by Anne Herries
the room was damp. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have let him take my bed and shared
with you. In fact, when the doctor comes, I shall ask him if he can be moved to my room. He will
be very much more comfortable there.'
'He would not have taken the chill if he had not chased after me.' Olivia looked repentant. 'I ought
to have forgiven him kindly, offered to be friends. I shall do so if he recovers.'
'When he recovers,' Beatrice said. 'I have no intention of allowing him to die in Papa's house.
Whatever would people say? Now go away, Olivia. It is not fitting that you should be in his
bedchamber.'
Olivia laughed. 'It is too late to worry over my reputation. Not that I should be of much use in the
sickroom. I have never done anything useful in my life.'
'Then you may start now, my love,' Beatrice said with a smile for her sister. 'Ask Lily to help you
change the linen on my bed, please. It must be fresh and clean, ready for Bellows to take our
patient there once Dr Pettifer has been to visit him.'
She watched as Olivia left the room, then turned back to her patient. He was so very hot, threshing
restlessly from side to side in his fever.
'You poor man,' she said in a softer tone than she had used earlier. 'I must think of something to
ease you...'
'So sorry, Lillibet,' Ravensden's hoarse cry disturbed Beatrice as she sat dozing in the chair by the
fire. 'I didn't mean to kill you...'
Beatrice felt the chill trickle down her spine. What had this man done that haunted him so? Was
Lillibet another unfortunate young woman he had somehow driven to her death? As Olivia might
have been had she been less brave.
She got up and went over to the bed. He was burning up again. She felt a shaft of fear. What must
she do to save him? She could not just stand by and watch him die. Something deep within her
cried out against it.
He had seemed a little easier when she had earlier bathed his face and neck, but he was clearly
hot all over, thrashing wildly in an attempt to throw off the light cover which was all that covered
his nakedness.
Bellows had put a nightgown on him when he was moved, but it had become soaked through
within an hour and it had been removed again. The sheets had had to be changed several times,
which was making a lot of work for Nan.
'You poor, poor man,' Beatrice murmured, her heart wrung with pity for his pain. She went to fetch
her basin and began to bathe his face. 'Does that feel good, my dear?'
'Yes, Merry. So hot...so hot...'
Beatrice glanced at the door. It was the middle of the night. No one was likely to come near at this
hour...but just in case... She went over to the door and locked it, then returned to the bed.
'Oh, well,' she muttered. 'I suppose I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.'
She took hold of the cover and peeled it back, revealing Lord Ravensden's naked body. For a
moment she stared, fascinated by its perfection despite herself. This man clearly kept himself in
prime condition.
She turned away, blushing at herself and her most unladylike thoughts, and went to fetch her basin.
She rinsed the cloth out in cool water and began to sponge his chest and arms.
'If you dare to wake and realise what I am doing, I shall die of embarrassment,' she scolded. 'You
really are the most tiresome man! I have no idea why I am risking my good name for your sake. I
dare not even think what the Reverend Hartwell would say...'
Beatrice slipped her arm behind her patient, lifting him a little so that he could swallow. She
pressed the spoon against his lips. He was at least more comfortable now, though he was still in
the grip of the fever, still unaware of where he was and who was tending him.
'Open your mouth, you stubborn wretch,' Beatrice commanded. 'Do not imagine I have all day to
waste. I have more important work waiting. There are the walnuts to pickle, and a sheet to mend.
If you imagine you are more important than such tasks, you much mistake the matter. Papa will be
most upset if there are no pickles at Christmas.'
'Scolding harpy...'
The moment his lips moved, Beatrice had the spoon inside and the bitter medicine slipped down
his throat. He made a gagging sound, as well he might. She had tasted a drop and it was foul, but
she believed it had done him good.
'Serves you right,' she said. 'Next time you will think before you speak. Had you done so in the
first place, we should none of us be in this situation.'
She laid her hand on his brow. He was much cooler now. This was the third day of his illness, and
she had scarcely left his side, sleeping in the chair near the fireplace so that she could hear if he
cried out. She was not sure if he was really aware of anything, but she had discovered that he
usually responded if she scolded him.
Nan had remonstrated with her for spending so much time alone with him, warning her what others
might think if it came out, but Beatrice refused to be moved. Her aunt was right, of course, but it
was more important for the moment to save Lord Ravensden's life.
'No one but us need ever know,' she said. 'Besides, he must be properly cared for. Dr Pettifer said
he could die...'
That prospect had frightened Beatrice so much that she had lavished care and attention on him,
doing everything that needed to be done for his comfort herself.
She bathed his forehead again now. Unknown to anyone else, she had three times washed his
naked body all over. He had been so hot, and the cool water had seemed to ease him, as had the
balm she had rubbed into his back to ease the aching she knew he must be feeling—and of course
his natural bodily functions had had to be attended.
