“Temporarily.” Ethan held still while she caressed him, and he felt—God help him—lust roaring forth at her touch. He sat up and still didn’t move beyond her grasp.
“Alexandra?”
She met his gaze, still holding his cock in a gentle grip.
The courage came more easily this time. “I leave you now, but part of me stays here with you, too. I would not go were it simply a matter of our pleasure—I hope you believe that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” In the shadows of a setting moon, Ethan saw a grin spread across her face. “I would not allow it.” She tugged his cock once for good measure then dropped her hand. “How will I face you at breakfast?”
He folded down over her and covered her chest with his own. “With a smile, at least. You must not feel ashamed. This has been a night of more beauty than…” He kissed her rather than attempt poetry.
“I’m not ashamed. I am overwhelmed and moved and pleased and grateful.”
“Grateful?” Ethan levered up and considered the notion. “I should tell you that the gratitude is all mine, but who am I to tell you what to feel? I am grateful too, and nobody is going to talk me out of it. Now, sleep and dream of me.”
He kissed her forehead, not daring to do more, drew the sheets up around her, and silently dressed in the dark. By the time he padded barefoot to her door, she was asleep, breathing easily, and he hoped, dreaming of him.
He moved silently down the hallway, turning the corner to move through the darkened house toward his own rooms, one floor down. He paused, though, and listened to a door opening in the nursery wing just behind him. The creak of the door was followed by a soft tap.
“Miss Alice?”
Jeremiah’s voice, tentative and worried.
“Miss Alice?” Another tap, more definite, but Ethan was not about to let a child’s nightmare or wet sheets disturb Alice’s slumbers.
“Jeremiah?” Ethan hoped his impression of a papa coming to check on his children was credible. “Is something amiss?”
“Papa!” A wealth of relief flooded the boy’s face. He was down the hall and wrapped around Ethan’s legs in an instant. “Joshua doesn’t feel well. He’s hot, and he says he hurts all over.”
“Let’s see to your brother,” Ethan said, picking Jeremiah up and returning him to his room. “It’s probably just a passing cold or sore throat. He’s been sick before, and I daresay he’ll be sick again.” He kept his tone brisk to hide his anxiety, but any minor illness or injury could claim a child’s life. Colds turned into lung fever; cuts became infected; a bump on the head became a coma.
“Shall we fetch Miss Alice?” Jeremiah asked, glancing longingly at his governess’s door.
Ethan hugged his son for reassurance. “Let her sleep for now. If Joshua is ill, we’ll need to take turns sitting with him, and Miss Alice will need her rest. Joshua?”
“Papa?” The child’s voice was groggy.
Ethan set Jeremiah down and sat on the narrow edge of Joshua’s bed.
“Your brother says you are unwell.” Ethan laid the back of his hand on Joshua’s forehead. “I am inclined to agree. You have a fever, sir.”
“I’m hot,” Joshua muttered, shifting restlessly in his bed. “And I hurt, and my throat hurts, and I have to pee.”
“The last is easily taken care of.” Ethan flipped back the covers and hoisted Joshua from the bed.
“C’mon, Joshua.” Jeremiah took his brother’s hand, and while Ethan tried to calm the rising flood of panic in his gut, both brothers made use of the chamber pot.
Joshua blinked at his father and knuckled sleepily at one eye. “Is it time to get up yet?”
“Not quite.” Ethan looked his son over. No red spots were emerging on the child’s body, so the illness wasn’t chicken pox. What else could it be? Barbara’s typhoid had started just this way. “Joshua? Is your stomach at all sore?”
“A little.” Joshua yawned as he stood before his father. “Here.” He pushed on himself. “Not a lot, but achy.”
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. “Back into bed with you, and back to sleep if you can manage it. We’ll have you feeling better, though it may take some time and cooperation on your part. Jeremiah, I’ll set Davey outside the door, and you’ll call for him if there’s need before I’m back.”
“Yes, Papa.” Jeremiah sounded worried but not as badly spooked as he’d been when Ethan had found him.
“I’ll be back soon to make sure you’re sleeping.” He mustered a mock glower for Jeremiah’s benefit. Joshua’s eyes were already closed.
God above, Ethan was going to be sick, so miserably did anxiety choke him. He was standing beside Alice’s bed without knowing how he got there, hating that he had to wake her but unable to manage otherwise.
“Sweetheart?” He crouched beside the bed, bringing his face level with hers. “Alice? Love? Wake up.”
Her eyes drifted open, and she smiled at first then caught the worry in his eyes.
“The boys?” she guessed, flinging back the covers so fast Ethan had to rise and step away.
“Joshua is ill,” Ethan said, hearing the tremor in his voice. “A fever, aches, and his stomach is sore.”
“The bellyache might just be hunger,” Alice said, grabbing her nightgown then tightly belting her wrapper. “He’s been sleeping more lately, and I should have guessed he was coming down with something. It isn’t the season for flu. Did you look at his stomach to check for chicken pox?”
“I looked at his arms,” Ethan said, feeling a measure of relief. Alice wasn’t ringing for a maid; she was preparing to deal with this herself. “No spots on his arms.”
“They usually emerge on the belly first, but often not until the second day of illness.” Alice tied her hair back with a ribbon then turned to regard Ethan steadily. “Children get sick, Ethan. If I had a week off for every time Pris came down with something, I’d be on holiday until May Day. You can’t overreact.”
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. “Joshua has all the initial symptoms of typhoid.”
“If it is typhoid,” Alice said, wrapping her arms around his waist, “we have a long, hard battle ahead, but he’s a very healthy young fellow, Ethan, and we’ll give him the best of care.”
“Barbara had the best of care.” His arms went around Alice automatically, and he held her just as desperately as he had at any point in the previous night. “Barbara died. It took weeks, and she suffered terribly, and Joshua is just a small child.”
He buried his face against Alice’s neck, lest any more such sentiment unman him.
“Ethan,” she said, gently stroking his nape, “your son is small but vigorous, and he loves life. He loves you, his brother, and his pony. I daresay he even loves me a bit. He has much to live for, and we’re going to help him.”
He stepped back, though it was an effort.
“So sensible.” And he didn’t resent her for it; he treasured her all the more.
“Governesses pride themselves on being sensible. Now, off to the kitchen with you, Mr. Grey. Tell Mrs. Buxton what’s afoot, and let her know we’ll need willow-bark tea and feverfew for the fever and aches, a tisane of slippery elm for Joshua’s throat, some cold water to bring the fever down. Then take yourself to the library to find us some decent reading books. And, Ethan?”
He paused with his hand on the doorknob, relieved to have something constructive to do.
“He will be fine,” Alice said. “You must believe that, and you must reassure his brother of that.”
Just as Alice was reassuring him.
