“Won't you be tired?” Sarah asked. In answer, a mistiness came into Harmonia's eyes. She set off at a great rate down the hall, no doubt so that she might not be too long away from her ailing idol's bedside.
Perhaps, Sarah thought, she oughtn't let Lord Reyne eat the roast beef. And the half-bottle of claret she'd added at the last moment might push him into an apoplexy. Sarah hesitated. On the one hand, she hated to disappoint him, but on the other, what if the meal made him worse than he was? Fortunately for Lord Reyne, at that moment, Fred Footman looked out and said, “Please, Miss East, hurry along with that! He'll have my head off in a minute.”
Alaric sat up in an armchair, tucked about with pillows and blankets. He wore a fine quilted dressing gown over his nightshirt, the open collar filled in with a silken handkerchief. The silver-blue gleam of the banyan had been chosen by a sister to play up his dark good looks, but he knew that it also brought out the color of his spots. However, it was all he had with him.
Sarah thought he looked impossibly handsome. She quivered where she stood, setting the crystal glass to ring against the bottle. “Claret?” Alaric exclaimed. “Miss East, my dear Sarah, more than half my worldly goods are yours. Bring it here.”
Though she yearned to do his bidding, Sarah still hesitated. “I don't know if you should ... Mr. Atwood says ...”
“Atwood? Why should he concern himself with my habits? Besides, Fred tells me he's yet more ill than I. If he thinks that good food can harm me, he must be delirious. Please, Sarah, I'm dying of hunger.”
She enjoyed watching him eat. He praised the wine, but when she offered to find him some more, he refused with a laugh. “You try to drown me and would now drown my wits? No, Sarah, this is an admirable sufficiency. I shall have enough to do to keep my eyelids propped up. Don't go.”
“You're tired.”
“Yes, devilishly, but I don't want to sleep yet. Do you play cards?”
“No, sir, but my father taught me cribbage.”
“Cribbage is cards. Fred?”
“Yes, my lord?” All this time the footman had been busying himself with straightening Lord Reyne's chamber. He seemed already to imagine himself a valet to some notable, having weathered the perils of shaving an exacting gentleman.
“Find me a cribbage board; there's a good chap.”
Alaric found himself bested two games of three. He knew shame for assuming Sarah would be an incompetent player. He lost the first game through underestimating his opponent and the third through utter demoralization. Her card sense was impeccable, never leaving him an opportunity to cry “Muggins” and take the points she'd passed by.
Furthermore, she had the most confounded luck. “Are you certain you haven't another jack or so up your sleeve?” he'd asked once, delighted when she merely laughed and shook out the lace that encircled her wrists. The beauty of the inlaid board was a pleasure to play on, and the beauty of his opponent made it almost a pleasure to lose. He said as much at the conclusion of the third round and looked up to see Mrs. East in the doorway.
He suddenly felt uncomfortable. His attire was not at all what a gentleman entertaining a lady in his room should wear, and Fred had been dozing by the fire for quite an hour. Alaric would have stood up the moment he saw Mrs. East, but the tucked-in blankets held him fast.
“I won again. Mother,” Sarah said with an irrepressible smile.
“How clever of you, dearest. But it's quarter to eleven and Lord Reyne is unwell.”
The man and the girl turned surprised faces to the clock. “So it is, ma'am. I apologize for keeping Sarah so late. I plead, however, that her company did me more good than any medicine by keeping me from dwelling on my complaint.”
Mrs. East entered and gave a gentle shove to Fred who woke up, nearly falling into the fire irons. “Help Lord Reyne to bed,” she said. “Come, Sarah. You can play again in the morning.”
“Please come back,” Alaric added. “After all, I must get my revenge. I think I shall lie awake and plot it.”
Before Mrs. East could say the words that so obviously hovered on her tongue, Sarah said firmly. “No, you shall not. You must rest. Your mother would say the same, were she here.”
“No doubt she would. It is as well she has been spared the experience. She worried to excess whenever I fell ill.”
“That is a mother's right. Isn't it, Mother?”
“Yes, my dear. Are you ready?”
