“You are mistaken; I shall do no such thing.”
He sounded cross; she wanted to take his face between her hands and kiss away his ill-humour. “No, sir, I am not mistaken.”
“May I ask, ma’am, how you propose to keep me a-bed?”
“Why yes, I have only to remove your clothes,” Miss Challoner pointed out.
“Very wifely,” he commented.
She winced a little at that, but said without a tremor: “I have sent your man for a surgeon. Pray do not blame him.”
“The devil you have!” said his lordship. “I’m not dying, you know.”
“Certainly not,” replied Miss Challoner. “But you drank a great deal too much wine yesterday, and I have little doubt it is that that has made you feverish, and maybe inflamed the wound. I think you should be blooded.”
My lord regarded her speechlessly. She drew a chair up and sat down. “Do you feel well enough to talk with me for a few minutes, sir?”
“Of course I am well enough to talk with you. What do you want to talk about?”