She’d just wanted to be a part of things. That was all she’d ever wanted. No wonder she was so eager to be married and out of her silent, empty home. She needed noise. Laughter.
She needed not to be lonely. She needed never to be lonely.
Was she even in the room? It was rather quiet. He tried again to open his eyes. No luck.
He rolled onto his side, happy to be free of those damned bindings. He’d always been a side-sleeper.
Someone touched his shoulder, then pulled up his blankets to cover him. He tried to make a little murmuring sound to show his appreciation, and he guessed he must have been successful because he heard Honoria say, “Are you awake?"
He made the same sound again. It seemed to be the only one he could make work.
“Well, maybe a little bit awake,” she said. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose."
He yawned.
“We’re still waiting for the doctor,” she said. “I’d hoped he would be here by now.” She was quiet for a few moments, then added in a bright voice, “Your leg looks quite improved. Or at least that’s what my mother says. I’ll be honest—it still looks dreadful to me. But definitely not as dreadful as it did this morning."
This morning? Did that mean it was afternoon? He wished he could get his eyes to open.
“She went to her room. My mother, I mean. She said she needed respite from the heat.” Another pause, and then: “It is quite hot in here. We opened the window, but only a very little bit. Mrs.
Wetherby was afraid you would catch a chill. I know, it’s hard to imagine you could get a chill when it’s this hot, but she assures me that it’s possible.
“I like to sleep in a cold room with a heavy blanket,” she added.
“Not that I imagine you care."
He did care. Well, not so much what she said. He just liked listening to her voice.
“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.
“Not to mention ridiculously wealthy, oh, and of course, there’s that title, too. If you were of a mind to get married, I’m quite certain you could choose anyone you wish."
Did she think he was ugly?
She poked his shoulder with her finger. “You can’t imagine how many people would love to be in your shoes."
Not right now, they wouldn’t.
“But you’re shy,” she said, almost wonderingly. He could feel that she’d moved closer; her breath was landing lightly on his cheek.
“I think I like that you’re shy."
Really? Because he’d always hated it. All those years in school, watching Daniel talk to everyone and anyone without even a moment’s hesitation. Always needing a little bit longer to figure out just how he might fit in. It was why he’d loved spending so much time with the Smythe-Smiths. Their home had always been so chaotic and crazed; he’d slipped almost unnoticed into their life of un-routine and become one of the family.
It was the only family he’d ever known.
She touched his face again, running a finger down the bridge of his nose. “You would be too perfect if you weren’t shy,” she said.
“Too much of a storybook hero. I’m sure you never read novels, but I’ve always thought my friends saw you as a character in one of Mrs. Gorely’s gothics."
He knew there was a reason he’d never liked her friends.
“I was never quite sure if you were the hero or the villain, though."
He decided not to find insult in that statement. He could tell she was smiling slyly as she said it.
“You need to get better,” she whispered. “I don’t know where I’ll be if you don’t.” And then, so softly that he barely heard her: “I think you might be my touchstone."
He tried to move his lips, tried to say something, because that wasn’t the sort of thing one let go without a reply. But his face still felt thick and heavy, and all he could manage were a few gasping noises.
“Marcus? Do you want some water?"
He did, actually.
“Are you even awake?” Sort of.
“Here,” she said. “Try this."
He felt something cold touch his lips. A spoon, dribbling lukewarm water into his mouth. It was hard to swallow, though, and she only let him have a few drops.
“I don’t think you’re awake,” she said. He heard her settle back down in her chair. She sighed. She sounded tired. He hated that.
But he was glad she was here. He had a feeling she might be his touchstone, too.
Chapter Twelve
“Doctor!” Honoria jumped to her feet about twenty minutes later as a surprisingly young man entered the room. She didn’t think she’d ever met a doctor who didn’t have gray hair. “It’s his leg,” she said. “I don’t think you saw it when—"
“I didn’t see him before,” the doctor said brusquely. “My father did."
“Oh.” Honoria took a respectful step back as the doctor bent over Marcus’s leg. Her mother, who had come in just behind him, walked over to Honoria’s side.
And then took her hand. Honoria squeezed it as if it were a lifeline, grateful for the connection.
The young man looked at Marcus’s leg for not nearly as long as Honoria would have thought necessary, then bent and put his ear to his chest. “How much laudanum did you give him?"