Some young, unmarried women might have found the task beyond them, but Beatrice had taken it in
her stride, thinking only of what her patient must be suffering.
She washed and dried his arms, neck, shoulders and face, marvelling at the firmness of rippling
muscles. She had never imagined a man could be so beautiful. His skin was like polished satin,
with just a light sprinkling of fine hair on his legs, chest and navel. She turned him over, washing
and then massaging his back—such a strong back, with such smooth skin!
'I hope you won't remember all this,' she murmured as she settled the clean covers around him. 'If
you do, I shall deny it. I shall say it was Nan—or that you imagined it.'
'Yes, Merry,' he murmured. 'That feels good... thank you. Sleep now...'
Who was the woman he called Merry? He had spoken to her several times in his fever. Perhaps
she was his mistress? He was bound to have one, of course. Unmarried, a man in his thirties...oh
yes, there must have been women.
What did she care? Beatrice frowned at her own thoughts. She was being very foolish. It could
mean nothing to her if he kept a dozen mistresses—except for Olivia's sake, of course.
Nursing him and attending to his needs had brought her close to him, but that was something she
must quickly forget. A man like Lord Ravensden was not for her. Even if he were not engaged to
Olivia, which he was—or would be if Olivia would have him back. Besides, he was the most
frustrating, stubborn creature on this earth, and scarcely worth the trouble she had lavished on him.
No, no, that was not true. Beatrice knew she had misjudged h
im at the beginning. He had tried
immediately to do the right thing by Olivia, and that must excuse him much.
She had heard him tell Olivia that he had the highest regard for her. He wanted to marry her, and it
would be better for Olivia if she could be brought to see the sense of the arrangement. Not a love
match perhaps, but one that could bring respect and content on both sides. It was as much and
more than was granted to most women.
Olivia had been upset over his carelessness, of course she had, but these past three days, she had
shown a very proper concern for her ex-fiancé. She had carried trays upstairs for her sister, and
tried very hard to help with some of the duties Beatrice was neglecting for Lord Ravensden's sake.
Was it possible that she was beginning to change her mind, to think that perhaps she might marry
him? It would not be surprising when you thought of the alternative. Surely Olivia must see that
she would be happier married to this man than living in a house where there was never enough
money for the necessities of life, let alone the luxuries she had been accustomed to?
Any sensible woman must realise that, and Olivia was certainly not a fool, for all her romantic
notions.
Lord Ravensden might be a stubborn, frustrating creature, but he was not a monster. Indeed, given
a chance, he might prove a comforting husband.
Beatrice looked down at her patient once more. He was sleeping peacefully now. She believed he
had turned the corner. He would recover, though he must be given time to rest. There was no
question of throwing him out until he was ready to leave.
The fever had broken at last. He would rest now— and he must never know that it was she who
had tended him throughout his illness.
She would go to the room she now shared with her sister, and in the morning Lily could bring him
some good nourishing broth.
The slight noise brought his eyes open. Harry's gaze moved towards the fireplace. A maid was
putting logs on the fire. He felt a flicker of annoyance as he realised she must have woken him.
Dash it all! It was barely light. What was the wench doing in his room? His manservant Beckett
was usually so efficient, always careful not to wake him after a late night—and by the way his
temples were throbbing, it must indeed have been a late night! He could not recall ever having
woken with such a head. Whatever had he been drinking?
He closed his eyes against the nagging pain, opening them again as he sensed the girl hovering
near.
'Where is Beckett?' he asked, a note of irritation in his voice. Had the girl not been properly
trained? She ought not even to be in his room. What was his housekeeper thinking of to allow it?
'Dash it, girl, what are you doing here?'
'The mistress said I was to make up the fire, then bring you some nourishing broth if you were
awake...'
'Mistress?' There was no mistress in his home! Where on earth was he? Harry struggled to
remember. He must have drunk a devilish amount the previous night. Good lord! This wasn't his
room. He had never seen it before. He tried to sit up, groaned and fell back against the pillows.
'Dash it, I'm as weak as a kitten!'
'You've been ill, sir. These past three days and more.'
'Ill, you say?' Harry stared at her in bewilderment. 'Have I, be damned?'
He tried to gather his thoughts. Vague memories began to filter into his mind. He seemed to recall
something. Soft hands bathing him, easing the terrible throbbing aches in his back...a voice
scolding him, but not in an unkind way. No, the voice had not been unkind, indeed, it had seemed
to carry a hint of laughter, as though its owner was deliberately needling him, forcing him to
respond, pulling him through his illness by the sheer force of her will. It must have been Merry
Dawlish. He knew of no other woman who would do such intimate things for him.
'Fetch Lady Dawlish,' he said to the girl. 'Pray ask her if she will attend me here as soon as
possible.'
The girl gaped at him as if he had said something odd. What could be the matter with her? Merry
did not usually employ half-wits.
'Who, sir?'
