Eliza sat, a surreal sense of dread overtaking her, viewing the doctor’s examination from a chair in the corner of the room. It was ridiculous, but part of her almost believed she had brought this on or earned it somehow. She had allowed herself to hope after those first days had passed. His wound had been healing well, and he’d been handling the effects of the laudanum as best as could be expected.

Now, however, Thomas writhed restlessly among the bedclothes, muttering incoherencies, lost in the grip of the fever that was consuming him. While it was true that infections could, and often were, overcome during the course of the healing process, she found herself fearing the worst: that she had raced to London to stand helplessly by, while the man she loved died in his own darkened bedchamber.

Since a few days had passed, she had finally thought to write to Clara and William, advising them of the situation and providing an explanation for her sudden lack of communication. Likewise, she had sent a missive to Lady Evanston, Thomas’s mother, although she was unsure whether to expect any reply from that woman at all.

Since she had not truly slept in days, her only reprieve was found in stolen moments of drowsing in her cushioned armchair, or slumped over the edge of the bed near Thomas. Burton had cared for her as best he was able, pulling her out of the room periodically for a sip of tea or a bite of toast. She submitted to the butler’s pleas because she knew she must. While she was not hungry in the slightest, it would do no good for her to fall ill at Evanston’s bedside.

Eliza was, oddly, too exhausted to cry, although her spirit grieved unflaggingly at the sight of his agony. It was a feeling she had not experienced since the massive loss of life her family had been dealt just two years before. Back then, it had been too late for most of them. There had been no prayers for help or mercy for the dead; those entreaties had already been denied. But she had kept vigil at William’s bedside until he had awoken from his injuries, much as she was doing now for Thomas. Eliza had nearly sworn off her God in those dark times. But now, here in this room, she found her prayers again.

Please . . . just give me a chance to love this man.

Her heart sank at the thought that she had already shunned her chances many times over.

The doctor finished his inspection, then tugged the sheets back up to Evanston’s chest. Proceeding to Eliza’s location in the corner to address her, the old man sighed wearily.

“I’d like to check back on him in a day’s time. If he worsens considerably, I think leeches, or even bloodletting, are viable options for treatment.” At Eliza’s despondent expression, he added in a low voice, “The viscount is a strong man. There is every reason to believe that he will overcome this infection. That said, I can make no guarantee.”

She nodded numbly. “I understand.”

Eliza would never allow him to bleed Thomas. It was how her mother had died, with an overly copious bloodletting following an afterbirth infection. The physician had insisted it was the infection that ended up taking her, though her family knew better. That practice would never be repeated. Not while she had anything to do with it.

Dr. Brown withdrew four jars and one glass bottle from his leather satchel, then turned to hand them to Burton, who stood nearby.

“Here is a renewed supply of laudanum, herbs for the poultice and fever-mixture. You are to administer two tablespoonfuls of the mixture, three times a day as the fever persists. If you have not been applying laudanum to the poultice as well, I suggest you start. This will help alleviate some of his pain.”

Her eyes flicked over to catch Burton’s gaze. Privately, she believed they both worried about the overuse of such a potent drug.

“He has been out of his wits on laudanum thus far. Is there not an increased risk in using both the oral and the topical administration?” she asked, unable to help herself.

The doctor appeared mildly offended. “Certainly, there can be increased risk,” he answered gruffly. “There is also an increased risk once a patient is infected. We treat them as we must.”

“I understand,” she said, hoping her annoyance was sufficiently disguised. She rose from her seat. “We will send word if anything changes. Thank you for your assistance.”

Dr. Brown closed his satchel with a snap and bowed. “My lady.”

Once the door had closed on the physician, she released the sigh she had been holding. She crossed over to Evanston’s bed to sit beside him, sliding her fingers across his hand, now clenched in his discomfort.

“My lady,” murmured the butler. “You should get some rest yourself. I’d venture to say you have not slept in days. I will watch over his lordship until your return.”

Eliza shook her head, gripping Thomas’s hand tighter. “No, Burton, I’m not leaving him. But if you could help with his medicine before you leave, I would appreciate it.”

Between the two of them, they managed to coerce the semiconscious viscount into taking his medicines, even forcing a bit of water down his throat for good measure. A fresh poultice was applied to his wound, then secured with Burton holding Evanston upright while Eliza wrapped the cloth bandage around his ribs. He did not struggle against them, as he had done previously, but hung limp against his butler, pale and waxen with flags of red upon his cheeks.

The hours passed, and evening came. Eliza snapped awake with a jerk, realizing her exhaustion had overtaken her at some point. She lifted her head off the bed to survey Evanston’s face, noting that his breathing had become rapid and shallow. He squirmed and groaned in misery on the mattress. Gingerly, afraid of what she would find, Eliza laid her palm against his forehead. The skin there scorched her . . . he was so much hotter than he had been before. He was burning up.

“No—”

She lunged for the bellpull, and Burton appeared within moments. Likely noting her expression of panic, he stood silently with large eyes.

“We need cool water in a bowl. A-and a sponge.”

