Sebastian jolted awake and took in the sounds about him. Leaves rustling against the window, the lack of a fire crackling in the grate, the bout of silence in the large room. Slowly, he rose to sitting and noted Rebecca’s dress and corset draped over the back of the settee. Just where he’d placed them after she’d fled the chamber in the wee hours of the morning. The sun, high in the sky, beamed through the window.
The door. The door had clicked shut. Rebecca. Gone?
He scrambled from the bed, his feet getting trapped in the coverlets, sending him crashing to the floor. Grunting through the pain, he hopped over to the maid’s chamber and pushed down the latch and peered in. The bed was empty. When the fog cleared, he remembered that it was Serena who’d been using the bed, not Rebecca. Rebecca was curled in the chair, using her wrap as a coverlet. His insides softened like Gunter’s ices on a hot summer day.
Her eyes fluttered, opened, found him. Her lips were full and pink, her cheeks flush with sleep. “Your Grace?” Her voice croaked from lack of use.
“I heard the door. I… I thought you’d left.”
Her brows furrowed. “Left.” Her eyes darted to the bed. “Good heavens. Serena. She’s gone.” She started to rise and apparently realized how inappropriately she was attired. She clutched her wrap at the neck. “You’ll have to go after her.”
“I’m sure all is well,” he said. Unnatural color heightened her cheeks.
“I-I cannot get into any of those frocks without her assistance.”
He gave her a sly glance. “If I can help you out of them, I can certainly assist you into them.”
She shot him a quelling look that had him swallowing back a laugh. When had he ever felt like laughing first thing in the morning? Never, that he could recall. “I’ll wander below. And”—he looked her over—“order you a bath and food. You don’t look so well.” Sebastian pulled the door shut on her huff of outrage, then tucked in his shirt, found his boots and waist coat. Lastly, he pulled a cravat around his neck and tied a simple knot. He wasn’t at his most pristine either, but for a country inn, his less than formal appearance would suffice.
Two levels down he found Serena being interrogated by none other than Oxford’s new duchess, lauding questions like precisely timed musket balls from a line of well-trained British Cavalry. “Do you know who I am, young woman? You are a disgrace as a lady’s maid. Why, if I had a maid half as lazy as you, I would turn you out on your ear, without a reference. You aren’t even dressed appropriately. I demand to speak with Ryleigh’s wife. Her Grace, the Duchess of Ryleigh, immediately.”
Sebastian had heard enough. “That is quite enough, madam.” He met Serena’s widened eyes. “That will be all. See to your mistress, Serena. I’ll order breakfast and a bath.”
Serena hurried back up the stairs and Sebastian turned to the duchess and affected his haughtiest, most ducal look down his nose.
She was not intimidated. She took his arm. “Oxford and I were hoping to break our fast with you and your new bride, Your Grace.”
He extracted himself. “I fear that is impossible, madam. My… er, wife, is indisposed. She fell ill while caring for her own maid.”
“She cared for her own maid?” she said incredulously.
“There was no one else for the task. As it is, my duchess has a generous spirit, as I’m sure you understand. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I must speak to the innkeepers and return to her side.”
“But—”
He inclined his head in a shallow bow and went on the hunt for the innkeepers, leaving the woman in a sputter. And wondering why he hadn’t mentioned Rebecca’s name to cement his newly formed plans for her. It would have been so easy.
Rebecca’s entire body ached. She needed to rise and attempt to dress before Ryleigh returned but was bereft of energy. And hot. She was very hot. And cold. Hot and cold. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Just for a second…
“Good God. Rebecca, wake up.”
She groaned and did her best to shake off the beast accosting her. Her arms didn’t want, or seem able, to cooperate at pushing him away.
“What happened to your arm?” he said in a low voice, but she couldn’t answer. “Bugger. You are burning up. Quick, Serena. Clear the bed in the outer chamber. I’ll move her ladyship there.”
In an instant, Rebecca was spinning in the air, plunging her stomach in a dangerous lurch.
A whimper sounded, though for the life of her, Rebecca could not pry her eyes open. She couldn’t tell if it was Serena or herself who’d emitted the sound.
