Bending her knees, she planted the soles of her feet on the mattress for traction. First she lifted her hips, moving them an inch to the right. Then her shoulders. Then her hips again, and then her feet to catch up. Time for the shoulders, and then—

Whomp!

One of Marcus’s arms came down heavily across her.

Honoria froze again. Good heavens, what was she supposed to do now? Maybe if she waited a minute or two, he’d roll back to his previous position.

She waited. And she waited. And he moved.

Toward her.

Honoria swallowed nervously. She had no idea what time it was—sometime after dawn, but other than that, she had not a clue—and she really did not want Mrs. Wetherby coming in to find her pressed up against Marcus in bed. Or worse, her mother.

Surely no one would think badly of her, especially not after all that had transpired the day before. But she was unmarried, and so was he, and it was a bed, and he was wearing very little clothing, and—

That was it. She was getting out. If he woke up, he woke up. At least he wouldn’t wake up with a proverbial gun at his back, pointing him toward marriage.

She wrenched herself up and out of the bed, trying to ignore the rather pleasantly sleepy sounds he made as he rolled over and nestled beneath his quilt. Once she had her feet firmly on the carpet, she took a quick peek at his leg. It seemed to be healing properly, with no sign of those ominous red streaks Dr. Winters had warned about.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sending up a quick prayer for his continued recovery.

“You’re welcome,” Marcus murmured.

Honoria let out a little shriek of surprise, jumping back nearly a foot.

“Sorry,” he said, but he was laughing.

It was quite the loveliest sound Honoria had ever heard.

“I wasn’t thanking you,” she said pertly.

“I know.” He smiled.

She tried to smooth down her skirts, which were horribly wrinkled. She was wearing the same blue dress she’d donned in London, which had been—oh, dear heavens—two days earlier. She couldn’t even imagine what a fright she must look.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Much better,” he said, sitting up. She noticed he pulled the blankets along with him. Which was surely the only reason her blush was pink instead of deep red. It was funny—almost. She’d seen his bare chest a hundred times the day before, had poked and jabbed at his naked leg, and even—not that she would ever tell him about it—caught a glimpse of one of his buttocks when he’d been tossing about. But now, when they were both fully awake and he was no longer at death’s door, she could not even bring her eyes to meet his.