even as that single, repetitive stroke of his hand left a trail of warmth across her flesh. If she rolled over, began kissing him or simply let him hold her, what other means would he find to torment her?
His breathing hitched, sighed, and hitched again, and then his hand went still. Anna felt him moving around and then subsiding down under the covers. That same hand curled around her middle, and her back was enveloped in the heat of his chest. He kissed her cheek then fitted himself behind her, leaving her bewildered but oddly pleased, as well.
She could not permit him the liberties he so clearly wanted, but this cuddling and drowsing together, it was more of a gift than he could ever know. While the storm pelted down from the heavens, Anna slept a dreamless, contented sleep in the arms of the man she could not marry.
Had Westhaven kept his dressing gown on, Anna might have been much slower to diagnose his ailment. As it was, they slept late, the day making a desultory arrival amid a steady rain that left the sky gray and the house gloomy. Anna’s first sensation was of heat, too much heat. Of course it was summer, but with the change in weather, the house itself was downright chilly.
Westhaven, she realized, was still spooned around her, and the heat was radiating from his body. She shifted away, and he rolled to his back.
He reached for the water glass. “I feel like I came off Pericles at the first jump, and the whole flight rode over me. And it is deucedly hot in this bed.” He rose, wrestling the blankets aside, and sat for a moment on the edge of the mattress as if finding his equilibrium.
“No,” he went on. “I feel worse than that, no reflection on present company, of course.” Without thinking, Anna rolled over to respond and saw him rise, naked as the day he was born, and make for the chamber pot.
“Good morning to you, too,” she muttered, flouncing back to her side, unwilling to be as casual as he about his nudity. He came back to the bed, took a sip of his water, and frowned.
“I am inclined to purchase this property,” he reflected, “but this bed will have to go. I have never risen feeling less rested.”
Anna rolled to her other side, a retort on her lips regarding earls who did not keep their hands to themselves, but she stopped and fell silent. Westhaven was sitting up, leaning against the pillows, his water glass cradled in his lap.
“Oh, my Lord,” Anna whispered, pushing her braid over her shoulder.
“No my lording,” Westhaven groused. “I am quite simply not in the mood for it.”
“No,” Anna said, scrambling to her knees. “My Lord, as in Lord above.” She reached out and ran a hand over his torso, causing him to look down at his own body.
“You were peeking last night,” he said. “It isn’t as if you haven’t seen me unclothed, Anna Seaton.”
“It isn’t that,” Anna said, drawing her hand back then brushing it over his stomach. “Oh, Lord.”
“Oh, Lord, what?”
“You.” She sat back, her head moving from side to side in disbelief. “You’re coming down with the chicken pox.” A stunned beat of silence followed, then the earl’s snort of displeasure.
“I most certainly am not,” he informed her. “Only children get the chicken pox, and I am not a child.”
“You never had them as a child,” Anna said, meeting his eyes, “or you wouldn’t have them now.”
The earl glared at his torso, which was sprinkled with small red dots. Not that many, but enough that they both knew they weren’t there the night before. He inspected his arms, which sported a few more.
“This is Tolliver’s fault,” he declared. “I’ll see him transported for this, and Sue-Sue with him.”
“We need to get you home,” Anna said, slogging her way to the edge of the bed. “In children, chicken pox are uncomfortable but usually not serious. In an adult, they can be much more difficult.”
“You are going to make a sick man travel for hours in this damned rain?” The earl speared her with a look then glared at his stomach again. “Bloody hell.”
“We have few medicinals here, and you will feel worse before you get better, possibly much worse. Best we get you home now.”
“And if the damned gig should slide down a muddy embankment, Anna?” he retorted. “It wouldn’t matter if the chicken pox got me, or a broken neck.”
She turned her back on him for that and went to the window, assessing the weather. He had a point, though he’d made it as meanly as possible. The rain was pelting down in torrents, as it had been for much of the night.
“I’m sorry,” the earl said, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. “Being ill unnerves me.”
“Our situation is unnerving. Is there a village nearby large enough to sport a physician or apothecary?”
The earl grabbed the dressing gown and shrugged into it, even those movements looking painful. “Nearby is a relative term. About a mile the other side of Welbourne there is something large enough to boast a church, but not in the direction of London.”
“Welbourne is where your niece lives.”
“Anna, no.” He rose off the mattress stiffly and paused, grimacing. “I am not imposing on Amery and his wife. You will recall the lady and I were briefly and miserably betrothed. They are the last people I want to see me unwell.”
“I would rather they see you unwell, Westhaven, then see you laid out for burial.”
“Are you implying I am too arrogant to accept assistance?”
“Stubborn.” Anna crossed her arms. “And afraid to admit you are truly ill.”
“Perhaps it is you who are anxious, Anna. Surely the chicken pox aren’t so serious as all that?” He sat back down on the bed but held her eyes.
Her chin came up a half inch. “Who just said he’s never risen feeling so uncomfortable?”
“Unrefreshed,” the earl corrected her, considering his bodily state. He felt like pure, utter hell. His worst hangover at university did not compare with this, the flu did not, the broken arm he’d suffered at thirteen did not. He felt as if every muscle in his body had been pulled, every bone broken, every organ traumatized, and he had to piss again with a sort of hot, whiney insistence that suggested illness even to him.
“Welbourne it is,” he said on a sigh. “Just to borrow a proper coach and a sturdy team. I won’t have Amery gloating over this, nor his viscountess.”
Getting even the three miles to Welbourne was an ordeal for them both and for the horse. In the hour it had taken them to dress, load, and hitch the gig, Westhaven’s condition worsened. He sat beside Anna, half leaning on her, using what little strength he still claimed just to remain upright on the seat.
They didn’t speak, the earl preoccupied with remaining conscious, Anna doing her best to help the horse pick his way along at a shuffling walk. When she saw the gateposts for Welbourne, Anna nearly cried, so great was her relief. Even through the layers of damp clothing between them, she could feel the earl’s fever rising and sense the effort the journey was costing him.
The stables were closed up tight, but Anna didn’t even turn into the yard. She steered Pericles up to the manor house and pulled him to a halt.
“Westhaven.” She jostled him stoutly. “We’re here. Sit up until I can get down and help you to alight.”
He complied silently and nearly fell on Anna as she tried to assist him from the gig. Getting up the front steps saw them almost overbalancing twice, and Anna was panting with exertion by the time they gained the front porch.
The front door opened before Anna could knock. “For the love of God, get him in here.”
Anna’s burden was relieved as Westhaven’s free arm was looped across a pair of broad shoulders belonging to a blond man dressed only to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. The man was fortunately as tall as Westhaven and far more equal to the task than Anna.
“You,” the fellow barked at a footman. “Have Pericles put up and see he’s offered a warm mash. You.” He fixed fierce blue eyes on Anna. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Taken aback, Anna could only follow as Westhaven was half-carried to a parlor and there deposited on a settee.
“He is coming down with chicken pox,” Anna said, finding her voice at last. “He thought to come here only to borrow a closed vehicle that he might return to Town.”
“Douglas Allen.” The man offered her a bow. “Viscount Amery, at your service.” He jerked the bellpull and surveyed the man dripping on his couch. “Westhaven?”