“I suspect whatever bug you’d contracted has latched onto your mistress.” The words, intended to reassure, distressed her maid, and Rebecca could hear Serena’s soft, remorseful cry. There was no opportunity to chastise the duke for this thoughtless statement. In the next instant, Rebecca was casting up her accounts with no will of her own to forestall the event.
“Don’t fret, Serena. She’ll get through this.” He said this so gently, so confidently, even Rebecca believed him and gave up all need to control the situation. Sebastian would see things through. It was an unnerving sensation, giving up one’s power to another. She didn’t know how to relinquish control—another spasm wracked her, and she had to resort to being comforted by his words, his presence.
I’m still infatuated, she thought as he wiped her mouth and forehead. A second later he was laying her back down and she found herself sliding into a dreamless slumber.
Whatever ailment had hit Rebecca’s maid was ravaging Rebecca three times harder. She’d cast up accounts until Sebastian feared she would wither up and die. He was beside himself to know what to do. It was past midnight and her maid lay sleeping on the settee in front of the hearth, refusing to leave Rebecca completely to his independent care as he took over keeping Rebecca’s head and wrists cooled with a damp cloth. Serena, thankfully, seemed to have recovered almost completely.
The candle’s low illumination bathed the suite in a warm glow that would have been romantic under other circumstances. He used that low light to study the horrendous scar on the inside of her forearm. Someone had taken a tool to that lovely skin and desecrated it. He ran a fingertip over the mangled, discolored skin. The scar covered a good portion of the inside of her forearm. Not the entire area but a solid three quarters. He laid his lips against the scraggily lines, wondering who she’d slayed and for whom. If there was one thing he was quickly understanding about Lady Rebecca Thatcher, is that she had no care for her own self-preservation when it came to defending those weaker than her. And not a man. She didn’t consider men weak, except perhaps in the head, and, therefore, in no need of her defending.
To his surprise, the scar itself did not feel the least bit feverish. He set the back of his hand against her head and winced. Still hot as hades. He set to work. Her face was chalky white.
He dipped a cloth in the bowl of cool water and ran it over her cheeks, her forehead, her temple—then stopped—stunned a second time by the discovery of another scar. This one was a thin, ragged, tear. He traced it with his forefinger, instinctively knowing how much it had bled. He wanted her to wake so he could rail at her for her carelessness, then kiss her senseless to make her feel better. Had someone hit her, or had she fallen out of a tree?
She grew restless, jarring him back to the task at hand. He dipped the cloth again and patted down her skin. Yet, the image of that scar along with the huge one on her forearm, and not knowing how she’d sustained them, bothered him greatly.
In her delirium, she went from yelling at her papa to chastising the twins for running away to uttering her despair for some long-lost love. Something in his chest clenched at her longing after another. A debilitating jealousy, yet her kiss hadn’t indicated experience.
The day had long since moved into the depths of night. Serena had been run ragged, despite Sebastian insisting she rest. But she’d refused to stop until he absolutely put his foot down, telling her she would not do her mistress any good if she relapsed. Still, he couldn’t deny how useful she’d been, making sure there had been sustenance for the three of them.
“Come on, darling. You need more broth,” he said softly. He gently lifted her to sitting and put a glass of water to her cracked lips. She was burning up, kicking at the coverlets, turning her head from side to side, struggling to get away. Fighting.
“Don’t. Don’t push me.” Rebecca thrashed about. “Don’t. You d-don’t understand, Gabs. Gabs…” Her pet name for his sister ended on a wail. Tears trekked down her cheeks. “He’ll… he’ll think…”
“Shush. It’s all right, darling.” He spoke soft, soothing, nonsensical words. After a minute, she calmed.
Sebastian gave up on attempting to feed her and settled her back down. Then dipped the cloth in the basin of cool water, wrung it out, and dabbed her face with it again and again. Seeing her this way frightened him more than he’d believed possible. To see her so… so despondent ripped through him like a serrated dagger. She was the strongest woman he’d ever met. She could push a man three times her size in the mud. Save two children from a dastardly villain. With one look, convince another to bring a smelly mongrel into a crowded carriage. Nothing could bring down this warrior. Certainly not some damned fever.
