After the wound had been cleaned and bandaged, Leo was left gray-faced and exhausted. He slept for the rest of the day, waking occasionally to find broth or fever tea being poured down his throat. The family was merciless in their efforts to take care of him.

As he had expected, the opiate sent him into nightmares, filled with creatures rising from the earth to claw and pull at him, tugging him down below the surface where red glowing eyes blinked at him in the dark. Trapped in a narcotic daze, Leo couldn’t fully awaken from the dreams, only struggled in the heat and misery, and subsided into more hallucinations. The only respite was when a cool cloth was applied to his forehead, and a gentle, comforting presence hovered beside him.

“Amelia? Win?” he mumbled in confusion.

“Shhhh…”

“Hot,” he said with an aching sigh.

“Lie still.”

He was vaguely aware of two or three other times when the cloth was changed … merciful coolness applied to his brow … a light hand curving against his cheek.

When he awoke in the morning, he was tired, feverish, and in the grip of a profound gloom. It was the usual aftermath of opium, of course, but the knowledge hardly helped to alleviate the overwhelming dreariness.

“You have a mild fever,” Cam told him in the morning. “You’ll need to drink more yarrow tea to bring it down. But there’s no sign of festering. Rest today, and I expect you’ll feel much better by tomorrow.”

“That tea tastes like ditch water,” Leo muttered. “And I’m not going to stay in bed all day.”

Cam looked sympathetic. “I understand, phral. You don’t feel ill enough to rest, but you’re not well enough to do anything. All the same, you have to give yourself a chance to heal, or—”

“I’m going downstairs for a proper breakfast.”

“Breakfast is done. They’ve already cleared the sideboard.”

Leo scowled and rubbed his face, wincing at the fiery pull of his shoulder. “Have Merripen come up here. I want to talk to him.”

“He is out with the tenants, drilling turnip seed.”

“Where is Amelia?”

“Taking care of the baby. He’s teething.”

“What about Win?”

“She’s with the housekeeper, taking inventory and ordering supplies. Beatrix is carrying baskets to elderly cottagers in town. And I have to visit a tenant who’s two months lacking in his rent. I’m afraid there is no one available to entertain you.”

Leo greeted this statement with surly silence. And then he brought himself to ask for the person he truly wanted. The person who hadn’t bothered to look in on him or ask after his welfare even after she’d promised to safeguard him. “Where’s Marks?”

“The last time I saw her, she was busy with needlework. It seems the mending has piled up, and—”

“She can do it here.”

Cam’s face was carefully blank. “You want Miss Marks to do the mending in your room?”

“Yes, send her up here.”

“I’ll ask if she’s willing,” Cam said, looking doubtful.

After Leo had washed and dragged on a dressing robe, he went back to bed. He was sore and infuriatingly unsteady. A housemaid brought a small tray with a solitary piece of toast and a cup of tea. Leo ate his breakfast while staring morosely at the empty doorway.

Where was Marks? Had Cam even bothered to tell her that she was wanted? If so, she had evidently decided to ignore the summons.

Callous, coldhearted harpy. And this after she had promised to be responsible for him. She had persuaded him to take the laudanum, and then she had deserted him.

Well, Leo didn’t want her now. If she decided to appear after all, he would send her away. He would laugh scornfully and tell her that no company at all was better than having her there. He would’

“My lord?”

His heart gave a leap as he saw her at the doorway, dressed in a dark blue gown, her light golden hair caught up and pinned in its usual stern confinement.

She held a book in one hand and a glass of pale liquid in the other. “How are you this morning?”

“Bored out of my wits,” Leo said with a scowl. “Why did you take so long to see me?”

“I thought you were still asleep.” Entering the room, Catherine left the door wide open. The long, furry form of Dodger the ferret came loping in after her. After standing tall to view his surroundings, Dodger scurried beneath the dresser. Catherine watched the ferret suspiciously. “Probably one of his new hiding places,” she said, and sighed. She brought Leo a glass of cloudy liquid, and gave it to him. “Drink this, please.”

