Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

  So much for the Reverend Clark’s edifying sermons!

  Thump.

  This time the sound came from James’s room. Fearful he’d fallen out of his bed, she dashed in and found him sitting on the edge of it, trying—and failing—to find his way back into his nightshirt.

  “Wait. I’ll help you.”

  It was a bit of a battle, but they achieved it together, and he lay back on his pillows, his face pallid.

  “Would you like some water?” She was still sleepy, and too confused by her dream to think of offering anything else.

  “No. Too cold. More blankets, please.”

  She collected up some blankets and tucked them around him. A spasm shook his body, eliciting a groan.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she examined his face closely. “James, are you in pain?” she asked.

  He shivered again, then looked at her with a puzzled frown. “Why’s it so damned cold in here? What is this place?”

  “Tresham Hall. You were taken ill.”

  “Is it always freezing in this house?”

  “I’ll make up the fire directly,” she promised, leaping up to fetch the bellows.

  As soon as the logs in the hearth were blazing fiercely, she asked, “Shall I heat a brick for your feet?”

  “Why do you keep troubling me with questions?” he moaned. “I just want to sleep…if ever I can warm up enough to do so.”

  How she wished George were here! She’d never had to deal with a serious illness before, and her confidence was quickly draining away. But she couldn’t let her patient see the doubt in her eyes—he must believe she had absolute control of the situation and knew just what to do for the best. Settling beside him again, she reached out to stroke his hair back from his forehead, saying, “You’ll be warm in no time.”

  “Not without you to warm me, my ministering angel.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She recoiled in shock, but he seized her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and pulled her down, so their faces were almost touching.

  “Warm me, I beg you,” he repeated in a soft whisper, his eyes boring into hers. “Nothing else will serve so well as another body next to mine.”

  She didn’t want to examine how he knew this, or why she suffered a twinge of jealousy at the idea of him sharing his bed with someone else.

  What he wanted was impossible.

  “You can’t ask that of me,” she said, her cheeks heating. “I’ll be ruined.”

  “Not if you marry me, you won’t.”

  What?

  “James, you’re delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I know my own heart,” he replied.

  A flash of physical awareness shot through her center, but she fought against it.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t possibly be. Either she was still dreaming, or he wasn’t in his right mind. It didn’t matter which. She must not get beneath the covers and wrap her arms tightly around him. Even if it was the best way to stop him shivering.

  However…

  Wasn’t it vital to keep an invalid calm and comfortable? What if her refusal made him more distressed and confused, resulting in a scene that would rouse the whole household? She debated with herself.

  And debated some more.

  Perhaps…if she remained fully clothed she could accomplish the task and feel less guilty about it. No one need ever know, and he’d probably have forgotten about it himself by morning.

  Did she dare?

  He moaned again. “Please,” he murmured.

  She swallowed heavily. And made up her mind.

  To be on the safe side, she padded across to the door and locked it, then slipped off her shoes, lifted the blankets, and lay down in the space James had made for her. He took her in his arms and pressed her against him.

  A great spasm of shuddering convulsed his body, so she hugged him back, trying to quiet him with the certainty of her warmth and compassion. He nuzzled at her hair and gripped her harder, his rough cheek grazing her face.

  How easy it would be to kiss him! But wasn’t she already risking her own health by being this close? She wondered if the man had any idea of the enormity of what they were doing.

  Probably not.

  “James,” she murmured as the paroxysm eased. “Shall I fetch the hot brick now?”

  “No,” he whispered against her hair. “Don’t let go. I don’t want you ever to let go.”

  Each word he spoke, each touch of his fingers, made their situation feel less like merely a practical solution to a problem.

  It felt more like the lovers’ embrace they’d shared in her dream.

  She rubbed a hand vigorously over his back, chafing the heat back into his flesh, trying to make her touch feel as unlike a lover’s caress as she could.

  It made no difference to the escalating pull of desire within her. He just shifted closer, fitting himself into every bend and curve of her body, until an audit of their limbs could hardly differentiate where his ended and her own began. For all his superior height and athlete’s body, he seemed to fit her like a glove.

  Oh, how beautiful it would be to be held like this—loved, cherished, wanted—for real. The urge to snuggle down in his arms and enjoy being crushed against his tempting body nearly overwhelmed her.

  He was shivering less now, and his limbs moved appreciatively over hers, accompanied by a low growling sound from deep in his chest.

  It was time to escape.

  She removed his arm where it cradled her waist, and wriggled backward to the edge of the bed. He mumbled a complaint and tried to stop her, but she set her jaw and pushed him gently but firmly away.

  His eyes flashed open, and he looked straight at her, as if he saw her perfectly normally, not through the mist of delirium. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

  Ignoring the invitation in his gaze, she shuffled off the bed and landed in an ungainly fashion on her knees. Keeping well out of his reach, she said, “This moment never happened. It’s just a dream, part of the delirium caused by the ague, enhanced by the laudanum and Peruvian bark you’ve taken.”

  She swallowed again and got to her feet, summoning up her most commanding voice. “I’m going to give you a hot brick for extra warmth, then you’ll sleep. When you wake again, call out, and someone will come.”

  “I want only you. You’re my ministering angel, my blessed guardian angel.”

  She looked down at herself with a frown. She couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like an angel than she did right now. Her gown was crumpled, her hair half down and all in a tangle, and her eyes must look bruised from lack of sleep.

  His vision must be affected by his illness.

  Still, it was the most flattering thing the viscount had ever said to her. In fact, apart from Charles Keane’s meaningless flirting, it was the nicest thing any man had ever said to her, and she’d always treasure the words.