Sarah put the pegs safely into a secret slot under the board. “Until tomorrow, Lord Reyne.”
The next morning, a yawning Lady Phelps told Sarah that the twins were asking for her. She promised to stop in their room after carrying up breakfast to Lord Reyne. Fred, serving in Mr. Smithers’ absence, told her, “He already et, Miss Sarah. Well, that is, he drunk a cup of tea. The rest didn't please him. He damned my eyes, saving yer pardon, and asked me when ...”
“When what, Fred?”
“When you was coming up to see him. But you didn't hear it from me, miss. He'll have my ears if he finds out I told you.”
“All he took was tea? No wonder he's in a bad temper. I'll run up.” But when the bell Lady Phelps had given her sons shrilled, Sarah looked to where the older lady sat, drowsing over her plate. “Never mind, I'll go,” Sarah volunteered when Lady Phelps shied at the sound.
The twins lay in two beds. Harcourt was just raising the bell again in one languid hand when Sarah said, “Good morning.” The larger boy's eyes brightened before a bout of sneezing struck him. Seeing he was unable for the moment to speak, Sarah turned toward Harold. “How are you this morning?”
Sadly, Harold shook his head, touching his throat. As he swallowed, a look of pain, equal to any worn by the most profound martyr, closed his eyes and contorted his mouth. “Can't you talk?” Sarah asked. Harold shook his head again.
“No, he can't,” Harcourt said, opening his hand and letting the white cloth drift to the floor. It lay atop a mound of others between the boys’ beds, silent testimony to the severity of their colds and the devotion of their mother. “And it's ever so dull up here with a funeral mute for company. Can you stay?”
“No, I'm sorry. I daren't even come in. I have to take care of ... some of the others, and I can't find time to become ill. But I'll come by sometimes to see how you are. Do you want a book?'’ Harcourt rolled his eyes but Harold nodded eagerly. “Which one?”
Harold wrote something on the slate his mother had given him to make his wants known. From her place of safety in the clear breezes of the hall, Sarah couldn't make out what he'd written. "Tristram Shandy," Harcourt translated.
“I'll see if I can find it. Are you certain you don't care for anything, Harcourt?”
Gruffly he said, “I'd rather have my horse, or dog. But you might as well bring me the estate books. I promised Father I'd look them over, and I haven't anything better to do.”
“All right.” Lord Reyne's room was in another wing so Sarah was not tempted, at least not much, to stop in before performing the boys’ commissions. Sir Arthur gave her the account books, but the ledgers were so large and awkward that he agreed to take them up for her. She sent Harold's novel up by Lady Phelps.
Free of her obligations, Sarah flitted up the steps to Lord Reyne's door. She stopped to smooth her hair and straighten her dress. Her mother, coming out of Mr. Posthwaite's room, saw her daughter perform these significant actions. She also saw the enraptured smile that lit Sarah's face when a patrician male voice called out, “Come in.” Last night, Mrs. East had lain awake a long time, prey to obscure worries. Now her fear had a name. Alaric Naughton, Earl of Reyne.
He sat by the window, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, staring out at the mist that hung from the trees like veils on ugly women. “A glass of water, if you please,” he said.
“Certainly.” Sarah poured it out from a pitcher on the table and carried it across to him. Standing near him, as he stretched out his hand for the glass, she saw that the spots, faint last night, ha
d now come up like a fresh crop of freckles. “I hope you're feeling more the thing this morning. You seem much better to me.”
“Please don't lie. I can't bear it. Where were you?” When he asked this question, he did not turn his head to look up at her, but went on gazing out the window at nothing. He drank the water as though he were very thirsty.
“I felt I must visit Harcourt and Harold.”
“And no doubt tomorrow I shall be sneezing.”
“I stayed by the door and never even breathed their air.”
“Yes, yes. Well, what do you want?” He turned the empty glass restlessly between his fingers. She took it. His fingers continued to move until he seemed to realize what he was doing. Then he laid both hands in his lap, lacing the fingers as though to prevent them getting away.
“More water?”
