Page 74 of A Daring Pursuit

She nodded and snuggled deeper within the covers.

“All right, love. I’ll hurry.”

Her response was simple—a closing of her eyes and slipping down, finally, thankfully, into a restful slumber.

He rose from the bed and went out to knock on Pasha’s door.

The door flew back. Her eyes widened. “Sir?”

“I sent Isabelle to bed. Miss Wimbley requires tea. Could you see to that and have Mrs. Knagg heat water for her? That will help her rest more comfortably.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, sir. I’ll be right there.”

With a sharp incline of his head, Noah hurried back to Geneva.

She kicked at the coverlets. “It’s too hot.”

“It’s all right, love. Your fever has broken. Pasha has gone for tea.” He moved to the bed and helped her to sitting. “Come on, love. Open your eyes.”

Geneva groaned, and he nearly sobbed with joy at the ill-fated sound.

*

Geneva’s arms feltas if they were ladened with lead. Just opening her eyes hurt. Frustration brought a rush of tears surging. “I can’t move, you scoundrel.”

“Calm yourself, Geneva. I’ll help.”

“Calm myself,” she repeated in breathless fury. “Calmmyself.” The last of that phrase was muffled against a broad shoulder as the covers were stripped away. She gasped just as Noah propped her against the pillows as if she weighed no more than a toy doll. “Sir.” That squeak surely did not belong to her.

Just as quickly, her night rail was adjusted and the counterpane tucked once more about her waist.

He stood and cast an inscrutable intensity over her that had her checking to make certain the she was really covered. “How do you feel?”

Overheated.“Better. Thirsty,” she amended.

In an instant, a glass was in her hand. There was nothing dignified in her haste to slake her thirst. Neither were the snuffles that had an embarrassing rheum running from her nose. “It isn’t proper for you to be here.” Now she sounded like a petulant child except for the scratchy tone that resembled a frog she’d once encountered at St. James’s Park lake.

A glint of humor lit Noah’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but she stayed him with an open palm.

“Don’t,” she croaked, fearing her blurred vision would spill down her cheeks. “I-I need a cloth to wash my-my face.” The words ended with a horrid, unfeminine cough.

Without a word, he dipped a cloth into the basin that had somehow appeared on the bedside table rather than its usual place on the sideboard and handed it over. “I believe you’ve contracted an ague,” he said gruffly.

Evidently so.Nodding, she accepted the strip of linen, and with open palms, she ran the cool dampness over her face, clearing her matted eyes. All under that vigilant perusal. She buried her face within it and held her breath for a long, long moment before breathing out. Then, lifting her face, she nearly cried for the sweetness she saw in his eyes.

She squeezed the cloth and water dribbled over her fingers, so he promptly relieved her of the cloth. He set it on the bedside table then dropped into a chair and took her hand. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Geneva.”

“Pretend what? I’m no good at pretending.”

He smiled then, and her eyes, in fact, watered. She’d completely lost control of her faculties. Every one of them. At the top of that horrifying list? Her emotions.

“It’s one of your most admirable qualities,” he said.

“I didn’t give you leave to call me—”

“Ah, but don’t you remember? You did indeed, Geneva Wimbley. And I refuse to allow you to retract the invitation.”

A vague memory did register. “How long ago was that?”

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