‘And what do you feel?’ Phoebe pressed.
Frustrated. Confused. Anxious. Tired. And so damned happy he was alive and back here with her.
‘I think I will go back to the sickroom. He shouldn’t be left alone.’
‘No,’ her sister said as she set down her teacup. ‘There is a footman with him. You need real sleep.’
‘Every time I close my eyes, I think…’ She pressed her lips together, unwilling to speak the words aloud.
‘About him?’ Phoebe pressed.
‘That he might die.’
Her friend nodded. ‘Did you get him to drink the herbs I sent? Did you put it in his broth?’
‘I did. I think it helped. It’s so hard to say.’
‘He’ll keep getting better,’ Phoebe promised. ‘You’ll see. He’ll get stronger. You’ll get some rest. Everything will be better by tomorrow.’
She hoped so. In truth, a part of her knew it would be so. He was on the mend now. But the rest of her was still a tight knot of anxiety.
‘If he wakes up and talks about money again, I think I shall strangle him!’
Her sister chuckled. ‘Perhaps we should warn him about that before you murder him.’
Phoebe snorted. ‘We should leave a note by his bed.’
‘And perhaps,’ Lucy said, ‘we should all talk about something other than him!’
The two women obliged her and changed the topic. They spoke about which gentleman were interesting this Season. Answer: not many. Worse, Lucy already knew the men were not for her. None of them set her heart beating. None of them consumed her. And none of them were Cedric. For good or for ill, he was the one she must deal with now.