Page 36

He stripped off his breeches—not an easy task considering they were still more than a little damp and he had quite literally  to peel them from his skin. When he was well and truly naked, he quirked a brow in the direction of Sophie’s back. She was standing rigidly, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.
With surprise, he realized the sight of her made him smile.
He was starting to feel a bit sluggish, and it took him two tries before he was able to lift his leg high enough to climb into bed. With considerable effort he leaned forward and grabbed the edge of his coverlet, dragging it over his body. Then, completely worn-out, he sagged back against the pillows and groaned.
“Are you all right?” Sophie called.
He made an effort to say, “Fine,” but it came out more like, “Fmmph.”
He heard her moving about, and when he summoned up the energy to lift one eyelid halfway open, he saw that she’d moved  to the side of the bed. She looked concerned.
For some reason that seemed rather sweet. It had been quite a long time since any woman who wasn’t related to him had  been concerned for his welfare.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to give her a reassuring smile. But his voice sounded like it was coming through a long, narrow tunnel. He reached up and tugged at his ear. His mouth felt like he was talking properly; the problem must be with his ears.
“Mr. Bridgerton? Mr. Bridgerton?”
He pried an eyelid open again. “Go da bed,” he grunted. “Get dry.”
“Are you certain?”
He nodded. It was getting too difficult to speak.
“Very well. But I’m going to leave your door open. If you need me in the night, just call out.”
He nodded again. Or at least he tried to. Then he slept.
It took Sophie barely a quarter of an hour to get ready for bed. A surfeit of nervous energy kept her going as she changed  into dry clothing and readied the furnace in her room, but once her head hit her pillow, she felt herself succumbing to an exhaustion so total it seemed to come from her very bones.
It had been a long day, she thought groggily. A really long day, between attending to her morning chores, dashing around the house to escape Cavender and his friends ... Her eyelids drifted shut. It had been an extraordinarily long day, and...
Sophie sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. The fire in the furnace had burned low, so she must have fallen asleep. She’d  been dead tired, though, so something must have woken her. Was it Mr. Bridgerton? Had he called out? He’d not looked  well when she’d left him, but neither had he seemed at death’s door.
Sophie hopped out of bed, grabbed a candle, then dashed toward the door of her room, grabbing hold of the waistband of  the too-big breeches Benedict had lent her when they started to slip down her hips. When she reached the hall she heard the sound that must have woken her up.
It was a deep groan, followed by a thrashing noise, followed by what could only be called a whimper.
Sophie dashed into Benedict’s room, stopping briefly at the furnace to light her candle. He was lying in his bed, almost preternaturally still. Sophie edged toward him, her eyes focusing on his chest. She knew he couldn’t possibly be dead, but  she’d feel an awful lot better once she saw his chest rise and fall.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. “Mr. Bridgerton?”
No response.
She crept closer, leaning over the edge of the bed. “Mr. Bridgerton?”
His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her off-balance until she fell onto the bed.
“Mr. Bridgerton!” Sophie squealed. “Let go!”
But he’d started to thrash and moan, and there was enough heat coming off his body that Sophie knew he was in the grips of  a fever.
She somehow managed to wrench herself free, and she went tumbling off the bed while he continued to toss and turn,  mumbling streams of words that made no sense.
Sophie waited for a quiet moment, then darted her hand out to touch his forehead. It was on fire.
She chewed on her lower lip as she tried to decide what to do. She had no experience nursing the feverish, but it seemed to  her that the logical thing would be to cool him off. On the other hand, sickrooms always seemed to be kept closed, stuffy,  and warm, so maybe ...
Benedict started to thrash again, and then, out of nowhere, he murmured, “Kiss me.”
Sophie lost hold of her breeches; they fell to the floor. She let out a little yelp of surprise as she quickly bent to retrieve them. Clutching the waistband securely with her right hand, she reached out to pat his hand with her left, then thought the better of it. “You’re just dreaming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she told him.
“Kiss me,” he repeated. But he did not open his eyes.
Sophie leaned in closer. Even by the light of one solitary candle she could see his eyeballs moving quickly under his lids. It  was bizarre, she thought, to see another person dream.
“God damn it!” he suddenly yelled. “Kiss me!”
Sophie lurched back in surprise, setting her candle hastily on the bedside table. “Mr. Bridgerton, I—” she began, fully  intending to explain why she could not even begin to think about kissing him, but then she thought—Why not?
Her heart fluttering wildly, she leaned down and brushed the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on his lips.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”
To Sophie’s everlasting relief, he didn’t move. It wasn’t the sort of moment she wanted him to remember in the morning. But then, just when she was convinced that he’d settled back into a deep sleep, his head began to toss from side to side, leaving deep indentations in his feather pillow.