Honoria pulled her hand free to stifle an enormous yawn. “Oh, excuse me,” she said when she was done. “I’m afraid I haven’t slept very much.”

His fault, he realized. Yet another reason he owed her his gratitude. “That chair can’t possibly be comfortable,” he told her. “You should take the other side of the bed.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“It couldn’t possibly be any more improper than anything else that’s happened today.”

“No,” she said, looking as if she might laugh if she weren’t so tired, “I mean really, I couldn’t. The mattress is still wet from when we cleaned your leg.”

“Oh.” And then he did laugh. Because it was funny. And because it felt so good to smile.

She squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable in the chair. “Maybe I could lie on top of the blanket,” she said, craning her neck to look over him to the empty spot.

“Whatever you wish.”

She let out an exhausted sigh. “My feet might get wet. But I don’t think I care.”

A moment later she was up on the bed, lying on the blanket. He was, too, actually, although most of him was under a second quilt; he supposed they’d wanted to leave his leg open to the air.

She yawned again.

“Honoria,” he whispered.

“Mmmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

A moment went by, and then he said, because he had to, “I’m glad you were here.”

“Me, too,” she said sleepily. “Me, too.”

Her breathing slowly evened out, and then so did his. And they slept.

Honoria woke the next morning delightfully snuggly and warm. Her eyes still closed, she pointed her toes, then flexed her feet, rolling her ankles one way and then the other. It was her morning ritual, stretching in bed. Her hands were always next. Out they went like little starfishes and then back into claws. Then her neck, back and forth and around in a circle.

She yawned, balling her hands into fists as she stretched her arms forward and—

Crashed into someone.

She froze. Opened her eyes. It all came back to her.

Dear heavens, she was in bed with Marcus. No. That was not the right way to phrase it. She was in Marcus’s bed.

But she wasn’t with him.

Improper, yes, but surely there was a special dispensation given to young ladies who find themselves in bed with a gentleman who is clearly too ill to compromise them.

Slowly, she tried to inch away. No need to wake him. He probably had no idea she was even there. And by there she meant right next to him, side to side, feet touching his. Certainly not on the far end of the bed, where she’d started the night before.