“What is it?”

“Willowbark, for your fever. I stirred in some lemon and sugar to improve the flavor.”

Leo drank the bitter brew, watching as Catherine moved about the room. She opened a second window to admit more of the outside breeze. Taking his breakfast tray out to the hallway, she gave it to a passing housemaid. When she returned to Leo, she laid her fingers on his forehead to test his temperature.

Leo caught her wrist, staying the motion. He stared at her in dawning recognition. “It was you,” he said. “You came to me last night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You changed the cloth on my forehead. More than once.”

Catherine’s fingers curled lightly around his. Her voice was very soft. “As if I would enter a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night.”

But they both knew she had. The weight of melancholy lifted considerably, especially as Leo saw the concern in her eyes.

“How are your hands?” he asked, turning her scraped fingers to inspect them.

“Healing nicely, thank you.” She paused. “I am told you require companionship?”

“Yes,” he said promptly. “I’ll make do with you.”

Her lips curved. “Very well.”

Leo wanted to pull her against him and inhale her scent. She smelled light and clean, like tea and talcum and lavender.

“Shall I read to you?” she asked. “I brought a novel. Do you like Balzac?”

The day was improving rapidly. “Who doesn’t?”

Catherine occupied the chair by the bedside. “He meanders a bit too much for my taste. I prefer novels with more plot.”

“But with Balzac,” Leo said, “you have to give yourself over fully. You have to wallow and roll in the language…” Pausing, he looked more closely at her small oval face. She was pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes, no doubt as a result of having visited him so many times in the night. “You look tired,” he said bluntly. “On my account. Forgive me.”

“Oh, not at all, it wasn’t you. I had nightmares.”

“What about?”

Her expression turned guarded. Forbidden territory. And yet Leo couldn’t help pressing. “Are the nightmares about your past? About whatever situation it was that Rutledge found you in?”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Catherine stood, looking stunned and slightly ill. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No,” Leo said quickly, making a staying gesture with his hand. “Don’t leave. I need company—I’m still suffering the aftereffects of the laudanum that you convinced me to take.” Seeing her continuing hesitation, he added, “And I have a fever.”

“A mild one.”

“Hang it, Marks, you’re a companion,” he said with a scowl. “Do your job, will you?”

She looked indignant for a moment, and then a laugh burst out despite her efforts to hold it in. “I’m Beatrix’s companion,” she said. “Not yours.”

“Today you’re mine. Sit and start reading.”

To Leo’s surprise, the masterful approach actually worked. Catherine resumed her seat and opened the book to the first page. She used the tip of a forefinger to push her spectacles into place—a meticulous little gesture that he adored. “Un Homme d’Affaires,” she read. “A Man of Business. Chapter one.”

“Wait.”

Catherine glanced at him expectantly.

Leo chose his words with care. “Is there any part of your past that you would be willing to discuss?”

“For what purpose?”

“I’m curious about you.”

“I don’t like to talk about myself.”

“You see, that’s proof of how interesting you are. There’s nothing more tedious than people who like to talk about themselves. I’m a perfect example.”

She looked down at the book as if she were trying very hard to concentrate on the page. But after just a few seconds, she looked up with a grin that seemed to dissolve his spine. “You are many things, my lord. But tedious is not one of them.”

As Leo gazed at her, he felt the same inexplicable flourish of warmth, of happiness, that he’d experienced yesterday, before their mishap at the ruins.

“What would you like to know?” Catherine asked.

“When did you first learn that you needed spectacles?”

