None.

Then he was turning her around, belly to the railing, his large hands shaping her bottom. “God, you’re beautiful, Harriet.”

She wanted to say that no, she wasn’t beautiful. Her hips were too round and her bottom was too round and her breasts were too small, but there was something in his voice that made the comment die in her throat.

His voice made her beautiful. His hands caressed her and she felt as if they were her own hands: from him, she learned the beauty of a woman’s sweet curve, of a generous hip, of the delicate, mysterious space between a woman’s legs.

They were so together that her body knew what he wanted before her mind did. She arched back, welcomed him, sobbed when hard velvet stroked into her. His hands encircled her, protecting her from the railing.

He took it slow, each stroke a promise, to Harriet’s mind. The days strung forward, days and nights with Jem…

Exclamations aren’t enough. There are times when screaming is called for, especially when Jem slipped a hand in front of her body and began a wicked dance with his fingers. He rode her until she shattered; turned her about so he could kiss her again. Lifted her onto the railing so that her legs wrapped around his hips, saying that he didn’t want to come without seeing her face.

She cried. What’s a scream, after all, but a prelude to tears?

He was so deep within her that they didn’t feel like two people.

Just one.

Chapter Thirty-three

Fear

T hey came home slowly, walking the horses most of the way because Harriet admitted that her thigh muscles hurt.

“I’d take you in my lap,” he said, “but we’d be seen.”

Harriet laughed. “I can’t put Kitty’s storytelling abilities to waste.”

So they walked the horses home through the gathering snow and dark. She gratefully gave her mare back to Nick, and walked back to the house.

They were met by Povy.

“A fever, my lord,” he said, without preamble. “Miss Eugenia has a fever and it’s quite high. I’ve sent for the doctor.”

Jem’s whole body froze. “When?”

“An hour ago. I sent to the stables, but they said you had to be on the way back home already.”

Jem pounded up the stairs, gone in an instant.

Harriet turned to Povy. “What have you done for it?”

“I’ve ordered the maids to make a snow bath. We’ll use it if we have to. At the moment I have her snug in bed. I’m sure you will be a comfort.” In that instant she realized that Povy knew precisely what she was (a woman), and quite likely, who she was (a duchess) as well. Povy was simply that sort of man.

“I’ll go,” Harriet said, moving toward the stairs. She was thinking desperately about the laborer on her estate, the man who died of rat-bite fever. It had been a few weeks before the fever came on; yes, just the same as for Eugenia. But he had some sort of rash—

“Is there a rash?” she asked.

She saw the same awareness in Povy’s eyes. He probably knew symptoms of every disease. “Not yet.”

That yet was no comfort.

Chapter Thirty-four

Hell

February 23, 1784

T he first two days Harriet tried to stay out of Jem’s way. How long had she known Jem and Eugenia? A matter of weeks, even if it felt like years. She stopped in the morning and the evening to see Eugenia. She asked Povy for news every time she saw him. She wondered if she should leave, and couldn’t bear to go out for a brief walk.

In case…in case Jem needed her. In case Eugenia needed her. In case something so awful happened that she couldn’t put it into words.

Most of Jem’s guests didn’t appear to notice that their host was never to be seen. They heard his daughter had a fever, and having ascertained that it wasn’t contagious, continued with their pursuits. The Graces left to travel to the house of the bishop for a week-long “performance.” Presumably the Game continued, though Harriet neither knew nor cared.

On the third day, Harriet peeked into Eugenia’s room in the evening to find Jem slumped in a chair by her bedside, asleep. He woke with a start.

The feverish patches on Eugenia’s cheeks told their own story. She wasn’t in a deep sleep: every once in a while she would shake her head, back and forth, as if she were in an argument.

“What’s she doing?” Harriet whispered.

“Fighting,” Jem said. His voice was leaden with exhaustion. “She’s fighting as hard as she can.”

Eugenia shook her head again and said something indistinct. There was a no somewhere in the mumble.

“She’s a good fighter,” Harriet said. “Where’s her nurse?”

“Eugenia doesn’t like her. I’ll have to find another one tomorrow.”

“Is there any way I can help?” Harriet said. She’d asked before, but he said no.

Now he looked at her, gaunt and exhausted. “I have no right to ask you this.”

“Please,” she said. “Please allow me to help.”

“She doesn’t like the nurse the doctor sent. But she likes seeing you. She asked for you once.”

Harriet came forward in a rush. “I was trying not to be in the way. You should have called me when she asked for me.”

“It was the middle of the night.” He stood up, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Could you sit with her, just for an hour or two? I need some sleep.”

Harriet pushed him toward the door. “Go. Come back in the morning.” She curled up in a chair next to Eugenia’s bed. At some point the little girl woke up and asked for water. She smiled blearily at Harriet. By morning she was fretful.

“I don’t want water,” she cried. “My side hurts. Where’s my papa? Papa!”

A maid entered the room and Eugenia’s voice escalated. “Don’t want her here! Make her go away!”

Harriet cast an apologetic look at the maid, who scuttled away.

The only thing that settled Eugenia was singing. So Harriet sang.

She was singing Drink to Me Only when Eugenia woke again. Harriet put a cool cloth on Eugenia’s forehead.

“Are you ever going to marry someone, Harry?” she asked sleepily.

“I don’t know.”

“If you had a baby, I could hold her. When I grow up I’m going to have fourteen children.”

“Really? Fourteen?”

“Mrs. Billows in the village has fifteen, and Papa says that’s far too many.”

“So is—”

But Eugenia was asleep, a little smile on her face. Perhaps she dreamt of fourteen children. At least she didn’t shake her head. But an hour later she woke again, feverish.

“I want a different song,” she said fretfully. “A song about papa. Sing me about papa.”

Harriet panicked. She was singing the refrain of Papa’s Tower is Falling Down for the fourteenth time when Jem entered the room. “I’ve sent for another doctor from London,” he said by way of greeting. “How are you feeling, poppet?”

“I’m hot,” Eugenia said, her lower lip trembling. “I hate it in bed. I hate it here. I want to go outside. I want to sit in the snow.”

Harriet stumbled up from her chair and Jem sat down. And that’s how it went. For years, it felt like.