A Lady in Love by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

why she had called herself a fool. “The rain caught me, unexpectedly. That's how my shoes got wet. Everyone at Hollytrees was caught. ‘Lizabeth took good care of us."
    "I reckon she'll have her hands full now. Do her good; all young girls are lazy."
    "Yes, Molly.” Sarah stood up, pretending to be strong. “What shall I help you with?"
    Molly frowned. She was all the more suspicious because of Sarah's exaggerated aspect of innocence. Slowly, the maid said, “They'll be needing extra linens at Hollytrees, what with all them fine folks bedridden, as you say. They'll need to make up beds for you and the missus as well. Go count out a dozen sheets to take Lady Phelps. Not the ones with the lace edges, mind."
    In the fragrant depths of the linen-press, Sarah laid her cheek against the cool ecru sheets. A tear was absorbed and lost. Loving Lord Reyne from the moment she'd seen him, it had never until now occurred to Sarah that he did not love her in return. Everything he'd said and done, reinterpreted, meant only casual kindness to a tiresome girl, same as he would have shown to any stranger. After all. Lord Reyne was an earl, trained from infancy always to be a complete gentleman.
    Sarah saw now what an utter, utter fool she had been and reproved herself for it. There'd be no more hurling herself into his arms and seeking out his company. Though she loved him no less, an infant self-esteem demanded she behave as a well brought up young lady should. Aunt Whitsun would be proud of her, though she hoped that lady would never find out how foolishly her niece had behaved.
    Resolutely, Sarah began placing the folded sheets in a basket. A sob shook her. “One, two, three ...” Tears spotted the second-best sheets. “Ten, eleven, twelve.” Sarah sighed and wiped the dampness from her cheeks with shaking fingers.
    Half-closing the door, she glimpsed the best, the finest sheets waving their lace-trimmed edges at her. Quick as a thief, Sarah grabbed a set and buried them under the others, so Molly would not see them. She slammed the press door.
    * * * *
    "No!” Lord Reyne said, pushing aside the tray the young footman attempted to place on his lordship's blanketed lap. “Blast it, man, I don't care what the doctor said. Eating in bed is for old women and invalids. Take it away and bring me my breeches."
    Fred left open the door to Lord Reyne's room. Sarah, in the hall after taking Mrs. Dealford her tray, paused to eavesdrop. Mrs. Dealford had made no objection to dining in bed, contenting herself with asking Sarah to send up Emma as soon as she returned downstairs. Sarah would not hurry to do the lady's bidding.
    From Harmonia she'd heard that Emma had not left her mother's bedside even once during the afternoon, which Harmonia thought monstrous. From outright hostility, Harmonia had swung over to Emma Dealford's side. “No doubt her mother forced her into it. I'm sure Emma didn't want to talk to Harlow at all."
    Sarah felt a certain hesitation in meeting Lord Reyne after that impulsive embrace, but she overcame it, feeling he needed her help. Stepping into the room, Sarah coughed gently, her lashes downcast. With a muffled exclamation, Alaric swung his naked legs under the covers.
    When he was decent, he said, “Miss East, perhaps you can explain that dining cannot be considered undue exertion. I've been trying for five minutes and all I hear is ‘Doctor's orders, my lord.’”
    Stung by his mockery, the footman said, “So it is, my lord."
    "I think it will be all right if Lord Reyne sits over there.” She pointed to a rather old-fashioned style of table, banished from the library, that possessed a matching chair. “There isn't going to be a formal dinner this evening, just trays for everybody. It makes more work, of course, but Lady Phelps thought it would be best."
    "Oh,” Alaric said. “I didn't know that."
    Sarah smiled, laughing a little. “You're not the only one who's sick, you know. There are thirteen of