Page 21 of Marrying the Wrong Earl (Lords and Ladies in Love 2)

A fine wedding night he would have. The chilling champagne and soft candlelight he’d ordered his valet to prepare would be enjoyed only by him. He sighed and looked out the window. Not that he was such a lecher he could not control himself until his wife recovered, but a man did expect to take pleasure in the idea of bedding his new wife. Especially this one, with her soft curves and lush mouth.

The short ride from the Melrose townhouse to his own didn’t give him much time to feel sorry for himself. As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop, his butler Quinn hurried down the steps, still managing to maintain his dignity. “My lord, a Dr. Bennett has arrived and said he’d been summoned. I directed him to the library. Is Lady Clarendon ill?”

“Yes. Has her maid Sophia arrived?”

“About ten minutes ago. I sent her upstairs to my lady’s bedchamber.”

“Thank you.” Nash handed Arabella off to a footman and alighted from the carriage. He was annoyed with the feeling of possessiveness as the tall, handsome footman placed her back into his arms.

“Where am I?” Arabella’s voice was raspy, and her eyes glazed over.

Nash looked down at his bride. “We are home, my dear. Sophia has arrived and awaits you in your bedchamber. As soon as she has you settled, the doctor will attend you.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes, her head tucked against his chest.

He was becoming concerned at the amount of heat radiating from her body, right through her clothes and his. Sophia awaited them outside the bedchamber door, wringing her hands. “Oh my lord, is my lady so sick?”

“Yes, I am afraid she is. Please see her settled in bed and I will have the doctor attend her as soon as you are finished.” He placed her gently on the counterpane. He watched for a few minutes while Sophie removed her bonnet, gloves, and pelisse. Feeling as though he intruded, Nash left the room and headed to the library to speak with the doctor.

“My wife’s maid is preparing her, doctor. She will notify us when she is ready.”

“What seems to be the problem with Lady Clarendon?”

Nash ran his fingers through his hair. “We married just this morning, and—”

“Felicitations, my lord.” The doctor nodded.

“Thank you. It came to my attention at the wedding breakfast that my wife was not herself. When she assured me it was no more than bridal nerves, I dismissed it. Then when we were about to leave her mother’s home, she said she did not feel well. When I touched her forehead, she was quite hot. She then mentioned a sore throat and headache had been troubling her for most of the day.”

“Hmm. Well as soon as I am able, we’ll take a look at her. Was she complaining of a stomach upset?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. I also noticed she ate practically nothing at the breakfast.”

Nash moved to the sideboard and poured a drink. “Would you care for a drink while we wait?”

“No, thank you.” The doctor wandered the room, looking at the various titles on the bookshelves as Nash stared out the window, sipping on his drink. After about ten minutes of the two men lost in their own thoughts, Sophia entered the room.

“My lord, my lady is ready for the doctor now.”

“Thank you.” Nash headed to the door. “This way, doctor.”

Arabella looked so small in the huge bed. His stomach tightened at her paleness of face and the way she picked at the covers, seeming to be unclear as to where she was. “Arabella?” He sat alongside her and took her hand, his heart thumping at the heat that came from her flesh. “The doctor will examine you now. I will wait outside.”

She tugged on his hand. “No. I’m frightened. Stay here. Please.”

“Certainly.” He moved off the bed, and the doctor moved forward. The man was swift and efficient in his examination. Nash stayed back from the bed, watching Arabella thrash around, calling for her mother.

He was growing more alarmed by the minute. “Sophia, please send word to Lady Melrose to come immediat

ely.”

“Yes, my lord. I will go myself.” The maid hurried from the room, glancing back at Arabella.

“Thank you.”

Nash walked in a circle as the doctor made noises that only increased his unease. Finally, the man stood and approached Nash. “My lord, I believe your wife suffers from the grippe. Or, influenza.”

“Influenza?” Nash reared back, focusing on the one word. He’d had two friends at Eton who had died from influenza, as well as his grandmother and several cousins.