Which did seem to contradict everything he’d learned in church.

He yawned, stretching his neck to the left and the right before settling his head back into his pillow. He knew this pillow. It was soft, and goosedown, and just the right thickness. He was in his own bed, in his own bedchamber. And it was definitely night. It was dark. He could tell that even though he couldn’t quite muster the energy to open his eyelids.

He could hear Mrs. Wetherby shuffling about the room. He supposed she’d been at his bedside throughout his illness. This didn’t surprise him, but still, he was grateful for her care. She had brought him broth when he had first begun to feel sick, and he vaguely recalled her consulting with a doctor. The couple of times he’d broken through his feverish haze, she’d been in the room, watching over him.

She touched his shoulder, her fingers soft and light. It wasn’t enough to rouse him from his stupor, though. He couldn’t move. He was so tired. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. His whole body ached, and his leg really hurt. He just wanted to go back to sleep. But it was so hot. Why would anyone keep a room so hot?

As if eavesdropping on his thoughts, Mrs. Wetherby tugged at his quilt, and Marcus happily rolled to his side, throwing his good leg out from under the covers. Air! Dear God, it felt good. Maybe he could shove off his covers entirely. Would she be completely scandalized if he just lay there almost naked? Probably, but if it was for the sake of medicine . . .

But then she started shoving the blankets back on top of him, which was almost enough to make him want to cry. Summoning every last reserve of energy, he opened his eyes, and—

It wasn’t Mrs. Wetherby.

“Honoria?” he croaked. “What are you doing here?”

She jumped back about a foot, letting out an odd chirping sound that hurt his ears. He closed his eyes again. He didn’t have the energy to talk to her, although her presence was quite curious.

“Marcus?” she said, her voice strangely urgent. “Can you say something? Are you awake?”

He gave a very small nod.

“Marcus?” She was closer now, and he could feel her breath on his neck. It was awful. Too hot, and too close.

“Why are you here?” he asked again, his words slurring on his tongue like hot syrup. “You should be . . .” Where should she be? London, he thought. Wasn’t that right?

“Oh, thank heavens.” She touched his forehead with her hand. Her skin felt hot, but then again, everything felt hot.