The butler nodded tersely and left the room while she returned to Thomas. Until this point, she had been almost afraid to speak overmuch in his presence. She’d worried that, rather than finding her voice soothing, it would only serve to upset him further given the awful nature of their last meeting. His angry reaction to her on the first day had only reinforced this notion. Now though, she worried that he would succumb to his injuries, never having heard her near him. Never knowing how much she truly cared.

“Thomas,” she said forcefully, running her hand along the curve of his cheek, roughened with dark stubble. “This is Eliza. Can you hear me?”

Her words prompted a reaction although his eyes remained tightly shut, his breath hitching for a moment before he squinted, as if in pain. Remorse flooded through her at the distressed response, but she persevered anyway.

“You are in London, and you are ill. You were hurt.”

His face twisted into a grimace, his dark brow pulling down. “. . . Sends her regards . . .” he muttered through chapped lips.

Eliza wasn’t certain what to make of his words. The butler appeared with the requested items, setting them down on the table next to the bed. With a word of thanks, she retrieved the sponge and squeezed it partially out over the ceramic bowl. The rest she squeezed over Evanston’s dark hair, eliciting a sigh and a shiver from him.

“I am here, my love,” she said, her throat constricting in despair. She hitched her hip upward to seat herself next to him on the mattress. “I will stay as long as you need.” Eliza moved the sponge in a cool swipe against his forehead, then leaned over to rest her head against his. “Forever, if you’ll let me,” she whispered.

Raising her head, she stifled her sadness. She would not cave in now, not when he needed her so badly. She dipped a fingertip into the bowl and brought a hovering drop of water to his lips to quench the skin. He did not respond, having fallen unconscious once more.

Burton approached with the viscount’s next dose of medication, which they both worked to administer.

“Would you like to air out the room now, my lady?”

Eliza shook her head. “No, I prefer to do it in the early morning hours, after the air has had a chance to settle.” She leaned back in her chair. “Let us change the bedclothes, though. I think a set of clean linens would do him some good.”

Calling upon the other servants to assist, the group managed to maneuver Thomas’s large frame while stripping the mattress to replace the sheets. Evanston shivered and groaned but looked relatively peaceful once the operation had been completed.

They passed through the dark of night much as they had entered it, with her caring for him while his fever persisted. He suffered mightily, but he did not sweat, and she knew he would not until his fever finally broke. If it ever did.

She continuously sponged cool water over him, allowing her hands to comfort him, letting them roam across his head, his shoulders, his chest. Had circumstances been otherwise, she would have thrilled with the act, but now she only sought to make a connection with him. To make sure he felt her presence and knew she would be waiting for him when he awoke.

Eliza told him stories, she sang to him, she even regaled him with tales of his own audacity. She confided that, although his antics during the London season had enraged her at the time, they had also secretly pleased her. His shows of attention—each stolen glance, every verbal sparring match—had meant the world to her, and she had cherished every moment they had been able to share together despite her best attempts at pretending otherwise.

Retrieving the letter from her reticule to place it nearby on the bedside table, she told Thomas that when he was feeling better, he could read the contents. She told him of her meeting with William, and how her brother had seen the error of his judgments. Eliza spoke of how the earl had urged her swiftly away from Lawton Park to seek out the viscount in the hopes of winning him back.

Finally, Eliza declared that he had been chosen by Rosa herself. She relayed how, in no uncertain terms, her daughter had made it clear that Thomas had been the only real candidate. With a quivering voice, she told him that both she and her little girl would be honored to build a family with him.

And should he not desire such an arrangement after all she’d put him through? That was understandable. She just wanted him to come back.

The first gray light of dawn broke weakly through the curtains. Evanston mumbled beneath his breath, nothing she could reasonably discern, then reached out to wrap a mound of sheets around his fist. Eliza eyed him worriedly, then crossed to the curtains and drew them aside to fling open the casements. A reviving breeze, cool and brisk, flowed through the opening. She wanted to refresh the room before settling in for the day’s sickroom routine.

Energy-drained and filled with melancholy, she leaned against the window to view Evanston’s immaculate garden. Gardens in town were generally small due to their space limitations, and this one was no different. Yet its layout gave the illusion of something more. Larger than what could be perceived with the eye. Distantly, in some alternate version of this reality, she could envision Rosa dancing amidst the carefully potted ferns and azaleas. Eliza and Thomas would be following behind her, with hands entwined—

“Reginald . . . she’s screaming.”

The blood turned to ice water in her veins. The low voice had been so faint, the statement so weakly delivered, she was uncertain whether it had even happened at all. Her eyes flicked over to find the viscount, lying prone upon the bed. Motionless. It was unusual given the agitation he’d exhibited throughout the night.

She searched the shadowed corners of the room in a frantic bid to ascertain whether someone had crept in while she’d been distracted at the window. Finding nothing, she came closer to the bed, spooked. Evanston’s lips were indeed moving, with small whispers slipping out. Afraid of what she might hear, she leaned towards him anyway. His eyes moved incessantly beneath their lids, and he grimaced and clenched his teeth.

