He threw an arm out from under the covers, rolling about until he settled into position on his side, his free arm lying atop the quilt. She hadn’t realized he was so muscular. Of course she knew he was strong. It was obvious. He was— She stopped for a moment, thinking. Actually, it wasn’t obvious. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him lift anything. But he seemed strong. He just had that look about him. Capable. Not all men had it. In fact, most didn’t, at least most of Honoria’s acquaintance.

Still, she hadn’t realized that the muscles of a man’s arm would be so well defined.

Interesting.

She leaned forward a little more, tilting her head to the side, then moving the candle a bit forward. What was that muscle on the shoulder called? His was really quite nice.

She gasped, horrified by the inappropriate direction of her thoughts, and took a step back. She wasn’t here to ogle the poor man, she was here to take care of him. And furthermore, if she was going to ogle someone, it absolutely shouldn’t be Marcus Holroyd.

There was a chair just a few feet away, so she took it and pulled it forward, close enough to his bed that she could jump up and be with him in an instant, but not so close that he could strike her in his flailings.

He looked thinner. She wasn’t sure how she could tell this amidst all the quilts and coverlets, but he had definitely lost weight. His face was gaunt, and even in the dim light of her candle, she could see unfamiliar shadows beneath his eyes.

She sat very still for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, actually. It seemed as if she should be doing something. She supposed watching him was something, but it didn’t feel like much, especially since she was trying so hard not to watch certain parts of him. He seemed to have calmed down; every now and then he would shift restlessly beneath his covers, but for the most part, he slept.

But, Lord, it was hot. Honoria was still in her day dress, a pretty little frock that buttoned up the back. It was one of those ridiculous pieces of feminine attire that she could not possibly get into (or out of) on her own.

She smiled. Rather like Marcus’s boots. It was nice to know that men could be as impractically devoted to fashion as women.

Still, the frock was the absolute wrong thing to be wearing in a sickroom. She managed to undo a few of the top buttons, practically gasping for breath when she got them loose.

“This cannot be healthy,” she said aloud, holding onto her collar with two fingers and moving it back and forth in an attempt to fan her sweaty neck.