“Yes. I mean, thank you.” Then, as though he could no longer control his feelings, he cried out, “Damn, but I itch! Worse than lying on an ant's nest. I itch in places no gentleman—” Alaric clamped his lips shut.
“Can I help?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Mother says you should cut your fingernails. If it becomes very bad, we have some oil to rub on.”
“It's only that ... I can't even expect compassion! Chicken pox is more likely to cause my friends to laugh than to sympathize. I have a headache. And it's warm in here.”
“Drink this. Then, I think you should return to bed, sir. If I close the curtains, you'll be able to sleep.”
“What will you do?”
“I shall visit Mrs. Dealford—”
“I pity you.”
“And Sir Francis. I've not been to him, yet.”
“You must tell me how he gets on. Handsome Sir Francis. At least, I am not so violently fond of my reflection that I cannot bear a spot or two. Or even a hundred, as you in your kindness were about to tell me I wear.”
“I wouldn't have said that. I told you how well you look.”
“Then you lie. Miss East, as I said. Take this.” He pushed the glass once more into her hand. Sarah was shocked by the heat radiating from his hand.
“You're running with fever,” she said. “Into bed at once, and I shall send my mother to you. She knows many remedies for bringing your temperature down.”
“Better she than that doctor fellow. He laughed when he told me I was going to be laid up here for another week.” Alaric stood up, only to find that the room swayed. He flung out a hand and clutched Sarah's arm. “Pray excuse me. Miss East, but I find I must make some use of you.”
“I don't mind,” she said, though he leaned almost all his weight against her. Sarah felt a hard lump in her throat at the realization of his need for her, even in so small a matter as guiding him to bed. She knew already the difficulty he found in admitting that, due to his imperfectly healed wounds, he couldn't easily and with grace do what other men did. To fall ill now must leave Lord Reyne feeling as though all destiny were against him.
He sat with a sigh on the bed. Quickly, Sarah knelt and removed his slippers. “Here now,” he said, rousing. “You shouldn't do that!”
“It's done. Now, off with your banyan. I had ‘Lizabeth change your sheets. Feel how cool and smooth they are.”
“Yes, I remember her coming in with Fred. Neat little figure.”
Sarah stood by, with her eyes turned modestly away, as Lord Reyne lifted the covers to climb beneath them. He still wore his breeches, though he seemed to have forgotten about them. His eyes were already closing. Sarah leaned down and untied the silk from about his neck. Alaric's eyes flicked open. “You're a good sort, Sarah East. Damn this itch!” His hand darted upwards as though he would scratch.
Seizing his hand in her own, she stroked it. “Just be patient, Lord Reyne. A few days and it will all be over.”
“Why, Sarah! Your hands are cold.”
“It's just that you're so warm. Sleep now.”
When his fingers were lax and limp in her own, Sarah laid them on the counterpane. They seemed to seek after her own until curling under one another. His hands were narrow and long-fingered with a faint golden gleam on their backs where the light burnished the hair.
She was about to leave the room, to find her mother, when gazing a last time at the figure on the bed, she saw that he was trying to scratch in his sleep. She put down the pitcher and crossed to once more hold his hands still. They turned beneath her own and grasped tightly. His eyes, very bright and shining, opened. After wandering a moment, they fixed on her face.
She whispered, “I didn't mean to wake you, but you mustn't scratch.”
She attempted to pull her hands free, but his grip was firmly gentle. Thinking he was playing a game, she laughed and said, “Really, you must let me go. I'll come back.”
“I'll never let you go.” With surprising strength, he pulled her off balance to lie against his chest. Then he turned, and she found herself lying beside the heat of Alaric's body, his face only inches from her own. He posed above her so all she could see was the depths of his eyes. They were not sky-blue now, but dark as the midnight swell of the sea.
“Lord Reyne ...” she began, but he began to speak to her in an underbreath, words that made her cheeks burn as hot as his own.
“There's never been another woman as beautiful as you. When you appear, all the others faded into insignificance. I can't recall even their faces. You're like a dream—that's not original, but it's true for all of that. The arch of your brow would make a Roman architect weep, your lips would shame a rose for never achieving such a perfect color. And as for shape ... The way you walk with your breasts held so high ... the curves of your waist and hips ... the curve ...”