“Help her, she’s screaming.”

This could be an effect of the fever, some delirious scene his mind had conjured, simply because the conditions allowed it. Something told her, though, that there was an element of truth to this hallucination. A truth she dreaded to hear, but needed to know.

“Thomas,” she said, reaching out to stroke his pale cheek. “No one is screaming. All is well—”

He wrenched violently away from her touch. His features drew down into a scowl.

“She can’t be left in there with just a midwife.”

Eliza froze. Then she jerked suddenly backwards, eyes round at the realization of what he was saying. Thomas’s voice was feeble as he continued, but still somehow full of angry determination.

“You go in with her, or I will.”

Men were absolutely not allowed in the birthing room. It simply wasn’t done, not even with husbands. Yet, Reginald had joined her at some point during her difficult and lengthy labor. His presence had been a comfort she hadn’t known she could request.

A remembrance of something William had told her long ago surfaced in her mind. How Lord Evanston had been found on the staircase the morning following Rosa’s birth, passed out with drink. Mrs. Malone had thought badly of him for it. But now, Eliza struggled to comprehend the truth.

What if the sounds of her suffering had driven him past his capacity to bear?

Could he have loved her, even then . . . perhaps before he knew it himself?

My God . . .

She launched herself onto the bed, gripping his colorless face tightly between shaking hands.

“Thomas, I’m here!” she said, her words dissolving into barely intelligible sobs. “I am here! You’re not alone!”

Wrapping her arms around his chest, she buried her face against the fever-warmth of his neck. She kissed him. Then she kissed him again, up the length of his jaw, along the hot scrape of his cheek, across the dry surface of his lips, which were still silently moving in his pleas to her dead husband, locked in the retelling of a tale now four years past.

“Not alone,” he repeated thinly, his breathing swift and furious.

Eliza kissed the bruised skin around his eye and he sighed. She soothed him with gentle caresses. Gradually, he became calmer until at last he fell silent. Reaching backwards to the table, she found the sponge in its bowl, squeezed it, then brought it across to dampen his warm brow.

“I love you, Thomas,” she whispered, pausing to wipe her sleeve across her streaming eyes. “Do you hear me? I love you. You will wake up soon.” She nodded, more to herself, she supposed, than anyone else. “You will wake up.”

For his sake, she took care to sound surer than she felt.

A gentle hand on her shoulder roused Eliza from an onslaught of fitful dreams. As she always did now upon discovering she had fallen asleep, she bolted upright to find Burton standing above her. Her mortification at being discovered lying in bed alongside Thomas was eclipsed by the excited expression on the butler’s face. His finger was pressed against his lips, which he then turned to point at Lord Evanston.

Eagerly, she turned to see that his normal color had revived. His cheeks were flooded with healthy color, and his breathing had returned to normal, with none of the feverish panting that had served to tire him earlier. He was also drenched with sweat. For that matter, so was she, having been sleeping so closely to him.

Eliza yelped with delight, and nearly fell out of the bed in her haste to pull Burton in for an unconventional but much needed celebratory embrace. Quickly returning to the task at hand, the pair rang for more assistance, then set to work changing Thomas’s poultice, administering his medicine and stripping the bed in exchange for fresh linens. A large bowl full of soapy hot water was brought in. Burton treated his still as yet unconscious master to a refreshing sponge bath. She excused herself at this point, suddenly feeling like an intruder. As pleased as she was about Evanston’s recovery, the likelihood of his waking at any moment had increased her anxiety in other ways.

So she busied herself, filling the next few days ensuring the viscount’s household would be in proper working order and ready for him when he was again able to conduct his own affairs. She and Burton delegated tasks to available servants, Eliza ran errands of her own and Burton fell into a routine of caring for his master, now without her assistance. There were times when their paths crossed in the hallway or the foyer, when she could detect a curious sideways glance from the butler. But she was sure to keep her own gaze straight ahead, pretending that her abrupt shift in behavior was simply a normal adjustment to the change in circumstances and not her avoiding Thomas out of fear.

Often, she would stop by Thomas’s door, wary and unsure. Eliza would touch the cool metal of the doorknob, wishing that she had the courage to face him. But her mind would make its excuses, and after all, it would be a shame for her to disturb him in the midst of his healing repose. Each time her fingers would drop heavily away, and she would hurry down the stairs into the library, either to distract herself with a book or to write additional letters updating their loved ones on the current status of the situation.

One evening, there was a soft rap on Evanston’s front door. Surprised, Eliza glanced up from her correspondence and waited to see if there was a servant nearby to answer. She knew Burton was likely busy upstairs with the viscount, as she had removed herself from that situation. Now the least she could do was open the front door to greet whoever was knocking.

She set the missive aside and rose from her armchair to walk swiftly out of the drawing room. Eliza threw open the front door to find, not a relation or acquaintance waiting upon the doorstep, but a rather scruffy-looking boy. He was small in stature, not altogether clean, and gazed up at her with uncertainty in his large blue eyes, a black smudge of soot marking his pale cheek.

