. There were slight shadows under her eyes. She looked tired even in her sleep. The past few weeks must have been difficult for her. First, the long, tedious journey, interrupted by one of his attacks, which no doubt must have disturbed her, leaving her wondering what the matter with him was. The necessity to break off the trip to Brighton and return to Hungersford Hall instead, with the disappointed, sulking Phoebe in tow.

She was his sister’s child, and he was fond of her, and if he could, he would give that child the moon if she asked for it; but sometimes Phoebe tested even his patience. Then their arrival at this place, this decrepit, gloomy hall; it was damp and cold, the furniture ancient, the fireplaces in most of the rooms needed clearing as jackdaws had nested in them. It didn’t help that both Phoebe and Marks enjoyed spinning yarns about ghosts and mad countesses to frighten her. And then she’d somehow chanced upon his pathological collection, which, no doubt, must have terrified her…

He reached out, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the dark shadows beneath her eyes, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin but not quite daring to touch it. He yearned to caress her cheek, but he clenched his hand into a fist and drew back.

With a final, wistful glance, he gently removed her hand from his forehead, rolled to the side, and slipped off the bed.

He pulled the blanket over her with tender care, then quietly left the room.

Chapter 11

Anna awoke with a sneeze.

Disoriented, she looked around and it took her a moment to realise she was in the earl’s bedroom, sitting on the floor, half draped over his bed.

The morning sun shone through the gabled lancet windows of the otherwise empty room.

She hadn’t dreamed it all, had she?

The loud thump, then finding him on the floor. He’d been ill, and she’d attended to him as best as she could.

And now it was morning, and he was gone.

Anna scrambled up, and with another backwards glance, returned to her own room, bolting the connecting door again.

She washed, changed her dress and went down to the dining room, where Phoebe was already sitting, listlessly shoving her porridge from one side of the bowl to the other.

“Good morning,” Anna said cheerfully, casting an eye about the room. A footman approached to serve her tea and toast, but aside from him and Phoebe, there was no one else in the room.

“Has your uncle broken his fast, yet?” She reached out to crack the shell of her boiled egg with her spoon.