“I was five or six. My parents and I lived in Holborn, in a tenement at Portpool Lane. Since girls couldn’t go to school at the time, a local woman tried to teach a few of us. She told my mother that I was very good at memorization, but I was slow-witted when it came to reading and writing. One day my mother sent me on an errand to fetch a parcel from the butcher. It was only two streets away, but I got lost. Everything was a blur. I was found wandering and crying a few streets away, until finally someone led me to the butcher’s shop.” A smile curved her lips. “What a kind man he was. When I told him I didn’t think I could find my way home, he said he had an idea. And he had me try on his wife’s spectacles. I couldn’t believe how the world looked. Magical. I could see the pattern of bricks on walls, and birds in the air, and even the weave of the butcher’s apron. That was my problem, he said. I just hadn’t been able to see. And ever since then I’ve worn spectacles.”

“Were your parents relieved to discover their daughter wasn’t slow-witted after all?”

“Quite the opposite. They argued for days about which side of the family my weak eyes had come from. My mother was quite distressed, as she said spectacles would mar my appearance.”

“What rot.”

She looked rueful. “My mother did not possess what one would call a great depth of character.”

“In light of her actions—abandoning a husband and son, running to England with her lover—I wouldn’t have expected a surfeit of principles.”

“I thought they were married, when I was a child,” she said.

“Was there love between them?”

Considering that, she chewed her lower lip, drawing his attention to the enticing softness of her mouth. “They were attracted to each other in a physical sense,” she admitted. “But that’s not love, is it?”

“No,” he said softly. “What happened to your father?”

“I’d rather not discuss that.”

“After all I’ve confided in you?” He gave her a chiding glance. “Be fair, Marks. It can’t be any more difficult for you than it was for me.”

“All right.” Catherine took a deep breath. “When my mother fell ill, my father felt it as a great burden. He paid a woman to look after her until the end, and sent me away to live with my aunt and grandmother, and I never heard from him again. He may be dead, for all I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Leo said. And he was. Genuinely sorry, wishing he could somehow have gone back in time to comfort a small girl in spectacles, who had been abandoned by the man who should have protected her. “Not all men are like that,” he felt the need to point out.

“I know. It would hardly be fair of me to blame the entire male population for my father’s sins.”

Leo became uncomfortably aware that his own behavior hadn’t been any better than her father’s, that he had indulged in his own bitter grief to the point of abandoning his sisters. “No wonder you’ve always hated me,” he said. “I must remind you of him. I deserted my sisters when they needed me.”

Catherine gave him a clear-eyed stare, not pitying, not censorious, just … appraising. “No,” she said sincerely. “You’re not at all like him. You came back to your family. You’ve worked for them, cared for them. And I’ve never hated you.”

Leo stared at her closely, more than a little surprised by the revelation. “You haven’t?”

“No. In fact—” She broke off abruptly.

“In fact?” Leo prompted. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“You were. Something along the lines of liking me against your will.”

“Certainly not,” Catherine said primly, but Leo saw the twitch of a smile at her lips.

“Irresistibly attracted by my dashing good looks?” he suggested. “My fascinating conversation?”

“No, and no.”

“Seduced by my brooding glances?” He accompanied this with a waggish swerving of his brows that finally reduced her to laughter.

“Yes, it must have been those.”

Settling back against the pillows, Leo regarded her with satisfaction.

What a wonderful laugh she had, light and throaty, as if she had been drinking champagne.

And what a problem this could become, this madly inappropriate desire for her. She was becoming real to him, dimensional, vulnerable in ways he had never imagined.

As Catherine read aloud, the ferret emerged from beneath the dresser and climbed onto her lap. He fell asleep in an upside-down circle, his mouth open. Leo didn’t blame Dodger in the slightest. Catherine’s lap looked like a lovely place to rest one’s head.

Leo feigned interest in the complex and detailed narrative, while his mind occupied itself with the question of what she would look like naked. It seemed tragic that he would never see her so. But even by Leo’s dilapidated code of ethics, a man did not take a virgin unless he had serious intentions. He had tried it once, letting himself fall madly in love, nearly losing everything as a result.

And there were some risks a man couldn’t take twice.