Sebastian tucked the blankets about her, leaving her scarred arm out so he could grip her fingers with his own, willing his good health on her. He lowered his forehead to their clasped hands and offered up a prayer to assist him in his silent proclamation.
Rebecca snuggled closer to the heat, knowing she should get up. She should check on Serena. But before she could convince herself to rise, she slipped into another bout of slumber.
The bed shook, waking her. Slowly, she opened her eyes—and froze, then blinked several times over. The Duke of Ryleigh sat on the edge of the far side of the bed, pushing a hand through his unkempt hair, then rubbing it over his scruffy jaw. His white shirt and buff breeches were beyond wrinkled. Nothing duke-like in his appearance.
“You require a shave, Your Grace.” Her voice came out croaked and somewhat breathless, rather than stern.
White teeth flashed in his quick smile that heated her through. She was hot, her hands clammy. She shivered. “I do indeed,” he said, his voice sounding as sleepy as hers.
She smiled back, her eyes drooping closed once more then shooting wide. “Dear heavens,” she breathed. “You… surely you didn’t sleep with me?” Her voice edged up an octave with each word.
Her hand was instantly engulfed within his and he was leaning over her. “You’ve been very ill.”
“Im-impossible. I’ve never been ill a day in my life.” She shoved him out of the way, sat forward and threw her legs over the side of the bed. She attempted to stand only to end up dizzy and swaying.
He caught her arm, gently, thankfully, or she would have ended on the floor in a heap. “I can well believe it,” he said gently. “You must be famished.”
She put a hand to her head, pressing hard to stem a shot of pain behind her eyes. “How long?”
“Two days. Lucky for you, I have no faith in the local medical community, or you would have been bled dry.”
She shuddered, the lightheaded sensation swamping her again.
He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. She was stunned by the concern, the fear, that lurked there. “Your fever broke well after midnight.” He eased her onto the bed. “Sit. I'll round up some food—”
“You were in bed with me,” she said on a whisper.
He was silent for a long time, then said, “I’ve never been so terrified in my life.” He stood up. “I’ll send your maid in to attend you, then round something up for you to eat.”
She gasped. “Serena! Does she know you… you… slept here?”
“Of course not.” Annoyance slashed his features.
“I must check on her.” She started to stand, but Ryleigh’s hand landed on her shoulder, pressing her back down. She was too weak to fight him off. Her eyes blurred and, to her utter humiliation, tears spilled down her cheeks. “She could still be ill.”
“Oh, my poor darling.” A handkerchief appeared out of nowhere and he was dabbing the dampness away with a feathery touch. “She’s much better. I sent her to bed late last night. I had to make her leave your side lest she fall on her face. She’s completely devoted to you, I’m happy to say.” He dabbed at more tears then kissed her cheek. And in his pushy arrogant way, hustled her back beneath the coverlets.
“What of Gabby—Gabriella? We need to reach London.”
“For once, my dear sister shall have to be responsible for herself. She’s woman grown, my dear.” He tucked the blankets snugly around her.
“Two days. Did you send her a letter? We must hurry.”
“Yes, I sent her a letter.”
“Oh, no. She won’t listen to you. What did you tell her?” More tears pooled. “This is an utter disaster.”
“You are right. She’s never listened to me before. I have no reason to believe she will do otherwise. But it’s out of our hands. Now, lie back and let me get you something to eat. You are much too weak.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her stomach emitted an embarrassing and completely unladylike growl.
The door to the other room flew back and Serena appeared.
Rebecca’s cheeks burned under the onslaught of another one of the duke’s grins and Serena’s widened eyes then a quick disapproving frown marred her face.
Rebecca was too spent to argue further and closed her eyes but couldn’t stop herself from asking. “What if you get ill?”
“I have every reason to believe I would survive. Splendidly so, after witnessing the two of you care for one another. Now do as I say. Rest. I'll return shortly.”
He touched her head. “Your fever has returned. You are hot as a branding iron.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll rise in a moment,” she said on a hoarse whisper.
“Oh, Rebecca.” Exasperated concern strained to her through a long tunnel. “Let someone care for you for a change, my darling.”
“Yes. All right. Just for a minute.” Rebecca sank into that tunnel.