“We are,” he agreed, finding that for all they were before a fire, he still just couldn’t quite banish a sense of chill in his bones. “And as splitting wood seems to have left me a little stiff, the bed appeals.”

“To bed then,” Anna said resignedly as she began to gather an armload of logs from the wood box. It took several trips to move wood, blankets, and provisions to the bedroom. By the time they were finished, the entire house was growing gloomy with the approaching night.

Westhaven left the room to fetch a bucket of wash water from the kitchen, while Anna scouted the bed drawers for the linens sewn to fit the bed.

“Your water,” the earl said when he returned moments later. “I see your treasure hunt was successful.”

“The bed is made up.” Anna smiled at him. “We have soap and towels, though only our two blankets.”

“That should suffice.” The earl yawned as he knelt by the open drawer. “How about if you take the nightshirt, and I take the dressing gown?”

“As you wish, but a few minutes privacy would be appreciated, and…”

“And?” He was just pulling off his boots again, but in the dim firelight, at the end of the day, it struck him as a particularly intimate thing for her to watch.

“You will not touch me tonight? You will not expect me to touch you?”

“Touch as in, your knee bumps my shin, or touch as in what happened this afternoon?” the earl asked, peering into his boot.

“What happened this afternoon. I’ll try not to kick at you, either.”

“I will not make demands of you,” the earl said, leveling a look at her, “but I will want to.” He set aside his boots and rose, leaving her the privacy she requested to wash, change into the nightshirt, and dive beneath the chilly sheets of the bed.

When Westhaven returned, he looked over at the bed and saw Anna was feigning sleep. He had every intention of keeping his word to her, of behaving himself once he climbed into that bed. He was more tired than he had a right to be, considering he’d done little more than tool along in the gig, stroll around the property, and talk with Anna.

But he was exhausted, and he’d taken some sort of chill in the rain, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Still, he wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to torment his intended duchess, so he stripped out of his shirt, his breeches, stockings, and smalls, and took the bucket to the hearth, the better to illuminate him for Anna’s peeping eyes.

Truth to tell, it felt good to be naked and in the same room with her. He found a towel and the soap on the hearth, where Anna had left them, and slowly began to wash himself from toes to fingertips. When he’d made a thorough job of it, he blew out their two candles, tossed the dressing gown to the foot of the bed, and climbed in beside Anna.

In the darkness hours later, Anna awoke to feel his hand on her flesh, making a slow journey over her hip to her buttock and back again. The creaking and shifting of the old bed suggested he was moving more than his hand, and his breathing—slow, but audible—supported the theory.

He’s pleasuring himself again. Were all men so afflicted with lust? she wondered, even as that single, repetitive stroke of his hand left a trail of warmth across her flesh. If she rolled over, began kissing him or simply let him hold her, what other means would he find to torment her?

His breathing hitched, sighed, and hitched again, and then his hand went still. Anna felt him moving around and then subsiding down under the covers. That same hand curled around her middle, and her back was enveloped in the heat of his chest. He kissed her cheek then fitted himself behind her, leaving her bewildered but oddly pleased, as well.

She could not permit him the liberties he so clearly wanted, but this cuddling and drowsing together, it was more of a gift than he could ever know. While the storm pelted down from the heavens, Anna slept a dreamless, contented sleep in the arms of the man she could not marry.

Had Westhaven kept his dressing gown on, Anna might have been much slower to diagnose his ailment. As it was, they slept late, the day making a desultory arrival amid a steady rain that left the sky gray and the house gloomy. Anna’s first sensation was of heat, too much heat. Of course it was summer, but with the change in weather, the house itself was downright chilly.

Westhaven, she realized, was still spooned around her, and the heat was radiating from his body. She shifted away, and he rolled to his back.

He reached for the water glass. “I feel like I came off Pericles at the first jump, and the whole flight rode over me. And it is deucedly hot in this bed.” He rose, wrestling the blankets aside, and sat for a moment on the edge of the mattress as if finding his equilibrium.

“No,” he went on. “I feel worse than that, no reflection on present company, of course.” Without thinking, Anna rolled over to respond and saw him rise, naked as the day he was born, and make for the chamber pot.

“Good morning to you, too,” she muttered, flouncing back to her side, unwilling to be as casual as he about his nudity. He came back to the bed, took a sip of his water, and frowned.

“I am inclined to purchase this property,” he reflected, “but this bed will have to go. I have never risen feeling less rested.”

Anna rolled to her other side, a retort on her lips regarding earls who did not keep their hands to themselves, but she stopped and fell silent. Westhaven was sitting up, leaning against the pillows, his water glass cradled in his lap.

“Oh, my Lord,” Anna whispered, pushing her braid over her shoulder.

“No my lording,” Westhaven groused. “I am quite simply not in the mood for it.”

“No,” Anna said, scrambling to her knees. “My Lord, as in Lord above.” She reached out and ran a hand over his torso, causing him to look down at his own body.

“You were peeking last night,” he said. “It isn’t as if you haven’t seen me unclothed, Anna Seaton.”

“It isn’t that,” Anna said, drawing her hand back then brushing it over his stomach. “Oh, Lord.”

“Oh, Lord, what?”

“You.” She sat back, her head moving from side to side in disbelief. “You’re coming down with the chicken pox.” A stunned beat of silence followed, then the earl’s snort of displeasure.

“I most certainly am not,” he informed her. “Only children get the chicken pox, and I am not a child.”

“You never had them as a child,” Anna said, meeting his eyes, “or you wouldn’t have them now.”

The earl glared at his torso, which was sprinkled with small red dots. Not that many, but enough that they both knew they weren’t there the night before. He inspected his arms, which sported a few more.

“This is Tolliver’s fault,” he declared. “I’ll see him transported for this, and Sue-Sue with him.”

“We need to get you home,” Anna said, slogging her way to the edge of the bed. “In children, chicken pox are uncomfortable but usually not serious. In an adult, they can be much more difficult.”

“You are going to make a sick man travel for hours in this damned rain?” The earl speared her with a look then glared at his stomach again. “Bloody hell.”

“We have few medicinals here, and you will feel worse before you get better, possibly much worse. Best we get you home now.”

“And if the damned gig should slide down a muddy embankment, Anna?” he retorted. “It wouldn’t matter if the chicken pox got me, or a broken neck.”

She turned her back on him for that and went to the window, assessing the weather. He had a point, though he’d made it as meanly as possible. The rain was pelting down in torrents, as it had been for much of the night.

“I’m sorry,” the earl said, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. “Being ill unnerves me.”