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This was intolerable. Intolerable!

What did he need to do to end this?

He rubbed the back of his neck, weary, yet oddly alive with this newfound emotion that coursed through his system.

Love.

No, never. It was anything but love! Infatuation, most likely, passion, obsession, even. He would never mistake that for love.

But the feeling, the desire, the yearning to be good to her, to gather her unto him and kiss those lips⁠—

—A shudder racked his body.

Maybe what he needed to do was to express these deuced feelings.

Maybe then, all this would go away.

But how did one go about doing that?

And, most importantly, why would he do that when, not a minute ago, he’d reached the conclusion that he had nothing to offer to a woman like her? It contradicted everything he’d just decided.

With a groan, he ran both hands through his thick hair and rested his arms on his knees, his head between them.

He was running in circles.

Miss Hilversham had stripped his faculties of all reason and logical thought.

He felt he was going mad, indeed.

* * *

Anna found she had difficulty concentrating on the lessons that afternoon. Phoebe had finally exhibited willingness to converse more openly in French with her, but now it was Anna who answered distractedly, her head in the clouds, her thoughts far away.

With him.

Did he drink his chamomile tea with his breakfast? she wondered. She’d risen two hours earlier than normal and readied herself with a faster speed than usual. Yet again he hadn’t appeared in the breakfast room, and she’d taken her time, lingering for as long as it was reasonably polite to do so as a guest. Eventually she’d had to get up and leave, concluding he was not having breakfast that morning, either.

Maybe she ought to have another tray brought to him, she thought.

Or maybe he was in his room, struggling with one of his headache attacks, but the room had been quiet, and she’d not heard a sound from it, not even a footstep. She gathered all her courage and knocked gently on the door, but he didn’t answer.

Nor was he in the examination room, where she’d ventured next. She’d found the door open and the room empty.

Marks eventually solved the mystery by mentioning that the earl had been called to a birth.

“The miller’s wife is giving birth,” he explained, “and begged the earl to attend in the middle of the night.” He sniffed with displeasure. “Imagine that: a miller summoning an earl to his wife’s bedside as if he were any regular doctor or surgeon. But His Lordship, bless his heart, is oblivious to such class differences and went without a peep.” Marks glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “He’s been there for a good twelve hours now.”

Twelve hours!

“They always name the babes after His Lordship, too. I daresay there are more babies named Christopher in this area than in any other part of England.”

* * *

Phoebe and Anna spent the afternoon in the solar by the window. It rained, and it was not possible to go outside for a walk. Phoebe listlessly attempted to embroider a sampler with crooked stitches. Anna was reading but didn’t make any progress. More than once, she found herself staring at the door, in the hope that it would open and the earl would stride in.

She sighed.

When it got darker and Marks brought in candles and a tea tray, she finally set her book down.