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his head to the side. "I confess, being an American, I'm not quite sure how to address you. Should I call you
Lady
Elizabeth?"
    As hazy as she was, Elizabeth had already decided she liked Dr. Stephen Marks. There was a warmth and friendliness to his manner that made her trust him immediately.
    Ignoring her parched throat and cracked lips, she smiled. "Elizabeth is fine."
    "Good. And you may call me Stephen." There was a pitcher of water on a table near the head of the bed. He must have known of her thirst, for he poured a glass of water and offered it to her. "Here, allow me," he murmured, helping her to sit and adjusting pillows behind her. He handed her her white silk wrapper, then discreetly turned his back while she slipped it over her shoulders. Elizabeth smiled gratefully when he returned to tip the glass to her lips. She was embarrassed at how weak she was, yet her muscles seemed to have turned to gruel.
    When she'd finished, he said briskly, "Do you know where you are, Elizabeth?"
    Memory rushed in at her from all sides—she recalled waiting for Nathaniel in the drawing room. Only it hadn't been Nathaniel who had come—it was that tall, fiercely elegant stranger… Turning her mind to the question at hand, she bit her lip, her gaze touching on the richness of the room's furnishings.
    "From the look of it," she murmured, "not in a hospital. Therefore I assume I'm still at the home of Nathaniel O'Connor."
    He hesitated, a faint frown lining his brow, then nodded. "So tell me, Elizabeth. How are you feeling?"
    In her entire life, she didn't know when she'd felt so awful; as if she'd been battered and bruised from the inside out, and so she said. After a moment, she asked, "What day is this?"
    "Sunday morning."
    Her eyes widened. Her ship had docked Wednesday afternoon. "Oh, my," she murmured, precipitating another kindly laugh from Stephen. She bit her lip and glanced at him hopefully. "Do you think I might get up for a bit?"
    He started to shake his head, then glimpsed her crestfallen expression. "I suppose we could see if you're up to it—certainly a few steps would do no harm. Here, let me help you." He swept back the counterpane, taking care to avert his eyes from the sight of her bare limbs.
    Elizabeth eased her legs to the floor, secretly surprised by how wooden they felt. Nonetheless, she was determined. Stephen slipped an arm around her waist. She smiled up at him gratefully and sought to rise to her feet. Her expression quickly turned to one of startled bemusement when she discovered her legs refused to hold her.
    She sank back down. "Oh, dear," she said with a laugh as shaky as her legs. "I'm afraid I'm not up to this after all."
    Stephen merely shook his head, his lips curved upward as he swung her bare feet back to the mattress. She leaned back against the pillows, all at once feeling absurdly tired and weak for having slept nearly three days, and disliking it heartily. "What's wrong with me anyway?"
    "Pneumonia, I suspect. And though it appears the crisis has passed, you're still very ill, Elizabeth." He rose from the chair. "Which is why I'll leave you to rest. I'll have the cook send up some broth, and we'll see how you do with that. Some nourishment should begin to make you stronger. In the meantime, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
    Even as the doctor exited, another figure entered…
    It was
him
.
    The door clicked shut.
    They were left alone.
    A fleeting panic assailed her. Odd, for Elizabeth would never have considered herself a coward, but the prospect of facing this man was almost frightening.
    There was scant resemblance to Nathaniel, she noted distantly. This man was taller. Leaner. The elder, by the look of him. He was not smiling, as Nathaniel surely would have been. And there was no laughter in his eyes…
    Instead they were fixed on her, coolly remote.
    His clothing was severe yet elegant—dark trousers, a plain black satin vest and jacket. He wore no jewelry but a watch and