“No,” James said slowly, “I can’t.” James thought about his Uncle Ryder who took in abused and mistreated children, raised them, educated them, and best of all, loved them. How would Freddie do with his Uncle Ryder?

When Jason came into his bedchamber not long after Freddie had slipped away, still stroking wool, James said, “What about sending Freddie to Uncle Ryder?”

“Our very pleased-with-himself new tiger with his six new suits of livery? I don’t think he’d want to go, James. He’s so excited about being in the big city, can’t stop talking about seeing the Tower of Lunnon where all the heads were lopped off. Don’t you see? He’s now worth something. He’s now important to himself. He doesn’t need Uncle Ryder.”

“We’ll at least get him educated.”

Jason smiled. “He’ll probably squawk at that, but I’ll see that Willicombe brings a tutor around and keeps our new tiger in the schoolroom for a good two hours a day. Now, I’m here to tell you that Miss Juliette Lorimer and her mother are here to see you.”

James was shaking his head even before Jason had finished speaking. “I haven’t even shaved yet this morning.”

“At least Lady Juliette would be able to tell us apart.”

“That’s the truth. No, tell the lady I will be up for a visit say, tomorrow afternoon.”

Jason turned to leave, when James said, “Where’s Corrie? You know, when I woke up, her name was nearly out of my mouth, and I couldn’t smell her-it’s a light scent, maybe jasmine. It feels strange not having her right here with me.”

“No wonder. I haven’t heard a thing. She left right after we helped you out of the drawing room. You don’t remember saying good-bye to her?”

James shook his head. “Jase, would you call on her, see how she’s doing? Oh, and what about Miss Judith McCrae? Have you seen her?”

Jason gave him a remarkably austere look, which made him look like a carved Greek statue. “There’s been no time, really. I did inform her once we had you home. I dare-say I will see her again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

JAMES WAS SITTING up in bed, bathed and shaved by Petrie, who clucked over him until he was ready to hurl a book at him, when Corrie was ushered in by Willicombe, who was beaming, so pleased to be the escort to the Heroine of the Hour.

And James, eyeing her, said, all stiff as a vicar, “You really shouldn’t be coming to see me alone, Corrie. You’re a young lady; there are rules about this.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Now isn’t that ridiculous? I’ve run tame in your home all my life. Now I’m supposed to have a chaperone when I come to see you? To make certain that you don’t do something improper, like ravish me in your parents’ home?”

“It’s more the principle of the thing, not really what could actually occur.”

“Looking at you now, I’d wager all my allowance that you couldn’t do a single improper thing. I bet I could arm wrestle you right now, James, and you’d be whimpering within a minute.”

“That’s the truth,” he said easily, feeling himself smile from the inside out. Everyone was being so very kind, so solicitous, so deferential, it set his teeth on edge. And now, finally, here was Corrie and within a minute she had her fist to his jaw. It felt good. He perked right up. “I’ll bet even Freddie could take me out.”

Corrie grinned, but said no more. She stood there at the bottom of his bed, just looking at him.

“I liked your whiskers,” she said at last. “It added complexity to that face of yours.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Beauty all by itself can get boring, don’t you think, James? You know, it just sits there being perfect and soon one wants to yawn.”

He said, without missing a beat, “And I miss your white ball gown, all ripped and filthy. That added needed complexity to your presentation as well. Look at you now-a nice clean green gown, nothing more, nothing less. No, it’s of very little interest at all.” He yawned, patted his hand to his mouth, and yawned again.

She struck a pose, one designed specifically to get his goat, but one that didn’t work since he’d seen her perfecting it in a mirror. She hadn’t seen him, thank the good Lord for that small favor. He waited, smiling, wondering what was going to come out of her mouth. She said, all the while tapping her fingertips to her chin, “You know, now that I think of it, I have to admit that since you were naked most of the time you were ill, lying helpless-you know, all sprawled out on your back-I don’t recall being bored for a moment looking at you. No, I didn’t yawn a single time.”

James fully recognized what a fine whap that was to the head. He flushed, color rising over his cheek to his hairline. She was grinning at him, knowing she’d bested him, a grin so wicked she should go up in smoke.

It was hard, but he got hold of himself. “Corrie, why don’t you come here and help me drink a bit of water?”

She kept that big wicked grin even as she shook her head at him. “So you can pour the water over my head? No thank you, James. Now, I see that you can do nothing but ignore my insults, a rather pathetic ploy, don’t you think? You’re waiting to dish an insult right back at me. You’ve just got to think of one, and that’s a problem since your brain is still lying in your head, doing nothing helpful. So, admit that this time I’ve left you sprawled in the dirt. Hmm, sprawled. What a lovely word.” Then she poured him a glass of water, sat on the bed beside him, automatically slid her arm beneath his neck, and raised his head to drink. His face was nearly touching her breasts.

He breathed in deeply. “Ah, enough. That’s good. Thank you, Corrie.”

She set down the glass and arched her own eyebrow at him. “What is this? You’re still too weak to tend to your own thirst?”

“No, I like you doing it for me. I like to smell you when you’re so close.”

Without thinking, she caressed her hand down his face, cupping his chin for a moment. “Did I smell interesting enough? Enough complexity in my scent?”

“Yes, enough.”

She snorted, and he said, “You know, that snort, as distinctive and expressive as it may be, simply doesn’t go well with your gown that makes your waist look no larger than a doorknob. As for the top of you, your damned neckline is much too low. You’re supposed to be a modest young lady in her first season, not a seasoned nearly on-the-shelf lady who needs blatant advertising to lure in the unwary male.

“Ah, now look at you, ready to hurl the water carafe at me. You’re taking my well-meant words in the wrong spirit, Corrie. I mean it only as a very small observation on the goods you shouldn’t be presenting to the world in such remarkable detail, at least yet.”

That was quite fluent; both of them knew it. James waited, feeling his brain spark. She stared off into space as she said, “I remember how my hands nearly cramped I washed you so many times, to bring your fever down, you know. Each time my hands went lower and lower.” She looked at him straight on now and grinned like a witch. “Ah, James, I can say without hesitation that your goods don’t need any advertising at all. But look at me, I’m such a pedestrian peahen, I need all the advertising I can do.”

He flushed. Damnation, he flushed again and she saw it, and so he said, “For God’s sake, Corrie, have your gown hoisted up a good two inches.”

She smiled at him. “All right.”

He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Close your mouth, James, you look too much like Willie Marker after I told him no girl would ever marry him because he was such a lamebrained bully.”

“I doubt Willie Marker has ever thought of marriage,” James said.

“That’s what he yelled at me,” she said, and sighed deeply. “And then he tried to kiss me again. Isn’t that odd? After I’d insulted him but good?”

“I suppose some males are aroused when a girl beats them over the head, metaphorically speaking.”