Just Like Heaven by Julia Quinn Page B

be sick, Mother,” Cecily said.
    Mrs. Royle scowled at her. “But if he is . . .”
    â€œI shall relate your good wishes,” Cecily finished for her.
    â€œHere comes the carriage,” Honoria said, nearly desperate to escape.
    â€œRemember!” Mrs. Royle called out as Honoria and Cecily were helped up by a footman. “If he’s sick, bring him—”
    But they were already rolling away.
    M arcus was still in bed when his butler quietly entered his room and informed him that Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith and Miss Royle had arrived and were waiting in the yellow drawing room.
    â€œShall I tell them you are not available to receive guests?” the butler inquired.
    For a moment Marcus was tempted to say yes. He felt awful, and he was sure he looked worse. By the time Jimmy had found him the previous evening, he had been shivering so hard he was amazed he hadn’t knocked out his own teeth. Then when he got home they had to cut the boot from him. Which would have been bad enough—he rather liked those boots—but his valet had been a bit more aggressive than necessary, and Marcus now sported a four-inch gash on his left leg.
    But if their situations had been reversed, he would have insisted upon ascertaining Honoria’s welfare with his own eyes, so it seemed that he would have to allow her to do the same with him. As for the other girl—Miss Royle, he thought the butler had said—he just hoped she was not a female of delicate sensibilities.
    Because the last time he’d looked in the mirror, he could have sworn his skin had been green.
    With help from his valet—both in dressing and making it downstairs to the drawing room—Marcus thought he looked moderately presentable when he greeted the two ladies.
    â€œGood God, Marcus,” Honoria exclaimed as she came to her feet. “You look like death.”
    Apparently, he was wrong. “Lovely to see you, too, Honoria.” He motioned to a nearby sofa. “Do you mind if I sit?”
    â€œNo, please, go ahead. Your eyes are terribly sunken in.” She grimaced as she watched him attempt to maneuver his way around a table. “Shall I help you?”
    â€œNo, no, I’m quite all right.” He hopped twice to get to the edge of the cushions and then practically fell backward onto the sofa. Dignity, it seemed, had no place in a sickroom.
    â€œMiss Royle,” he said, giving a nod to the other lady. He’d met her once or twice over the years, he was fairly certain.
    â€œLord Chatteris,” she said politely. “My parents send their regards and wish you a speedy recovery.”
    â€œThank you,” he said, giving her a weak nod. He felt overpoweringly tired all of a sudden. The trip from his bedroom downstairs must have been more difficult than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t slept well the night before, either. He’d started coughing the moment his head had touched his pillow, and he hadn’t stopped since.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said to the two ladies as he placed a cushion on the table in front of him, then propped his foot on it. “I’m told I’m meant to elevate it.”
    â€œMarcus,” Honoria said, immediately dispensing with any pretense of polite conversation, “you should not be out of bed.”
    â€œIt’s where I was,” he said dryly, “until I was informed that I had visitors.”
    This earned him a look of such reproach that it brought to mind Miss Pimm, his nurse from oh-so-many years ago. “You should have told your butler you were not receiving,” she said.
    â€œReally?” he murmured. “I’m sure you would have accepted that meekly and gone home assured of my welfare.” He looked over at the other lady with an ironic tilt to his head. “What do you think, Miss Royle? Would Lady Honoria have left without comment?”
    â€œNo, my lord,” Miss Royle said, her lips