Page 39 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“No. Didn’t want you to worry.”

“So you thought you’d keep your illness a secret? How can you possibly think they’ll look after you well in such an uncharted backwater as this? They’re more likely to drug you and hold you for ransom,” his mama exclaimed.

James rolled his eyes. “It’s no secret. Not imprisoned here. Good care. Not a backwater.”

“That’s nothing to the point. I won’t have you cared for by amateurs. We’ll take you back to Birney, where Dr. Abrahams can attend to you.”

Despite his physical lassitude, James’s temper rose. Scowling at his mother, he said, “Perfectly good nursing. Should be grateful. All of us!”

“Oh dear,” said his mother, turning to Papa. “He doesn’t seem at all the thing. I think we’ve come not a moment too soon.”

“Mama. Please, wait outside a moment. You’re getting upset. Send in Mr. d’Ibert. Papa and I will speak with him.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” his mother replied in her most outraged voice. “I shan’t stay where I’m not required.”

He groaned and flopped back against his pillows, but he needed her gone. She cluttered his thoughts, and he wanted to think clearly. He knew he hadn’t really offended her—the Countess of Rossbury was impervious to slight. She noticed it, yes, but it never affected her behavior. At least, not publicly.

Mama swept out of the room, and he hoped—for the sake of Emma and the rest of the family—that she would take her lofty disapproval with her and go wait in the carriage.

Thomas d’Ibert entered the room, casting nervous glances at the earl, and James steeled himself for the effort of mediating between the two families.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Emma’s mama paced up and down in the hallway, occasionally stopping to smooth down her skirts and pat her lace-edged cap. “What on earth are they talking about in there, Emma?” she asked. “And why did they call your father in?”

Emma didn’t know, and she didn’t care. “If they want to take the viscount back with them, they’re most welcome,” she said sourly.

“Emma! It’s not like you to be so uncharitable. But you’re exhausted, and it’s making you fretful. If Viscount Tidworth is well enough to travel home today, you must go up to bed the instant he leaves.”

Emma let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. And yes, I am bone-tired. If Tidworth is to be moved, now would be the time to do it, before the next cold paroxysm attacks him. His parents will not have come prepared to transport an invalid, for all their vehicle is so grand.”

Not that she minded how miserable he might feel. Any affection she might have felt growing toward him was now completely quashed.

She wasn’t even sure he was worth the effort of hating. He’d wrapped his body around her like a lover, called her his angel—and then called her Belinda. It proved that, despite his protests, he really was a rake. To be so casual about such things, he must already have been inappropriately intimate with Belinda, whether or not they’d actually coupled. If so, it was very likely he’d done the same with Philippa. Which, admittedly, wasn’t uncommon behavior in one of his standing—for didn’t the very rich have mistresses in every county where they held land, in addition to those in London or Bath? Not behavior Emma could ever condone.

But even if it were just the fever and he wasn’t as vile as all that, he’d still called Emma by another woman’s name. After she had risked total ruin by sliding into bed with him. What had she been thinking? That, and spinning foolish, scandalous dreams about the man. How humiliating! Clearly, he hadn’t been seeing her, at all, but another. It wasn’t Emma he’d thought beautiful, or looked at with such longing.

It was Belinda Carslake. The woman he was still in love with.

How could Emma have been so taken in by his soft, serpent’s words?

Fortunately, George had instilled in her a positive attitude toward sick people. It didn’t matter whether one liked them or not, nor how they behaved. One should always remain detached and ignore all their taunts, complaints, and rudeness. And remind oneself that no patient would have said such things had they been well.

She should have known better than to believe a word he said in his delirium.

She, however, was still a lady, and in control of her behavior. “Do you think I should go out to the carriage and offer the countess some refreshment?” she asked her mother.

“Certainly not!” Mama replied. “I don’t want her thinking us brought too low for propriety. No, indeed. Send Sarah to ask her. I want her to see that we keep a servant still.”

Sarah was duly dispatched, and although she’d got used to the presence of a viscount in their midst, the countess so terrified her she could barely speak when she returned to tell them nothing was required.

“She probably thinks we don’t wash our glasses properly,” Emma muttered, glaring at the open front doorway.

“Then it’s a shame we can’t prove to her we do. Oh, but didn’t we sell our best glasses? I can’t remember. It’s been so long since we’ve had any port or claret to drink.”

“Not all sold, Mama,” Emma reassured her. “And I would defy anyone to say port is better than our elderberry wine.”

“But she’ll have such a refined palate—these aristocrats always do. Though I’m not decrying your elderberry wine, my dear. It’s excellent.”