Secrets of a Summer Night

Chapter 12

Too dizzy to notice what was happening around her, Annabelle received the clean handkerchief that was thrust in her hand. It was mercifully free of any smell except for the crisp hint of starch. After wiping her perspiring face, then her mouth, Annabelle managed to straighten and face the newcomer. Her sore stomach did a slow, agonizing revolution at the sight of Simon Hunt. It seemed that he had followed her out to the terrace just in time to witness her humiliating nausea. She wanted to die. If only she could conveniently expire right then, and forever obliterate the knowledge that Simon Hunt had seen her cast up her crumpets in the flower bed.

Hunt’s face was impassive, save for the frown indentations between his brows. Quickly he reached out to steady her as she swayed before him. “In light of our recent agreement,” he murmured, “this is most unflattering, Miss Peyton.”

“Oh, go away,” Annabelle moaned, but she found herself leaning hard against the strong support of his body as another wave of illness washed over her. She clamped the handkerchief to her mouth and breathed through her nose, and mercifully the feeling passed. But the most debilitating weakness she had ever felt swept over her, and she knew that if he had not been there, she would have crumpled to the ground. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

Hunt immediately adjusted his hold, bracing her easily. “I thought you looked pale,” he remarked, gently stroking back a lock of hair that had fallen over her damp face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is it just your stomach, or do you hurt somewhere else?”

Somewhere beneath the layers of misery Annabelle was startled by the endearment, not to mention the fact that a gentleman should never, ever have referred to one of a lady’s internal parts. However, at the moment she was too ill to do anything but cling to his coat lapels. Concentrating on his question, she pondered the chaos inside her inhospitable body. “I hurt everywhere,” she whispered. “My head, my stomach, my back…but most of all my ankle.”

As she spoke, she noticed that her lips felt numb. She licked at them experimentally, alarmed by the lack of sensation. Had she been just a bit less disoriented, she would have noticed that Hunt was staring at her in a way that he never had before. Later, Daisy would describe in detail how protective Simon Hunt had seemed as he had stood with his arms around her. For now, however, Annabelle was too wretched to perceive anything outside her own swamping illness.

Lillian spoke briskly, moving forward to extricate Annabelle from Hunt’s grasp. “Thank you for the use of your handkerchief, sir. You may leave now, as my sister and I are fully capable of taking care of Miss Peyton.”

Ignoring the American girl, Hunt kept his arm around Annabelle as he stared into her blanched face. “How did you hurt your ankle?” he asked.

“The Rounders game, I think…”

“I didn’t see you drink anything at dinner.” Hunt laid his hand across her forehead, searching for signs of fever. The gesture was astonishingly intimate and familiar. “Did you have something earlier?”

“If you mean spirits or wine, no.” Annabelle’s body seemed to be collapsing slowly, as if her mind had released all control over the movement of her limbs. “I drank some willowbark tea in my room.”

Hunt’s warm hand moved to the side of her face, conforming gently to the curve of her cheek. She was so cold, shivering inside her sweat-dampened gown, her skin covered with gooseflesh. Perceiving the inviting heat that radiated from his body, she was nearly overcome with the urge to delve into his coat like a small burrowing animal. “I’m f-freezing,” she whispered, and his arm tightened reflexively around her.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, adroitly managing to shed his coat while supporting her trembling form at the same time. He wrapped her in the garment, which retained the warmth of his skin, and she responded with an inarticulate sound of gratitude.