“And Mama is always hot lately. It drives me batty. She’s hot, then she’s cold, then she’s hot again, and I swear there is no rhyme or reason to it. But she does seem to be hot more often than cold. Should you ever wish to buy her a gift, I recommend a fan. She is always in need of one.”

She touched his shoulder again, then his brow, lightly brushing his hair from his forehead. It felt nice. Soft, and gentle, and caring in a way that was utterly unfamiliar to him. It was a bit like when she’d come over and forced him to drink tea.

He liked being fussed over. Imagine that.

He let out a little sigh. It sounded like a happy one to his ears. He hoped she thought so, too.

“You’ve been sleeping for quite some time,” Honoria said. “But I think your fever is down. Not all the way, but you seem peaceful. Although did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Really?

“Really,” she said. “Earlier today I could have sworn you said something about a monkfish. And then just a little while ago I think you said something about onions.”

Onions? Not carrots?

“What are you thinking about, I wonder? Food? Monkfish with onions? It wouldn’t be what I would want while sick, but to each his own.” She stroked his hair again, and then, to his complete surprise and delight, she lightly kissed his cheek. “You’re not so terrible, you know,” she said with a smile.

He couldn’t see the smile, but he knew it was there.

“You like to pretend that you are terribly standoffish and brooding, but you’re not. Although you do scowl quite a bit.”

Did he? He didn’t mean to. Not at her.

“You almost had me fooled, you know. I was really starting to not like you in London. But it was just that I’d forgotten you. Who you used to be, I mean. Who you probably still are.”

He had no idea what she was talking about.

“You don’t like to let people see who you really are.”

She was quiet again, and he thought he heard her moving, maybe adjusting her position in her chair. And when she spoke, he heard her smiling again. “I think you’re shy.”

Well, for God’s sake, he could have told her that. He hated making conversation with people he did not know. He always had.

“It’s strange to think that of you,” she continued. “One never thinks of a man as being shy.”

He couldn’t imagine why not.

“You’re tall,” she said in a thoughtful voice, “and athletic, and intelligent, and all those things men are supposed to be.”

He did notice she didn’t call him handsome.