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“Would you have preferred that sweet Nate look after you?”

“Sweet Nate?” I repeat, without understanding. I turn to look at him.

“Nathaniel Brownell. That is what you called him yesterday.”

The heat rises to my face. “I—”

“You even claimed you had shared his bed.”

I snap upright, a violent pang shooting through my head.

“That is not true.”

His gaze narrows.

“I was raving,” I continue, more quickly, “I was feverish. Nathaniel... I never could. Neither I, nor him—”

His hand pushes me down again.

“Stop speaking of that man.” The tone admits no reply.

“Do not waste your time imagining nonsense.”

He does not look at me.

“It is like with Richard.”

His eyelids close again, the fingers of the hand on the sheet contracting for a second, then returning to stillness. I look up at the ceiling, the wood grain seems to move.

After a few moments, his voice breaks the air.

“Viscount, there is a long list.”

“A list of what?”

He barely opens his eyes. “Of people who gravitate around you.”

“As if it were not the same for you, Lord Vasiliev Ashford. Until a few hours ago, you were in the company of Isobel.”

“I have already explained to you, with sufficient clarity, that I harbor no interest in her.”

“And yet, you share tea and biscuits.”

This time he opens his eyes completely and turns onto his side toward me.

“Are you jealous?”

What the hell is this madman saying?

“There is no such thing.”

“You are. It’s cute. Do it again.”

“Do what?” I ask, baffled.

“Be jealous.”

“I already told you. I am not.”