“Beggin’ your pardon ma’am, but is the master of the house in?”

She regarded him in shock. A rush of cool evening air swirled around them both, smelling faintly of coal smoke and the Thames.

“Viscount Evanston is unavailable to visitors for the time being. May I help you instead?”

He shuffled his feet in their worn and ill-fitting brown shoes, hands plunging deep into his pockets. “No, ma’am. Only I was sent to ask after his condition by a lady, and wouldn’t want to return empty-handed, if I could help it.”

Something wretched clutched at her heart, and she looked upon him with newfound seriousness. “Who is this lady, may I ask?”

“You can ask for sure, ma’am, but I don’t even know. She didn’t tell me nuffin’ other than to find out about the master who lives here.” He blinked at her earnestly.

“I see. Well, Lord Evanston is indisposed,” she replied grimly. Sliding her hand into the pocket of her skirt, she retrieved a small purse. Eliza removed a crown from the interior and placed the coin into his hand. He stared down at it with wide eyes, then glanced back up at her mutely. She reached out to curl his fingers closed over the gleaming silver currency.

“But—but what’s this for, ma’am?”

She smiled. “That is to thank you for your visit. Now you’d best be off to report back to your mistress.”

He nodded and attempted a bow, still too flummoxed by her payment to fully observe etiquette, before dashing off into the shadows. Quickly, she retrieved her cloak and slid it around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head before also entering the darkened streets. Eliza was intent on following the urchin to discover the identity of the woman who had sent him here. She had formulated a guess already, and if proven correct, knew this would not be their first meeting with one another.

Sweeping into the night, she pursued the visitor across the uneven cobblestone streets, being careful to stay concealed. When he ducked into a nearby alleyway, she pressed against the closest building and slowed her pace, inching along and straining to hear any semblance of conversation. After a few moments, her efforts were rewarded.

“That’s it?” a woman’s voice seethed in displeasure. “I wanted to know how the man fares, not simply that he is indisposed.”

“I’m sorry, me lady,” came the tremulous voice of the lad, “but she offered no other information.”

The woman issued an unladylike growl. “Well, that tells me nothing, boy. Begone.”

Eliza heard the boy scamper off down the alleyway, then stepped forwards into view, enjoying the expression of astonishment that overcame Mrs. Varnham’s attractive features, partially concealed by her own cloak.

“You should have paid the viscount the courtesy of asking yourself,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t have turned away a well-wisher. Not even you.”

The woman forced her face into an attitude of concern that did not seem altogether natural. “Is it true? I have . . . heard . . . that Lord Evanston was attacked by a criminal. I only wish to know whether or not—”

“—he will live?” finished Eliza. “Do you truly care? And if so, why send an errand boy to inquire on your behalf? You’ve never been shy about confrontation before.”

A shadow of guilt passed over her face. She glanced to the side and chewed on her lip, which got Eliza to thinking. Frantically she searched her memories, grasping at the words Thomas had uttered in the midst of his fevered state.

. . . sends her regards . . .

Her eyes widened.

“You did it!” she cried. “You sent a man after Evanston!”

The woman flinched at Eliza’s accusation, still unable to meet her gaze. Her shifty discomfort confirmed her role in the whole affair.

“Now that is jumping to conclusions—”

“Why?” Eliza’s gaze narrowed dangerously.

Heaving a sigh, Mrs. Varnham finally raised her eyes to meet Eliza’s. “He’d moved on,” she rasped. “I never thought he would. You must believe me . . . the man wasn’t supposed to have a knife.”

Eliza turned to ice. Gooseflesh erupted across every inch of her skin and her fingers clenched into hardened fists. “But he was supposed to hurt him.” She saw the large satchel resting on the ground next to Mrs. Varnham’s skirts. “And it appears you are ready to leave town? A wise choice. You should do that before I am able to summon the magistrate. I think you should leave and never come back,” she said coldly.

Needing no additional motivation, Evanston’s former mistress only nodded and grasped the handle of her bag. Eliza watched as the woman hurried away, the sound of her departing footsteps echoing within the alley until finally fading into nothingness.

Nearly five days later, Eliza found most of the household business had been addressed and all the required communications had been sent. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she slipped out discreetly for a warm bath in Evanston’s slipper tub. She submerged her tresses beneath the water, then sank until her face gazed upward through the shimmering lens of the liquid, wishing she could wash away her cares. She knew she must brace herself for the possibility that even after all they had been through together, and after caring for him at his bedside, Thomas might have already closed his heart to her.

Sputtering for breath, she emerged from the depths of the tub to grasp distractedly for her towel. There was nothing to be done, save for convincing him of her sincerity and, failing that . . . returning home alone. Her mood was subdued at the idea. She dried herself and donned a loose muslin dress in dismal contemplation, pinning her thick golden hair into a messy chignon. Patterson would have been horrified by the lazy attempt, but Eliza was too sullen to care.

