She reached forward and lightly touched her fingers to his shoulder. He didn’t feel quite as warm as she’d expected, but that might have been due to the fact that she, too, was roasting. He was sweaty, though, and this close up she could see that his sheets were soaked.

Should she try to remove them? He’d still have all the other blankets. She reached out and gave the sheet a tug, holding the top quilt with her other hand to keep it in place. It didn’t work, though; the whole set came sliding toward her, revealing one long, slightly bent leg.

Honoria’s lips parted. He was rather muscular there, too.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. She was not looking at Marcus. She was not. Not at him. Definitely not at him. And furthermore, she had to get a blanket back into place before he rolled over and revealed himself entirely, because she had no idea if he was wearing any undergarments. He had nothing on his arms, and nothing on his legs, so it stood to reason . . .

She looked down at his midsection. She couldn’t not. He was still covered, of course, but if she accidentally bumped into the bed . . .

She grabbed a piece of the quilt and shoved, trying to get him covered back up. Someone else was going to have to change his sheets. Good Lord, she was hot. How on earth could it have grown warmer in here? Maybe she could go outside for a moment. Or go open the window a crack and stand near it.

She fanned the air near her face with her hand. She should sit back down. There was a perfectly good chair, and she could sit there with her hands demurely in her lap until morning. She’d just take one more peek at him, just to be sure he was all right.

She picked up the candle and held it up over his face.

His eyes were open.

She took a careful step back. He’d opened his eyes before. This didn’t mean he was awake.

“Honoria? What are you doing here?”

That, however, did.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Marcus felt like hell.

No, he felt like he’d been to hell. And come back. And perhaps gone again, just because it hadn’t been hot enough the first time.

He had no idea how long he’d been sick. A day, maybe? Two? The fever had started . . . Tuesday? Yes, Tuesday, although that didn’t really signify, as he had no idea what day it was now.

Or night. He thought it might be night. It seemed dark, and—God damn, it was hot. Truly, it was difficult to think of anything other than the overwhelming heat.

Maybe he’d been to hell and then brought the whole damned place back with him. Or maybe he still was in hell, although if so, the beds were certainly comfortable.