As he came closer, she realized with a heavy heart there was to be no truce between them. She had to stop him buying Tresham at all cost.
If only she could think of an alternative to the sale…
“Sir,” she began. “I beg you to look elsewhere for your veterans’ home.”
Her mind worked frantically. How could she convince him not to buy the place when, for much of yesterday, Mama and Papa had been concentrating on persuading him that he must?
“Why must I look elsewhere?” he asked, coming closer.
“Because…it will surely be very expensive to make all these alterations. If you find a building that already has bigger windows, taller ceilings, and so on, would that not save your charity money?”
His eyes darkened with suspicion as he came face-to-face with her. “That’s not the real reason,” he said. “Be honest with me, Emma.”
Damn him! She couldn’t think straight when he was standing so close, looking at her like that. It felt as if he was scouring her soul.
“Very well,” she conceded reluctantly. “I simply don’t want you tearing my home apart.”
He lifted his chin and gazed at her with hooded eyes. “You think me a vandal, I believe. When all I care about is the veterans’ comfort.”
“It would be easy enough to find a different house that you won’t have to ruin to meet your needs. Tresham has a history dating back to medieval times—all of that would be lost.”
“What do medieval times matter,” he snapped, his face paling, “when soldiers are suffering? Honorable men who have served their country well. People are more important than bricks and mortar, or even marble and plaster. Surely, you realize that, Emma? I’m not having injured or crippled men cracking their heads on too low doorframes, or walking into tables because there’s not enough light, or falling down narrow steps because there’s no space for a handrail.”
“Of course not! But then find somewhere else! Somewhere more suitable than here,” she bit back at him. “In fact, you can begin looking right now. I’m going to find Papa and tell him to turn down any offer you make. He would never have encouraged you to buy the place if he’d known what you planned for it.”
“Emma, wait! Please!”
She shot him a defiant look over her shoulder, then saw him stagger and put out a hand to steady himself against the quince tree. His face was white as a sheet.
It took a moment to realize that the viscount was genuinely ill. Forgetting their enmity, she hurried back to support him.
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“No, no,” he replied weakly. “Just a little tired. Perhaps we might sit down a moment.”
But he couldn’t even make it as far as the stone bench. He clung with one hand to the tree, the other clutching her shoulder while she supported his weight as best she could. Thankfully, the manservant, Arthur, came running in response to her shouts.
Tidworth was now breathing rapidly, each breath a shuddering torment. Whatever had come over him? Was there something in the garden he was reacting to, perhaps? Or was his evening at the inn finally catching up with him?
“Help me get him into the house,” she told Arthur. “He’s been taken ill and must go to bed immediately.”
“D’ye think he can manage the stairs, miss?” the servant asked, visibly shocked by the viscount’s condition.
“Perhaps not. We’ll set him down in the hall while I get Sarah to make up that old truckle bed in the parlor. It might do more harm than good to try getting him up the stairs.”
Her mother and father burst out of the drawing room, then froze in shock as Emma struggled to loosen the viscount’s cravat and clothing. His whole body was shaking now—this was more serious than too many tankards of ale.
“Don’t crowd me, please,” she exhorted them. “Mama, could we get some thin gruel or barley water made up?”
“Oh, if only George were still here!” her mother exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “He’d know what to do at once.”
That rankled. But as the viscount had reminded her numerous times, Emma’s knowledge of medicine was at best thirdhand. George would doubtless know better than she what to do in these circumstances. All she could do was look things up in books and make informed decisions until the local physician could be sent for.
Papa said, “This violent shivering reminds me of the ague I had a few weeks ago.”
“Oh great heavens, what will become of us if Rossbury’s heir were to die here at Tresham?” wailed Mama.
“He’s not going to die on us,” Emma said stoutly. “Are you, my lord?”
But there was no answer.
The viscount was no longer conscious.
Chapter Twenty-One
A near-nightmare panic ensued in the household, which lasted the better part of an hour, but eventually Emma was able to convince everyone to let her take charge of the situation.
By suppertime, Dr. Nash had visited, approved the family’s belief that the viscount was suffering from an ague, and promised to send some Peruvian bark along as soon as possible to help the patient cope with the malady. Lord Tidworth had been helped into a spare nightshirt of George’s and tucked into the truckle bed in the parlor.
It was now midnight. Seated in a chair outside the door of the makeshift sickroom, Emma cursed her luck. How very inconvenient of the man to fall ill just when she’d determined to hate him again! But having read about the symptoms of the ague in one of George’s medical books, she couldn’t help but pity Tidworth. He could expect fevers alternating with chills, delirium, and excruciating headaches. Sufferings she wouldn’t wish on her greatest enemy.
Once again, it had fallen to her to care for the viscount and make sure he didn’t attempt to leave his bed until he was fit. Which probably meant she was in for a struggle when he finally awoke. At least she now had a physician’s approval of her treatment regime—though no guarantee Tidworth could even remember Dr. Nash’s visit.