Later that evening, the declining autumn sunlight sparkled at her from the edge of the crystal brandy decanter on the sideboard in the library. The doctor had come and gone yet again. Eliza had inquired with the maids regarding Thomas’s welfare, then returned to her refuge downstairs. She had long since finished her day’s letters and sent them off with the post, but still she sat alone in the empty library. Her aversion to facing the viscount was not necessarily a reasonable reaction, but she was feeling it, nonetheless. If the two of them never spoke, he could never reject her, as she had done to him before. She sought to preserve the distance that prevented such a thing from happening.

The echo of Burton’s footsteps in the foyer alerted her to his presence mere seconds before he entered the library after a brief, perfunctory knock.

“Lord Evanston is awake, my lady. He has been awake and sitting up for the past four days.”

She flashed a smile. “That’s lovely, Burton. The doctor has told me.” Her glance dropped to her hands. “How does he feel?”

“A bit tired perhaps . . . restless . . . Dr. Brown says he has the fortitude of an ox.” The butler frowned as he viewed her askance. “Honestly, my lady, you would already know, were you to see him yourself.”

“Yes, of course,” she admitted, wincing at his subtle censure. “I plan on it, just as soon as I—”

“How about now?” he offered a little too pleasantly, taking a step back and gesturing towards the doorway.

At her hesitation, Burton paused, closed the library door, then approached her with a kindly expression.

“He loves you,” stated the man in a hushed tone, “but you lose your nerve after he’s declared himself? That is something I do not understand.”

“No,” she responded hotly, “you don’t. You haven’t seen how I’ve rejected him. How he’s been hurt by both me and my family—”

“You’re wrong,” Burton interrupted. “I have seen him. I’ve seen him after your spurnings and rejections.” He leaned closer. “And what I’ve also seen, for the first time since I’ve known him, is that he persisted . . . regardless of his mounting failures, because of that love you would not give him credit for.”

I love your sister! he had shouted at William. I would have followed her anywhere . . . done anything to show her . . . risked any friendship for just a chance . . .

She hung her head in shame. Even now, when she had come to terms with her own love for him, she was unable to give him the credit he was due. This was Thomas, the man who had stood up for her on the night of Rosa’s birth. Who had teased and annoyed her in London until she could think of no other man. Who had laid his own heart at her feet . . .

A moment later, she found herself faced with his bedchamber door once more. Inhaling a deep breath, she rapped her knuckles softly against the oaken surface. When no answer was forthcoming, she cracked the door open for a peek.

Evanston was reclining against a mound of pillows, asleep. Once she had closed the door behind her, she allowed her gaze to travel across him in the way she had not permitted herself to while he was sick. The first thing she noticed was that his shirtless state was not the benign, medical necessity it had once been. Now, the sight of him, recovering and at rest, healthier than she’d seen him in days, stirred something dark and carnal inside of her.

Eliza came closer to notice that his sleek black hair had been washed and combed, his stubble shaven meticulously away. She longed to stroke his chin with her fingers, to feel its smoothness for herself, but stayed the inclination. He was only just recovered and she was still unsure of his feelings towards her.

Yet, she recalled how good it had felt to kiss him, despite the sorrow that had prompted her to do so. It had not been so long ago, yet if felt like ages had already passed. To kiss him now felt forbidden. The fear that had kept her away caused her to linger again, unmoving and inactive. She clenched her teeth in determination and approached to seat herself on the bed beside him.

“Thomas. Can you hear me?”

The last time she’d spoken those words, he had not reacted well. This time, his head rolled slowly in her direction, and he awoke. He stared at her, his eyes a cool blue flame.

“Hello, Eliza.” His voice sounded rusty and unused.

She pressed on, hopeful. “How are you feeling?”

A ghost of a smile lifted at the corner of his mouth. “Like I’ve been hit by a steam engine,” he said, his eyes drifting closed briefly, then opening again to view her. “Burton says you’ve been here for days. I didn’t believe him.”

“Why not?”

Thomas winced in pain and shifted himself higher up on his pillows. “Well, for one thing, you wouldn’t show yourself. And when last we parted—”

“Stop, please,” she said quickly with a stab of guilt.

Rather than attempting to continue, he fell silent and evaluated her curiously.

“I heard you from my place in the darkness, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “You did?”

He nodded. “You said the nicest things, which was how I knew I must have been dreaming.” A tiny gleam in his eyes told her he might have been teasing, but she wasn’t certain.

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” she murmured, eyes focused on the hands fidgeting in her lap. “I’ve been so awful to you.”

Thomas considered this a while before answering. “I think you were doing what you believed was the right thing to do,” he replied carefully.

She raised her eyes to meet his. “What if I told you that I refused Landry’s proposal, and I believe it was the right thing to do?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He glanced away.

Eliza leaned closer to him on the bed, sliding her fingertips across his chin as she had longed to do earlier. The skin-to-skin contact caused him to freeze, even as he submitted to her touch.

“What if I left for London immediately after, in the barest hope you might forgive me despite everything I’ve put you through? That I believed it was the right thing to do?”

His mouth twisted. “Eliza, don’t.”

“What if Rosa believed it was the right thing to do? And William?”

