Just Like Heaven

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.

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.

“Hon— Honor—” He couldn’t quite manage the rest of her name. He tried; he moved his lips, and he took a few more breaths.

But it was all too much effort, especially since she wouldn’t seem to answer his question. Why was she here?

“You’ve been very ill,” she said.

He nodded. Or he might have done. He thought about nodding, at least.

“Mrs. Wetherby wrote to me in London.'

Ah, so that was it. Still, very odd.

She took his hand in hers, patting it in a nervous, fluttery gesture.

“I came up just as soon as I could. My mother is here, as well.'

Lady Winstead? He tried to smile. He liked Lady Winstead.

“I think you still have a fever,” Honoria said, sounding unsure of herself. “Your forehead is quite warm. Although I must say, it is bursting hot in this room. I don’t know that I can tell how much of the heat is you, and how much is simply the air.'

“Please,” he groaned, lurching one arm forward to bat against hers. He opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light. “The window.'

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could. Mrs. Wetherby said the doctor said—” “Please.” He was begging—hell, he almost sounded as if he might cry. But he didn’t care. He just wanted her to open the damned window.

“Marcus, I can’t . . .” But she looked torn.

“I can’t breathe,” he told her. And honestly, he did not think he was exaggerating.

“Oh, all right,” she said, bustling over to the window. “But don’t tell anyone.'

“Promise,” he mumbled. He couldn’t rouse himself to turn his head to watch, but he could hear her every movement in the thick silence of the night.

“Mrs. Wetherby was quite firm,” she said, pulling back the curtain. “The room was to remain hot.'

Marcus grunted and tried to lift a hand in a dismissive wave.

“I don’t know anything about caring for invalids”—ah, now there was the sound of the window being shoved open—“but I can’t imagine it’s healthy to bake in such heat when one has a fever.'

Marcus felt the first stirrings of cooler air touch his skin, and he almost cried with happiness.

“I’ve never had a fever,” Honoria said, coming back to his side.

“Or at least not that I can remember. Isn’t that odd?'

He could hear the smile in her voice. He even knew exactly what sort of smile it was—a little bit sheepish, with just a touch of wonderment. She often smiled like that. And every time, the right side of her mouth tipped ever-so-slightly higher than the left.

And now he could hear it. It was lovely. And strange. How odd that he knew her so well. He knew her, of course, better than almost anyone. But that wasn’t the same as knowing someone’s smiles.

Or was it?

She pulled a chair closer to his bed and sat. “It never even occurred to me until I came here to care for you. That I’d never had a fever, I mean. My mother says they’re dreadful.'

She came for him? He didn’t know why he found this so remarkable. There was no one else at Fensmore she would have come for, and she was here, in his sickroom, but still, somehow it seemed . . . Well, not odd. Not surprising, either. Just . . .

Unexpected.

He tried to nudge his tired mind. Could something be not surprising and unexpected? Because that’s what it was. He would never have expected Honoria to drop everything and come to Fensmore to care for him. And yet now that she was here, it wasn’t surprising at all.

It felt almost normal.

“Thank you for opening the window,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome.” She tried to smile, but she could not hide the worry on her face. “I’m sure it didn’t take much to convince me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hot in my life.” “Nor I,” he tried to joke.

She smiled then, and it was a real one. “Oh, Marcus,” she said, reaching forward