Chapter Six
Later that evening, in his chambers, Sebastian sniffled. Argh! He blew his nose fully, then again into the handkerchief embroidered with Thomas’s crimson initials.
A knock sounded at his door.
“I’m busy.” All he needed was to suffer in peace.
Another knock. Then the latch turned.
“Anyone here?” a soft voice came, causing unbidden shivers to run down his spine.
“No,” he barked, voice thick, from behind another damp square of linen. He might be the one blowing phlegm all over Thomas’s name, but he’d rather not do it over anyone else. That did not stop the girl from entering, however.
Very well.
“Set it down there, please. The linens here and that there.”
Wait. That voice was familiar.
Maddie?
Sebastian’s head jerked up. Of course it would be her.
“Thank you,” she added with a nod to the two footmen, who carried in a steaming pot of water and a pile of pristine white linens.
“You may go,” she told the elder footman, with a graceful flick of her wrist. “I shall ensure the Marquess of Cambridge is properly cared for and will return to my chambers shortly. You may leave the door open.”
With a bow, the footmen retreated.
“I didn’t ask for a nursemaid, Miss Madeleine,” Sebastian muttered, feigning irritation. But, truth be told, she was a sight for sore eyes—and his were among the sorest.
She paid him no mind, carrying a stool from the far wall and setting it beside the small table bearing the steaming pot. “Sit here and hurry before the steam fades.”
Then she untied a narrow leather case and unrolled it with a practiced flick, revealing a neat row of fabric loops, each holding a small glass vial.
Sebastian squinted. Was she here to treat him or seduce him with tinctures?
No, that was the fever and the building headache speaking. The door was open as per her specific instructions. She didn’t invite scandal.
She selected a vial, uncorked it, and dropped a few beads of liquid into the water.
“Are you trying to poison me?” he asked, dryly. He couldn’t help himself. Needling her had become oddly satisfying.
“Come here,” she said, sending him an exasperated look.
For some unfathomable reason, he obeyed.
Sebastian leaned forward and Maddie’s hand gently settled at the base of his skull, guiding him over the steam.
Then she draped one of the white linens over his head.
He bristled at first, outlined beneath the cloth by the hand of a beautiful woman. But the steam struck him full in the face, and with the first inhale of that sharp, minty vapor, his resistance began to dissolve.
“What is in this?” he asked from beneath the linen.
He heard her rifling through the case again.
“Mentha piperita—peppermint. Melissa officinalis—lemon balm. Camphora officinarum—camphor.” A pause. “From a tree. A needle one. I know that for a fact.”
Her Latin was flawless. Not just a pretty face, then. Not just a high-and-mighty heiress with a dowry and a mission.
He should not have wanted to run his fingers through her hair. And yet he did. Almost desperately.
“And where did you get this delightful poison?”
“Alfie,” she said.
“Who in the world is Alfie?”
“My apothecary. Alfie Collins at 87 Harley Street in London.”
“Of course.”
“He made me this traveling kit,” she added, almost defensively. “For… reasons.”
“What sort of reasons?”
“Never mind.”
Now that piqued his curiosity, but it was hard to press while being steamed like a Christmas pudding. The water began to cool. He cracked one eye open and caught sight of the shimmering surface, flecked with oils. Then the coughing started.
He yanked off the towel and doubled over, hacking a bit.
And there she was, already pressing a clean cloth into his hand instead of withdrawing.
If the cough had permitted it, Sebastian would have paused to acknowledge that every other lady he’d ever met would have first avoided him in his state, second not helped with a clean cloth, and third not be as gorgeous delivering minty oils for a steam bath.
He blew his nose again, trying to angle his body discreetly so she wouldn’t see the results.
“Any better?” she asked, folding another linen with military precision.
“You knew exactly what I needed, didn’t you?
” he mumbled, a little foggy now. The lemon balm was kicking in, or maybe it was her voice, but the headache was eased with all that came out.
“That helped, thank you.” He tried to smile, but his skin felt tight, dry.
Between the fire in the hearth and the steam, the air in his room was practically tropical rain.
Maddie opened another small jar—wider, paler—and dipped her finger into a cream. Without a word, she rubbed her palms together, warming the mixture. Then she placed both hands on his cheeks.