Sarah gave up twisting her wrists to get free and lay, passive and trembling, beside him. Her eyes closed as one thought filled her mind. He's going to kiss me. She held her breath and waited.
After a long time, she dared to open one eye and cast a swift glance at Lord Reyne. His cheek had fallen onto the pillow, and his chest rose and fell in the tidal rhythm of sleep. Around her wrists, his hands were relaxed. She found it disappointingly easy to slide free.
Her knees felt weak, Sarah only had strength enough to walk to the armchair and to sink down upon it. Whatever love she had felt for Lord Reyne before was but a child's for a painted image compared to what feelings kindled now in her heart. Taking his fever into account, she could not rejoice that he loved her too, though his words might lead her on to hope. He admired her and more. It was not impossible to dream that one day Lord Reyne might feel the full power of love for her.
Sarah sat in the armchair and dreamed so long that Mrs. East and Lady Phelps both came in search of her. First, they saw the man asleep and changed to a tiptoe pace. “Sarah? Wake up, dear,” her mother whispered, taking her daughter by the shoulder.
“Oh, I wasn't asleep.” Perhaps she had been, though, and all that went before was no more than a dream.
Lady Phelps said, “You mustn't tire yourself, or you'll be indisposed as well. And you missed luncheon.”
“Did Harvey do it?”
“Everything was delicious. I was rather surprised.”
From behind them, a hoarse voice said, “Your whispers, ladies, would rouse a sleeping stone.” The two women turned, showing Sarah between them. “Ah, there you are,” Lord Reyne said, propping himself up on his elbows.
Sarah saw, by his glittering eyes and reddened face, that his fever had not yet passed. Swiftly, she glanced up at her mother and Lady Phelps. They smiled still, the formal smiles of a sickroom call. Rising and pressing past them, she poured out more water into his glass to carry to him.
“Mind you don't spill it,” he said. “You've dampened my ardor often enough already. How can it be that every time I see you, you're more wonderful than before? But you shouldn't wear your hair up; let it be loose and free as it was the first time we met. Every time I run my fingers through it, I hear music.”
He struggled upright to be in a bet
ter position to drink. Before he lifted the glass to his lips, however, he flourished it in a toast to his gape-mouthed audience. “I must compliment you on your daughter, Mrs. East. A most radiant and loving woman, or so I have always found her. Did you say something about luncheon? I have quite an appetite today. I don't know why.”
The two older ladies exchanged a single glance which seemed but compressed thought. Lady Phelps stepped forward, while Mrs. East escorted a red-faced Sarah out. “Certainly, Lord Reyne,” Lady Phelps said. “Wouldn't you enjoy an iced pudding?”
“You're too kind.”
But by the time she returned with it, he was once more asleep. The sweet was too good to waste, however, so she took it along to the chamber Mrs. East and Sarah were sharing during the emergency. Sarah was too happy to eat it and her mother shook her head at this sign of love, before indicating silently that she'd like to speak to Lady Phelps out in the corridor. “I think it best if Fred continues to take Lord Reyne his meals. And if the man requires entertainment, let him be content with a book.”
In a low voice. Lady Phelps said, “Do you think ... has he trifled with Sarah's feelings?”
“I doubt it.” Yet Mrs. East's plump cheeks, so admirably suited to her cheerful outlook, were drawn down by her worried lips. “She is so desperately in love with him! It is better if they do not meet while he is ... disturbed.”
“I needn't tell you, Marissa, that you must warn her. Men's affections, especially when ill, are so easily caught and once caught, easily changed.”
“I've warned her, yes, but I fear it will do no good. She says nothing, though she sighs frequently. I have never known Sarah to sigh for anything before now.”
“This is positively the last time Harvey holds open house!”
United in kindness, they made Sarah promise that she would not visit Lord Reyne's room again, even if other persons were present. She protested, knowing that her mother relied on her word, and once it was given, she could do nothing further, except think of him every moment.
A Lady in Love Page 9