Thomas’s gaze snapped over to meet hers, but he said nothing.

Terrified but resolute, she continued. “What if,” she said, her hand straying down towards the hard, muscular planes of his chest to cover his heart, “I’ve wanted you since before my marriage to Reginald, and loved you nearly as long?”

His gaze sharpened. “That’s a lie.”

“What if it’s not?”

Even with his resistance, she felt his temperature increase at her words. Could see his pupils dilate, the black pools spreading in a sea of blue. She let her fingers trail through the dark hair on his chest, feeling her own response to his nearness. Drifting closer, her lips passed over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Evanston’s eyes fell closed.

“What if you became the worthiest suitor by far, and I was just too blind to see it?”

“Worthiest might be an exaggeration,” he said quietly.

She silenced him by pressing her lips against his, gently at first, then more insistently. Rather than shove her away, as she had feared he might, his hands slid up to cradle her head, pulling her closer so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue slowly stroked hers, and she accepted his invitation, darting to meet and match his movements. Evanston’s breathing hastened and a low groan issued from his throat.

Reluctantly, Eliza broke the kiss to pull back and gazed down at him. Hope lightened her expression, but the worry remained.

“Thomas,” she breathed, pleading, “I’ve been so foolish and I cannot bear to lose you. Please say you’ll marry me. A life without you doesn’t seem like much of a life at all.”

Despite his impassioned state, he did his best to appear uninterested, turning his head away with a bored glance and a mischievous smile.

“Perhaps. But not until after I’ve made you suffer sufficiently for such torment,” he teased.

The veil of doubt that had burdened her for years finally lifted and a thrill blossomed inside her heart. “Are you going to make me beg?” she asked hopefully.

“I’d consider myself a failure if I didn’t.”

She brushed her lips against the tip of his nose. “I think I’ll make you beg, instead.”

“Oh, you do?” he scoffed.

He pulled her down again, savoring her lips, tasting her deeply, only to ease her away when her kisses became too eager. She gave a soft cry of complaint, then decided to take charge, shifting across the bed to climb over and straddle him. He uttered a soft laugh at her impatience, but his amusement subsided quickly when she lowered down against him. Eliza could feel the large shape of his manhood pushing through her skirts and she writhed insistently on his lap, excited to feel how well they fit together. But no . . . she was unwilling to rush their lovemaking. Not after years of dreaming about being with him.

Evanston tried to seem indifferent in an attempt to tease her and failed with a groan, flexing his hips up to meet hers, his eager hands coasting upwards to squeeze the heavy weight of her breasts. The thin fabric of her dress did very little to mask the sensation of contact and Eliza could not conceal the intensity of her reaction. With a moan she moved on top of him while he gasped and kneaded her flesh through the muslin.

“I’m sure this is against all doctor’s orders,” he managed to say, “yet I can’t seem to care.”

Tugging the front of her bodice sharply down, he exposed the naked curves of her breasts to his greedy gaze. The abruptness of the motion caused her to gasp in breathless surprise.

“Dear God, how I’ve dreamed of you,” he said, his voice roughened with what remained of his restraint. His thumbs caressed the tips of her breasts and he leaned forward, letting his lips drift across her shoulder, over her collarbone. “You are . . . beyond gorgeous,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He slid his hand around the supple curve of one breast, then took her nipple into the warm depths of his mouth. Suckling until she cried out, he then teased the tip with soft flicks of his tongue and pulled away. Evanston gently squeezed the moistened peak with his fingertips before moving to the other side to torment her there as well.

She wanted to make some reply. To tell him how very happy he had made her. That despite the advice of everyone around her and her own best laid plans, he’d always been the only man for her. But she could only call out his name and rake her fingers through his thick black hair, arching forward to bring him even closer.

Although still sapped from his recent illness, he possessed every ounce of his usual male virility as his body responded beneath her. Reaching down, she slid her hand beneath the sheet and exhaled softly in appreciation at the extent of his arousal. She started to caress him, tearing a hoarse gasp from his throat, and she realized how grateful she was for the chance to discover him in this way after nearly losing him.

“I need you, Thomas,” she sighed. “I’ve needed you for so long.”

Evanston made a low noise back in his throat and removed her hands with a devilish glance. “You touch me like that and this will be over before it’s started,” he whispered against her neck. “There’s no need to rush . . .”

Disappearing beneath her skirts, his fingers slid between her parted thighs, causing her entire body to jump at the intimate contact.

“I—oh . . .” she breathed faintly, suddenly short of breath.

He began a leisurely and erotic exploration, his fingertips softly toying with her. Eliza wriggled and moaned, the tension building with each tiny circular motion of his fingers. Then he slid them even further to penetrate her. She felt her body eagerly tighten around them, kindling excitedly within seconds. It would not take much effort from him at all for her to find her release. She cried out and he slipped an arm around her waist to clutch her tighter.