  With a sigh, she turned away and knelt by the hearth to retrieve the warm brick and wrap it in a towel. She tucked it into the bed at his feet, and said, “You’ll feel better for a while now. There are always gaps between the paroxysms of fever and cold. I’ll make up some more feverfew tisane in the morning. Good night.”

  He settled back against his pillows, turned his head toward her, and answered, “Thank you. And good night my darling, my beloved Belinda, good night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With the return of daylight came a return of the fever. James tipped off his blankets but couldn’t work out how to get out of his shirt. He’d have to ring for someone—but who would come? Was he at the inn, or somewhere else?

  Shafts of bright sunlight sliced through the gaps in the shutters, giving enough light for him to confirm that he wasn’t in his own bed. He lay in an ancient truckle bed, with a wooden bench pushed up against it and a tester thrown across both pieces of furniture, so the sleeping space was broad enough for two.

  A lamp burning low illuminated linen-fold paneling wrought
in oak and much holed by boring insects. One wall of the room was draped with a faded tapestry showing a hunting scene, and for a moment he wondered if he’d been transported back in time.

  By God, but he had a raging thirst. He looked round for the bell pull, realized there wasn’t one, and called out.

  A middle-aged woman entered, wearing—to his relief—the clothing of a present-day servant, rather than an Elizabethan one. She lowered her eyes and made him an elaborate curtsy as she inquired, “Shall I call for Miss Emma, sir?”

  “Miss Emma?”

  “Indeed, your lordship, the young lady as has been looking after you. She’ll have your medicine ready, sir, and I can get you some breakfast now if you want it.”

  He ran a hand across his brow. Why couldn’t he remember? Why did it feel as though his whole world had skidded to a halt, like a horse refusing a jump?

  Suddenly the vision of a beautiful, compassionate face flooded his mind, and everything steadied as the memories flooded back. “Emma. Ah yes. Miss Hibbert.”

  “Miss d’Ibert, if it pleases your lordship,” the servant corrected.

  Of course. “Send her in, would you? And I’d like a fresh pitcher of water, if you please.”

  The woman curtsied her way out, then spoke to someone just outside the door. “I think his lordship might be feeling a bit better, but he complains of being thirsty. Shall I fetch him more drinking water?”

  “Do that, please, Sarah,” said a familiar voice.

  Emma’s voice. Thank heaven. At least he wasn’t among strangers.

  “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.

  “No. Didn’t want you to worry.”

  “So you thought you’d keep your illness a secret? How can you possibly think they’ll look after you well in such an uncharted backwater as this? They’re more likely to drug you and hold you for ransom,” his mama exclaimed.

  James rolled his eyes. “It’s no secret. Not imprisoned here. Good care. Not a backwater.”

  “That’s nothing to the point. I won’t have you cared for by amateurs. We’ll take you back to Birney, where Dr. Abrahams can attend to you.”

  Despite his physical lassitude, James’s temper rose. Scowling at his mother, he said, “Perfectly good nursing. Should be grateful. All of us!”

  “Oh dear,” said his mother, turning to Papa. “He doesn’t seem at all the thing. I think we’ve come not a moment too soon.”

  “Mama. Please, wait outside a moment. You’re getting upset. Send in Mr. d’Ibert. Papa and I will speak with him.”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” his mother replied in her most outraged voice. “I shan’t stay where I’m not required.”

  He groaned and flopped back against his pillows, but he needed her gone. She cluttered his thoughts, and he wanted to think clearly. He knew he hadn’t really offended her—the Countess of Rossbury was impervious to slight. She noticed it, yes, but it never affected her behavior. At least, not publicly.

  Mama swept out of the room, and he hoped—for the sake of Emma and the rest of the family—that she would take her lofty disapproval
with her and go wait in the carriage.

  Thomas d’Ibert entered the room, casting nervous glances at the earl, and James steeled himself for the effort of mediating between the two families.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Emma’s mama paced up and down in the hallway, occasionally stopping to smooth down her skirts and pat her lace-edged cap. “What on earth are they talking about in there, Emma?” she asked. “And why did they call your father in?”

  Emma didn’t know, and she didn’t care. “If they want to take the viscount back with them, they’re most welcome,” she said sourly.

  “Emma! It’s not like you to be so uncharitable. But you’re exhausted, and it’s making you fretful. If Viscount Tidworth is well enough to travel home today, you must go up to bed the instant he leaves.”

  Emma let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. And yes, I am bone-tired. If Tidworth is to be moved, now would be the time to do it, before the next cold paroxysm attacks him. His parents will not have come prepared to transport an invalid, for all their vehicle is so grand.”

  Not that she minded how miserable he might feel. Any affection she might have felt growing toward him was now completely quashed.

  She wasn’t even sure he was worth the effort of hating. He’d wrapped his body around her like a lover, called her his angel—and then called her Belinda. It proved that, despite his protests, he really was a rake. To be so casual about such things, he must already have been inappropriately intimate with Belinda, whether or not they’d actually coupled. If so, it was very likely he’d done the same with Philippa. Which, admittedly, wasn’t uncommon behavior in one of his standing—for didn’t the very rich have mistresses in every county where they held land, in addition to those in London or Bath? Not behavior Emma could ever condone.

  But even if it were just the fever and he wasn’t as vile as all that, he’d still called Emma by another woman’s name. After she had risked total ruin by sliding into bed with him. What had she been thinking? That, and spinning foolish, scandalous dreams about the man. How humiliating! Clearly, he hadn’t been seeing her, at all, but another. It wasn’t Emma he’d thought beautiful, or looked at with such longing.