Sebastian went utterly still.
She stroked the salve into his skin—soft, slow, rhythmic. It was a healer’s touch. Except it absolutely wasn’t. It was sensual. And entirely inappropriate. And very nearly his undoing.
He placed the handkerchief on his lap. Urgently.
“What is that?” he rasped.
“Chamomile with beeswax,” she said lightly. “Good for inflammation. Soothing on the skin.”
She rubbed the last of it into her knuckles, then reached up and brushed her thumb over his mouth, spreading a bit of balm along the seam of his lips.
“There,” she murmured. “That should help your dry lips and skin. I reckon you stood in cold wind to end up so ill?”
He only managed a faint nod. His entire body ignited. With a fever, yes, but also something far more dangerous.
His heart thudded like a drum. His head spun—but not from congestion.
She was too close. Too composed. Too… touchable.
What was he supposed to say?
His throat worked uselessly, and then—
“Why are you so nice to me?” he asked, like an idiot.
The question hit her like a slap. She drew back. Slowly. Her hands fell to her lap, her expression shuttered.
She stood.
With calm, measured movements, she rolled her kit back into its leather sheath and tied it closed with one tight knot after another.
The warmth in her eyes was gone. Replaced by something colder. Controlled. Familiar.
“Set the pot by the hearth,” she said, brisk again. “The steam will help while you sleep.”
And with that, she was gone.
*
Maddie slouched against the door the moment she stepped out, clutching her chest.
Oh dear.
The man was positively…
Ugly.
No—no, no!
He was sick. There was a difference. Maddie had never been a shallow person. It didn’t matter whether someone was tall or short, wide or thin, rich or poor—she prided herself on seeing to the heart of a person.
But this man…
At least he hadn’t sneezed on her again.
She touched her throat, then her temple. No fever. Good. As long as she didn’t fall ill herself. Because then she’d have to dig into her vials and teach that man a lesson.
She thought of one particular blend—just a drop here, a splash there—and he’d itch for days.
She smirked.
Fortunately, she was not a vindictive person.
She harrumphed.
I certainly can be.
Which was precisely why she’d left. There was something about him that she couldn’t place.
Never mind the fever-flushed face. The man was impossible—distant one moment, almost tender the next. And for some reason, he couldn’t be close enough for her to be satisfied with… how odd. Perhaps she was falling ill after all?
Must be the cold.
Men did have a way of reverting to infants when unwell. That would explain the gentleness. Which would mean his usual disposition was rather… rude.
Still.
She pressed her ear to the door.
Silly. And yet she strained to listen.
Fine. She also felt guilty for leaving so abruptly. When he’d leaned into her touch… Lord.
For a moment—a very fleeting moment—she’d forgotten everything else. And in that same fleeting moment… she’d wanted to lean in, too.
Urgh!
“Maddie?”
Maddie whirled around to find Ashley watching her with lifted brows. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly fine.”
Ashley’s gaze dropped to the small silver etui in Maddie’s hand. “You usually only carry that when the gardens are in bloom… or when there are cats about. Why now?”
Maddie’s throat tightened for a moment at the thought of sweet, purring fluffballs and the havoc they could wreak. “No reason,” she said lightly, tucking the case into her reticule.
Ashley nodded toward the door. “Have you checked on Cambridge?”
Maddie gave a tight nod. “He’ll survive. He just needs rest.”
“You do not mind if I have a look?” Ashley started forward. “This is Thomas’s best friend.”
Maddie frowned. “Shouldn’t you know him well? You are engaged to…”
Ashley shrugged. “Never spoken to him alone. I am curious.”
“We just had dinner with him.”
“I was not paying him any attention.”
Of course she hadn’t been.
“Why must you disturb a sick man now of all times?”
“Why else? I want to see what sort of man my future husband chooses as his closest friend.”
“Can it not wait until morning?”
“Certainly not.” With that, Ashley turned the knob and slipped inside.
Maddie bit her lip.
Oh, for pity’s sake.
With a sigh, she followed.
They entered just in time to see the marquess hunched at the edge of the bed—shirtless, flushed, and gloriously disheveled.