“God,” he rasped, a thin sheen of sweat already glistening on his brow. His restraint was dissolving before her very eyes, and the speed of his hand was hastening. “I want to hear it when you—”

Eliza shook her head, sending golden strands of hair tickling her face as they fell from their pins. “No,” she managed to say through the waves of delirium-inducing sensation. Placing her hands on his chest to lever her body upwards, she forced herself away from his touch. “Not yet.”

She knew how much more powerful it would feel if they were joined when the moment arrived, and she refused to be robbed of that perfect bliss. Not this time . . . not when the viscount was about to be hers at last. Impulsively, Eliza pulled away the sheet; the only barrier that remained between them.

Rising up onto her knees, she ravished his mouth with a hungry kiss, and he seized her plump bottom lip between his teeth in response. An unbridled jolt of need coursed through her and she could feel herself melting in wicked anticipation.

“Are you sure?”

Oh, she was sure. Eliza had burned for him for years, the sensual cycle of desire and denial repeating itself on a merciless loop, and her patience was now at its end. With a lightly mocking glance, she lowered down to rest upon him—flesh against flesh, the slick heat of her softness gliding over the impossibly hard length of his swollen shaft.

Evanston choked in surprise, his eyes half-closed in delight, and she tipped her hips back and forth, deliberate and slow, forcing herself to wait just a little longer before actually having him at last. Her fingers dug into his bare shoulders and with a little moan, she allowed their bodies to convey what their words no longer could . . . anxious to solve the sensual mystery that only their physical union could answer.

“I need to be inside you.” Thomas leaned forward for another tantalizing taste of her breasts, then shuddered with a trembling breath. “I only wish I was recovered enough to do you honor, my love.”

“Mmm,” she murmured with another tilt of her hips. “The doctor said you have the fortitude of an ox,” she replied with a lazy smile, her pleasure steadily building, her body making ever-increasing demands.

“Is that all?” he asked, attempting nonchalance, causing her to laugh in the middle of their embrace.

She wanted to admonish him for his audacity but found it difficult through her giggles. “Thomas, you are—”

A sudden flex of his hips caused her to say his name for another reason entirely. The amusement faded from her lips and her breathing became heavy and labored, matching the shift in his own.

“Can you tell me . . . is it true?”

His question roused her from her trance, surprising her. She blinked foggily at him.

“Is what true?” she asked.

He rocked upward again and she sucked in her breath, enslaved by the way he was pressed so intimately against her sex. She had no idea how he expected her to answer his question or think at all when he insisted on doing that.

“What you said about the others.”

In a moment of clarity, she understood. He needed to hear it again after being hurt so many times before. Ignoring the insistent pulses of her body, she gripped his face in her hands to address him earnestly, the hint of fear in his eyes tugging sharply on her heart.

“Everything was true, Thomas,” Eliza whispered. “All of it. They love you, and they want you to come home.” Her head fell forwards to rest against his. “I love you, and I want you to come home.”

“Eliza,” he said huskily, his voice full of emotion. “How long I’ve waited to hear that.”

Her need for him driving her now, she kissed him furiously while they both worked to tug her dress up over her head. It was not a feat that would have been typically achieved, had she not dressed herself so carelessly in such a simple gown. Without the rows of buttons normally dictated by fashion, the garment was soon hastily cast to the floor, followed by her chemise.

She exhaled slowly, taking in the glorious sight of his body, ready for her. Eliza slid her hand up the thick length of him, loving the satiny-hard feel of his manhood against her palm. His breath caught and he leaned back further against the pillows, trembling as she touched him, shaking his head.

“There are so many things I want to do. I’ve yearned for you . . . for so long.” He broke off into a hiss at the glide of her hand over his excited flesh.

“And you will. Right now, though, you must preserve your strength.” She kissed him hotly then smiled. “Let me take you instead.”

His brows raised a moment before she sank down onto him, no longer willing to wait, unleashing a desire that had long been refuted and fulfilling countless fantasies in the process. Thomas’s voice rang out, drowning the echo of her own moans as he entered and filled her, stretching her to capacity. She struggled to take him all in, wriggling to accommodate the snugness of their fit, but did not halt her descent until he was buried to the hilt, and there she had to pause. The satisfaction of having him inside her was already nearly enough to push her into climax.

“Oh . . .” she keened softly, her thoughts whirling while she tried to suppress her body’s response. Eliza could sense his anxiety rising in the way his head rolled on his shoulders and his eyelids fluttered.

“Please, don’t stop,” he managed.

“But I need to wait a moment—”

He cursed softly. She placed her hands against his chest and rocked against him experimentally. Ecstasy shot through her core and she froze once more.

“Sweet Jesus, yes,” he ground out. “Eliza, keep going.”

He seized her waist and brought her down to meet his swift upward thrust, and she knew that this would not take long for either of them. With her sounds of pleasure mirroring his own, she momentarily worried about his overexertion. But all rational thought was lost as her control dissolved, and Eliza rose up above him to fall down, her body eagerly crashing home on top of his.

