The Reluctant Governess by Maggie Robinson Page B

pleasant as going up. Wallpaper wavered beneath his hands and carpet cringed under his feet, very much like that sensation he’d had when he’d smoked something he shouldn’t have. An icy prickle ran down his neck, and he had a sudden urge for his cashmere muffler.
    He was cold. He was damned cold. Nick put a hand to his battered forehead, which felt damned hot.
    He was damned, no matter what.
    Teeth chattering, he crawled back into his bed. The patterns on the jardinières on the mantel wiggled, so he shut his eyes. Not that he would sleep. Not allowed. Miss Priss would give him hell.
    Where was she? He couldn’t believe he missed her.
    Nick picked up the notepad and looked at his attempt to capture the soul of Eliza Lawrence. In his few pencil lines, her eyes stared blankly off in the distance, her lush lips were firmly shut, and she looked as if she smelled something funny. Well, she probably did—he’d never had his much-needed bath.
    This image would never do. He tore the page from the notebook and lobbed it toward the wastebasket, missing it by a significant distance. His arm felt like a piece of cooked spaghetti. But it was strong enough to draw, and in a few short strokes he had a much better image of Miss Lawrence, hair tumbling down bare shoulders, eyes downcast, lips parted, looking ready to join him in his bed of pain.
    Ha. Most unlikely.
    She’d left the door ajar, and now she pushed in, carrying a tray with tea things and a fragrant bowl of something that set Nick’s stomach to turn over. He slapped the book shut and tucked it under the pillow.
    She arranged the tray on the bedside table and lifted a bouillon cup. “Some of Mrs. Quinn’s beef marrow broth,” Miss Lawrence began, before noting that he was struggling to turn back a tide of wretchedness in his alimentary canal. “No? You’re very green all of a sudden. I’ll just put it in the hall, then.”
    Nick nodded, too afraid to speak. The hall might not be far enough away; he had an acute sense of smell.
    For God’s sake, man. Pull yourself together. What woman wants to spend time with a puling, puking wreck?
    She returned without the offensive double-handled cup. “Do you think you can manage some tea? Dr. Samuelson has just left. He says his nurse is on her way, and that the patients downstairs are all back to sleep.”
    â€œLucky them,” he mumbled.
    â€œHow do you take your tea?”
    â€œNo milk. No sugar.”
    Miss Lawrence wrinkled her nose. It was a nice nose, a touch retroussé. “How ascetic.”
    â€œWell, if you must know I usually take tea with a slug of whiskey if I must drink it at all. I’m convinced you won’t approve of that.”
    She shook her head. “Doctor’s orders as well.” She poured the steaming liquid in a fragile pink-flowered cup. Nick could not imagine what possessed Daniel Preble to buy such a thing. He was still becoming acquainted with all his new possessions, but would eventually have to put his own stamp on the place. Nick had never given much attention to dinner plates before, though he supposed there was a first time for everything.
    He took a gulp of the scalding liquid under Miss Lawrence’s watchful blue eyes. “Aren’t you going to join me?”
    â€œI had a cup with Dr. Samuelson before he left. I’m sorry if I abandoned you for too long.”
    Nick tried a smile. “I survived.” He took a breath. “I am sorry for dragging you into all this. I’m sure it’s not what you expected when you signed on to the household.”
    â€œIt’s only temporary,” she reminded him.
    â€œIsn’t everything?” he murmured.
    She sat a little straighter in her chair, and Nick felt a lecture coming on. “Not at all. Some things are writ in stone.”
    â€œReally? Name one.”
    â€œMarital fidelity, for example.”
    Nick snorted, something he would