“Stop fussing. You don’t want to get any on your dress, do you? I’ve seen plenty of ankles, Lady Petra, and yours are quite average. And you are ill and not appealing in the least. I think I’ll be able to control myself.”
“You arehorrible,” she whispered, becoming ill again.
“I never claimed to be anything else.” His hands held her firmly about the waist.
Petra had never been so miserable in her life. Her stomach heaved and rolled. She was shaking and coughing. Of all the people she could have been sick in front of, Morwick would have been her last choice. But he said nothing more as he held her until the last of the heaves subsided, merely producing a handkerchief hastily from somewhere in his coat. He pressed the square of cloth to her lips.
The handkerchief smelled of Morwick and dust.
“Better?”
“Your handkerchief smells of dirt. But yes. Thank you.” She tried to straighten, but another stomach cramp caused her to double over.
“I’m sorry it’s not the delicate, monogrammed bits of silk you’re used to, but this isn’t London.” His voice lowered. “Deep breaths, Petra. You’ve eaten something spoiled, I imagine. Lady Marsh seems to think you’ve nerves, but you don’t strike me as especially nervous. What did you eat last before becoming ill?”
“Lamb stew,” she whispered. “I believe it was the lamb stew.” Her stomach turned again. “Are you going to call me Puking Petra now?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he murmured. “What a grand idea.”
Morwick tightened his hold, supporting her body with his. He was warm and solid, a port in a storm.
“I shall not apologize for ruining your boots.” She choked as the stomach cramps momentarily subsided. “I still find you reprehensible.”
“I would expect nothing less.” His words were brusque, but his arm stayed around her waist. “Are you ready to go to your mother?”
Petra nodded dully. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Petra!” Lady Marsh stood several feet away, waving her hands. “Oh, my dear one.” A startled squeak popped from her lips. “Lord Morwick. Your boots!”
Morwick did not release his hold on Petra even though Mother had noticed. Her lips formed that tiny hill of displeasure. “I see your mother,” he said with a trace of humor, “is ready to offer her assistance.”
“Oh, she won’t be able to help.” Petra kept her voice low least her mother hear. “Mother positively faints at the sight of blood or…other things. She will be quite useless and I should hate for you to contend with a fainting countess as well as Puking Petra.” She tried to pull away from him but wobbled; he held on tighter.
This time Mother made an odd cluck, the sound of an outraged hen.
“They are just boots, Lady Marsh,” Morwick said smoothly. “And old ones at that. Not much of a loss. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll clean them off.” Morwick’s sapphire gaze turned to Petra. “I hear the carriage approaching. Will you be able to make the short ride? Somerton isn’t very far.” There was concern in his eyes, though he still sounded annoyed at her condition.
“Yes, thank you. I will need to rest before dinner, I think.”
“I insist you restduringdinner and a physician will be summoned.”
“I’m sure that isn’t necessary, Lord Morwick.” Mother wrung her hands. “It’s only nerves and exhaustion from the journey. A good lie-down before dinner and she’ll be right as rain, won’t you, Petra?”
Morwick stared her mother down, not intimidated by Lady Marsh in the least. “Nevertheless, my lady, Dr. Stubbins will be called.” At her mother’s protest, he said, “I insist.” He walked Petra to the stump her mother rapidly vacated upon their approach and settled her gently before stomping off into the underbrush.
Mother turned to Petra. “How kind,” she said over her shoulder to Morwick, clearly resenting his interference. She took Petra’s arm. “I’m sure you aren’treallyill dearest, but nonetheless, I’m happy this didn’t happen at Brushbriar. Imagine what Lady Pendleton would have thought had you arrived with a ripped dress and then been unwell in her presence. Thank goodness something positive has come from our little mishap.”
Another cramp twisted Petra’s stomach. She was too miserable to care what Lady Pendleton would have thought about her being ill.
“A good night’s sleep will restore you, I have no doubt. We’ll be at Brushbriar well before tea.”
As usual, Mother was wrong.
4
“Here now, my lady.” Tessie, her lady’s maid, held the cup of tea to Petra’s lips. “Would you like a hot bath?”
“That would be lovely, Tessie. Thank you.”