Again they met. And again, until gradually they found each other’s rhythm, desperately reaching towards the pinnacle that was promised. The drive of their hips became an instinctual tempo that they couldn’t help but follow, and Eliza could feel the dizzying pressure mounting. Although she would have loved to prolong their union, she simply didn’t have the self-control required to wait. It felt as if they’d already waited forever for one another. They would have a lifetime to take it slowly.

Their fervor grew, their pace increasing, and before long they were careening off the precipice together, lost in the throes of their union. An incendiary heat flowed through her body as his fingers dug into her hips and he shoved upwards in a last hard thrust, a rough cry erupting from his lips. Her body came alight with blazing sensation and she threw her head back with a gasp, catapulted into the heavens and taking Thomas along with her, each equally senseless until they both found themselves shaky and trembling, lying exhausted beside each other.

Slowly, Eliza regained awareness, tiny shivers of pleasure still racing through her sated limbs, and she rose to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. Smiling, she claimed him for another kiss, then collapsed next to his good side while being mindful of his injury. They lay there together, enjoying the minutes comfortably with one another, both working to catch their breath. Finally, she gazed at him in admiring amusement.

“You did quite well for being infirm, my lord, although I was not able to make you beg as I would have liked.”

He shook his head, breathing still slightly ragged with the recent expenditure of effort. “I will remind you that I’ve nearly been begging for months,” he said mischievously. One of his arms wrapped around her to pull her close, and he pressed his face into her hair to inhale deeply. “More than once, I had to convince myself that you were truly there and that I had not fallen prey to another torturous, although quite welcome, fever-induced hallucination.”

She buried her face against his shoulder in silence, happier than she’d felt in many years. They would marry soon, and she would become his wife. The only thought that brought her more peace was the fact that he would also take on the role of a much-needed and much-loved father to Rosa. Relief flooded through her at having made her choice at last, and what was more, having made the right choice.

Gradually, his breathing eased, hitching slightly when she felt him twist around to survey the bedside table. A slight grunt of pain was his only indication of his healing wound and the fact that it still bothered him, which was miraculous given his condition just a week before.

Eliza pushed herself upward to view him with concern.

“I’ve aggravated your injury,” she said guiltily. “Do you need more medicine?”

He twitched his head. “No. I only just saw that envelope on the table.”

“Oh yes.” Eliza retrieved the sheet from the foot of the bed to wrap it around them modestly, then reached over to pick the missive off the table and hand it to Thomas. She curled up next to him again, savoring the warmth of his body next to hers, the irresistible tickle of his chest hair against the sensitive tips of her breasts. “I’d totally forgotten. It’s from William.”

Evanston’s eyes widened but he accepted the parchment, broke the wax seal with his fingers and unfolded the letter. A scrap of paper fluttered down onto the sheets beside him, but for the moment, he paid it no mind, his eyes busily scanning the scrawled passages. Eliza watched him mutely until her curiosity won.

“What does he say?” she asked.

Thomas’s eyes were shining, as if he were battling off some kind of strong emotion. He cleared his throat and glanced sideways at her.

“He says, and I’m quoting him, that ‘even the high and mighty Earl of Ashworth has been known to be an ass from time to time.’”

A laugh bubbled up from her lips. “Well, surely that was common knowledge to some of us,” she said, giggling. “What else does William say?”

Evanston swallowed hard before speaking. “He told me he hopes that I will consider your offer of marriage, as it would serve to officially make us brothers. He also says he can think of no better man for both you and Rosa.”

His eyes returned to the page then dropped down to the sheets, his hand searching until it closed around the piece of paper that had fallen. “There is a postscript, as well, where he again requests my cooperation, ‘for any woman who carries your calling card in her reticule, is nothing short of completely besotted.’”

Thomas glanced down at the small card with a grin, then flipped it around in his fingers so she could see it for herself, the name imprinted in black ink, the top left corner folded over.

Eliza’s mouth fell open, her cheeks turning pink.

“What? I, but no, that couldn’t be—”

His eyes gleamed wickedly. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been caught carrying my card, dear lady.”

Hadn’t she cast that thing into the fire? No, she realized with a warm rush of embarrassment, she had returned it safely into her purse, like some selfish magpie who refused to relinquish its treasure.

Eliza thought back to her last encounter with William, in the study at Lawton Park. She’d been crying, had rummaged through her reticule for a handkerchief, and then . . .

She gazed up in panic to meet his eyes. Thomas burst out laughing, pausing to wince slightly at the ensuing pain.

“Fine,” she conceded in irritation. “Yes, I carried it with me, all through London and back to Kent. And do you know what?” Eliza pushed up on her knees to pluck the white card from between Evanston’s fingers. “I want it back.”

Eliza tried to roll off the bed but Thomas was surprisingly quick, grasping her around the waist to jerk her back against him. She shrieked in outrage but ceased struggling at the strong feel of his arms around her and the slide of his naked skin against her own. His mouth drifted hotly against her ear, making her squirm.

“Keep the damn card, if you like,” he whispered huskily, “but I can’t let you leave until I’ve been able to reward you for such loyalty.”

And given the limitations of his injured state, he did everything he could to show her how very grateful he could be.