Maybe this was all to the good. The viscount would mark Tresham and its environs down as a sink-pit of disease and never come near the place again. Which meant the d’Iberts could hope to sell their home to a more sympathetic buyer.
A groan from within the room had Emma leaping up in concern. She rushed into the parlor to find the viscount thrashing about and tipping off his bedclothes.
“My lord, be still or you’ll hurt yourself!”
His gray eyes took a moment to focus on her, then he said, “It’s you.”
He recognized her, which had to be a good sign. “Here,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed and handing him a tankard of water. “Drink this. Slowly, now.”
Struggling to a more upright position, he complied, sipping his water as his gaze roved about the room, then once again settled on her.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Like a pig roasting on a spit. After it’s been trampled on by a carthorse.”
She smiled. Well, at least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. “We think you’ve caught an ague. The symptoms are very similar to those recently experienced by my father.”
“And you’d know all about such things, your brother nearly being a physician,” he said, smiling weakly back at her.
“Don’t waste your strength on teasing, my lord. Dr. Nash agreed with me.”
“Don’t waste your strength calling me my lord. I think we must dispense with the formalities under the circumstances. James will serve. Just James. Was it you who undressed me?”
“Of course not!” Keeping her eyes averted from the lean, muscular limbs poking out from beneath the sheet, she added, “Arthur and Papa did that.”
James’s head lolled back against his pillows. “I still have some dignity left, then.”
Never mind his dignity—what about hers? She was flushing furiously at the scandalous suggestion that she might have undressed him. How could he possibly imagine she’d do such a thing? And why could she not get rid of this unbidden vision in h
er head of his sweat-slicked, naked body?
“I’m sorry to have put you out,” he said softly.
Her voice prim, she answered, “Please don’t worry about that. You’re ill, so we’ll care for you as best we can until you recover. You have a sound constitution, I imagine, which will serve you well.” If those muscles were anything to go by.
“Hale and hearty most of the time, I assure you.”
Confound it! Why did she keep wanting to sneak a peek at him? She needed an excuse to leave the room so she might recover her composure.
“I’ll make up a tisane of feverfew to bring your temperature down,” she said, leaping to her feet.
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I’ll need only a few hours in bed, then I can ride to Birney House to be cared for there. Or maybe a carriage could be arranged. How’s Lawrie?”
“Your horse is fine. I hope you don’t mind, but we borrowed him so Papa could fetch the doctor faster.”
“Your father is kindness itself.”
She couldn’t help but smile ruefully. “How very polite you are when you’re sick,” she said.
“I’m polite most of the time. You’ve just caught me off guard in the past. I’ll endeavor to make it up to you.”
“You can start now by promising not to get out of bed until you’re better.”
“I can see why you make a good governess,” he muttered, wiping the sleeve of his nightshirt across his brow. “Could we have a window open? It’s like a furnace in here.”
She opened the window, then escaped to the kitchen to brew up a tisane of fresh feverfew. She added as much honey as they could spare, but even so, she knew the mixture would taste vile.
Returning with the steaming cup, she settled herself on the bed again and helped his lordship—James—take a sip of the tisane.
He pulled a face, gulped the lot down in one go, then gave her a dark look. “I hope you’re not making me suffer deliberately,” he said.
She smiled. “The worse it tastes, the better it is for you.” A complete lie, but it had worked with Willie in the past.
Speaking of whom, how was Willie? Should she have written back to Charles, just to be sure of receiving news? She needed to stay on the right side of the Keane family if she was to keep her position.
And James must never reveal to them her true identity.
“My parents will be wondering where I’ve got to,” James said. “I’d planned to ride home today.”
“A message has been sent to the Earl of Rossbury,” Emma reassured him. “And your bags have been brought over from the inn, so you have everything you need to hand.”
“Too kind.” His head flopped back again, and he moaned. She rescued the cup from his limp hand and discovered his fingers felt clammy. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and he plucked at the bedclothes.
Understanding, she dragged them off, then reached for a cloth and dipped it in a basin of cold water before pressing it against his brow.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as the liquid trickled over his flushed face and pooled in the hollow of his throat. His breaths turned into groans, and his body shifted in discomfort as spasms of heat rolled over him.
She stroked his damp hair, pushing it back from his face and murmuring soothing words. This calmed him briefly, but before long he was fidgeting again and picking at his nightshirt.
She reached for her fan and flapped at his face, but he still complained he was burning up. “I must get out of this damned nightshirt,” he croaked.
“Wait!”
She grabbed up a sheet and pulled it over the lower half of his body, then applied herself to removing the shirt. It was a struggle, but they managed it between them, and she was able to fan his chest.
He’d benefit from the wet cloth there, as well, but despite her being in the role of nurse, she was pretty sure that would break every rule in the etiquette book.