Maddie froze.
His bare back was a map of taut muscle, each sleek line shifting under skin that gleamed faintly in the firelight.
Heat had flushed his broad shoulders, lending them a sculpted, almost bronzed look, and a thin sheen of perspiration caught the glow like polished marble.
His dark hair—thick and unruly—clung in damp waves at his temples, the disarray making him look more like a conquering hero returned from battle than an invalid.
He was… breathtaking.
Not in the feline way that would close her lungs, but in the heroic way that could make her knees forget their purpose entirely if he ever chose to kiss her.
He shifted, bracing his forearms on his thighs, and the movement set his chest in motion—defined planes and ridges revealed in the flicker of the fire, as if carved by some daring sculptor who knew exactly how to tempt a woman’s eye.
Then he looked up.
The fever in his gaze was more than heat and illness—it was awareness, startling and sharp, catching her breath in her throat.
For the barest heartbeat, it felt as though the rest of the room dissolved and there was only this—the quiet pull between them, humming low and hot in the space they shared.
He made a rough sound, half-cough, half-groan, and yet he didn’t look away. Neither did she.
Her pulse stumbled. Her common sense whispered retreat, but her body—traitorous thing—leaned almost imperceptibly forward, drawn toward the heat of him.
He looked magnificent. No—dangerously magnificent. And Maddie, with her soft heart and unreliable knees, had no business being this close to him.
“Perhaps we should call for a doctor,” Maddie murmured, her voice softer now, caught somewhere between concern and… something she didn’t want to name. “He doesn’t look well. He sounds worse.”
“I’m fine,” he croaked.
They both stared. It was the exact same thing he’d said earlier.
Only now, he looked one sneeze away from death—or seduction.
“You certainly don’t look fine,” Ashley said bluntly.
Maddie’s earlier annoyance dissolved into something warmer. Something dangerously close to tender.
He looked so pitiful. Crumpled. Pale. Shaking.
But also… beautiful. A sick Adonis with a bruised sort of dignity.
What on earth had happened between the soup course and now?
“No need for a doctor,” he muttered.
“You can still say that?” Maddie asked. “In the state you’re in?”
He waved a limp hand above his head and collapsed back into the pillows, chest still bare, eyes glazed with fever—and something else as they flicked to her.
For a single heartbeat, it felt like she was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
Then his lashes dipped.
“Lady Ashley?”
Ashley cleared her throat. “I came to see how you were. Your… departure after the announcement at dinner earlier was rather sudden.”
Maddie pinched her friend’s arm. “Let’s go. He’s clearly in no condition to receive guests.”
“Did you need something, Lady Ashley?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.
“No, she did not,” Maddie said firmly, trying not to sound breathless as she tugged her friend toward the door. “Sorry to disturb you. You need rest.”
He grunted something unintelligible as she hauled Ashley from the room and gently pulled the door shut behind them.
But not before Maddie cast one last glance back.
His head had rolled to the side, mouth parted slightly, one hand sprawled over the linens, the other across his ribs.
Nothing like the infuriating, sharp-tongued sparring partner she’d argued with at dinner. He looked… vulnerable. Disarmed. Raw.
He looked like a man who needed someone.
And that shouldn’t have made her heart ache.
Breakable.
She frowned.
If he knew she’d thought him pitiful, he’d be furious.
Not that it mattered. She was fairly certain his opinion of her wasn’t particularly glowing either.
With one last look, Maddie slipped from the room.
They stepped into the corridor, the door clicking softly shut behind them.
“Thomas wants him at the wedding,” Ashley said, casting a glance back. “But he looks like he’s going to have a funeral at the chapel instead.”
Maddie sniffed. “He does not. He has a cold.”
“A theatrical one.”
“I’ve been sicker than that and still attended my pianoforte lesson.”
Ashley arched a brow. “You also boiled herbs like a hedge witch and drank things that smelled of shoe polish.”
“Yes, and I recovered within the week.”
Ashley looped her arm through Maddie’s. “Which is why you should help him. For Thomas.”
Maddie hesitated.
Then lifted her chin. “I will,” she said.
But not for Thomas.