'Why, your mistress, of course.' Harry frowned as she continued to stare at him in that odd way. 'I
would speak with her, thank her for her care of me.'
'Begging your pardon, sir. I don't know Lady Dawlish.'
'Don't know her—then where the hell am I?' Harry's brow furrowed as he searched for some
elusive memory at the back of his mind. 'Who has been caring for...?'
'That will do, Lily,' a voice from the doorway said, and it was Harry's turn to gape as a vision of
beauty appeared in his bedchamber. A woman with wild, curling hair loose about her face and
shoulders was standing just inside the door. Dressed in a wrapping gown of some soft green
material, clearly in the middle of her toilette, she looked none too pleased at having been
disturbed. 'I had thought you were better, Lord Ravensden, but it appears you are still unwell.'
Harry blinked as he suddenly recognised her and the mists parted in his mind. Of course, he was
in the house of Bertram Roade...but this was not the room he had been shown to that first night. He
was very certain of that. And the woman standing at the foot of his bed, glaring at him as if she
would like to take her poker to him, was surely not Miss Roade. She was a goddess, some
celestial beauty newly sprung from the heavens.
'Where did you come from?' he asked, bewildered by the transformation. This vision was not the
slightly dowdy young woman who had sent him on a wild goose chase, nor the avenging sister
who had wielded her poker to such good effect, but a warm, sensuous, lovely thing who stirred his
senses.
Beatrice walked towards him, laying a hand on his brow. It was quite cool, and the fever had gone
from his eyes.
'I dare say you feel a little strange this morning,' she said, frowning at him. 'You were very ill, sir.
The fever has gone, but it may take a while for you to gather your wits.'
'You have certainly sent them flying,' Harry said, catching hold of her wrist as she would have
moved away. 'I presume that I have you to thank for the nursing that has brought me through this
damned sickness?'
'Me?' Beatrice had seen a gleam in his eyes that bothered her. Once before, a man had looked at
her in that way. Goodness! Did Lord Ravensden imagine that because she had tended him in his
fever she was a loose woman? 'No, indeed, sir, you much mistake the matter. I have scarce been in
this room at all, except when the doctor called...' She noticed Lily still hovering in the doorway,
her mouth open wide as if she were catching flies. 'You may go, Lily.'
'Yes, miss.' She hesitated still. 'His lordship's broth, miss—should I bring it now?'
'Yes, certainly.'
'No, she shall not,' Harry said at once. His head was beginning to clear now, though he still felt
weak.
'Beef, that's what I want. Slices of rare beef, mustard and pickles.'
'It may be what you want, Lord Ravensden,' Beatrice said, making a silent note to send to
Northampton for more supplies: such a guest was not to be fed on the stews, pies and bacon
puddings that made up their usual diet. 'However, I can neither recommend nor supply it for the
moment. My aunt has made a restorative mutton broth for you,
and there is some cold ham and a
pigeon pie for supper. If you are feeling well enough to stomach a little solid food by then, we
shall be pleased to serve you, either here in your room or downstairs in the parlour.'
'It was you, wasn't it?' Harry's eyes narrowed. The scent of her was right, and that scolding
note...she was the woman who had cared for him so tenderly. 'I have you to thank...for saving my
life, I dare say.' Had he been taken ill at some wayside inn, he believed he might well be dead by
now. Only the devotion and skill of this woman had got him through.
'No, indeed, you have not,' Beatrice said, lying calmly. 'My aunt tended you, sir. I have far too
much to do to be waiting on sickbeds... and I must be about my business now.'
'Don't go,' Harry said, holding to her wrist with surprising tenacity for a man so weak. 'Please,
stay a moment longer. I swear you are in no danger from me. I am as harmless as a new-born
lamb.'
'Lily will bring your broth,' Beatrice said. She hesitated, yet knew she must not give into his
pleading. Any intimacy between them must cease this instant.
'Or, if you prefer, my aunt will tend you, though she has much to do and can ill be spared. We do
not have many servants in this house, my lord.'
'I am accustomed to a manservant,' Harry said. 'Can your father's man not attend me?'
'Bellows is not used to serving guests,' Beatrice said, her brow wrinkling. 'But...if you prefer it...'
'Let him come—unless you would like to feed and shave me yourself?'
The glint in his eyes unnerved Beatrice, and the touch of his hand was sending hot shivers through
her entire body. She might almost have thought she had taken the fever from him! 'I believe
Bellows will manage,' she said, thinking it would serve him right if the man nicked him. 'I shall
send him up directly.'
'Thank you, you are very kind.' A wicked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 'You will
please convey my thanks to your aunt, Miss Roade. Tell her I have never been so kindly treated in
my life before, and I do thank her most sincerely for her care of me. For all her care...'
A bright flush stained Beatrice's cheeks. She turned her head aside, afraid that she was betraying
herself. He knew! He was mocking her. Very gently, and his thanks were sincere—but that gleam