Not that it mattered anymore. Her expectations of being one of the ton had been dashed along with the family finances, so she had no social reputation to maintain. Besides which, James was in no condition to complain about, or even to remember, if anything improper had occurred.
Dipping the cloth again, she dribbled cold water over his chest and shoulders, then fanned him vigorously, hoping to stop him throwing off the sheet entirely. She could use the fan just as well with her eyes closed as with them open, but the temptation to look at his naked body—purely out of curiosity, mind—might be too powerful to resist.
She fanned herself for a moment, then ran the cloth over James’s torso. It was disquieting to see him brought so low—how was it that a fellow with such broad shoulders and a chest rippling with muscle could barely lift a hand to mop his own brow? A vernal ague was a devastating thing, and she prayed fervently he’d soon be restored to his former glory.
Her hand faltered. Since when had she, in any way, thought of him as glorious? Handsome, yes, with those intense blue-gray eyes, the well-defined nose, and beautifully sculpted lips…but glorious?
It was also unsettling to see his face no longer animated by thought or feeling. She was used to sparring with him, to seeing his brows fly up and the warning spark in his eyes. Now, all she could see was the misery he was trying to hide.
As if sensing her perusal, he suddenly flicked open his eyes, and clasped her hand where it rested against his stomach.
“You really shouldn’t,” he murmured. “This isn’t a job for a proper young lady.”
“Since when have you thought me proper?” she retorted, smiling. “You’re always censuring me, even when at your very weakest. I’d like to break you of the habit.”
He managed a rueful grin. “I apologize for everything I’ve ever said or done to discomfit you. And just in case I’m at Death’s door, I must tell you something before I pass through it. There has never been, nor ever will be, anything between myself and Philippa Keane. She came to my room unbidden that night and was rapidly ushered out again. I can be most oppressive when I want to be, and I think I scared the poor girl out of her wits. I needed to tell you that. I don’t want you thinking ill of me.”
She squeezed his hand, which felt comfortingly large and warm in her own. “There’s no need for deathbed confessions. I’m your nurse now, and I’ve every intention of keeping you alive.”
Even so, his admission buoyed her. There was nothing between him and Miss Keane. Such a relief. He’d done the right thing and sent her away.
But he still meant to vandalize Tresham, unless she persuaded him otherwise.
He nodded, releasing her hand. “Can the window be opened any wider? I still can’t cool down.”
“The feverfew will make you sweat more for a while, but you’ll feel better afterward.”
All the same, she went to the window and pushed it open farther, grateful for the faint breeze that caressed her face. The heat generated by his body seemed in some alchemical way to have transferred itself to her own.
But it was no ague she was suffering from. It was desire, pure and simple—the totally inappropriate urge to run her hands over his hot, silken flesh, to press her lips to his fevered brow, and in return feel his caressing fingers on her skin.
Her heart sped up as the lustful ideas all but overwhelmed her. How could the sight of a man’s half-naked body arouse such intense feelings? She was completely taken by surprise.
She knew many women thought Charles Keane the model of male beauty and magnetism, with his angelic good looks and knowing smile. Yet James affected her at a much deeper level than Charles ever could. The viscount had a power of attraction lacking in Charles, though he seemed not to be aware of it.
That power spoke to her now and drew her in.
But she needed to fight it. Attraction between them would do neither of them any good whatsoever. She was now a nobody in the eyes of society, because she had gone into service. And James was so far above her, he’d be vilified if anything ever happened between them. Just as Cha
rles had been by his father.
Elias’s handsome visage flashed in front of her eyes, and she felt the familiar pull of humiliation. Why, oh why, did all beautiful men have to be so vain, so fickle? How could she possibly trust any man as tempting as James ever again? Pushing abruptly away from the window, she made for the door, refraining from glancing at the man in the bed. “Rest now,” she commanded. “I’ll be in the passageway if you need me.”
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll try to sleep.”
She closed the door and pressed her back against it, breathing hard. After a moment, she blinked, shook her head, and settled back down on her chair. Turning up her lamp, she shuffled through the books she’d brought to while away the hours of her vigil and selected a book of sermons by the Reverend John Clark.
Anything to distract her from the possibility that she was attracted to James Markham, Viscount Tidworth.
And—heaven forbid—was even beginning to like him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emma’s cheek was pressed against James’s chest. His hand was in her hair, stroking and tugging, pulling her head back so he could kiss her. Even as she felt the touch of his lips upon her mouth, her hand roved greedily across his taut muscles, toyed with and pinched the fascinating male nipples with their halo of hair. He groaned against her mouth, and his tongue, hot and slick, probed her lips, then penetrated and invaded her.
She pushed up, pressing her body hard against him, her tongue working with his, finding a rhythm that satisfied them both, stoking their mutual desire higher and higher.
Thud.
Suddenly, she was awake, her heart thumping painfully. It took her a moment to realize where she was, but when she looked down and saw her book lying open on the floor, she remembered.
She remembered the dream, as well.
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