Hunt’s face was impassive, save for the frown indentations between his brows. Quickly he reached out to steady her as she swayed before him. “In light of our recent agreement,” he murmured, “this is most unflattering, Miss Peyton.”

“Oh, go away,” Annabelle moaned, but she found herself leaning hard against the strong support of his body as another wave of illness washed over her. She clamped the handkerchief to her mouth and breathed through her nose, and mercifully the feeling passed. But the most debilitating weakness she had ever felt swept over her, and she knew that if he had not been there, she would have crumpled to the ground. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

Hunt immediately adjusted his hold, bracing her easily. “I thought you looked pale,” he remarked, gently stroking back a lock of hair that had fallen over her damp face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is it just your stomach, or do you hurt somewhere else?”

Somewhere beneath the layers of misery Annabelle was startled by the endearment, not to mention the fact that a gentleman should never, ever have referred to one of a lady’s internal parts. However, at the moment she was too ill to do anything but cling to his coat lapels. Concentrating on his question, she pondered the chaos inside her inhospitable body. “I hurt everywhere,” she whispered. “My head, my stomach, my back…but most of all my ankle.”

As she spoke, she noticed that her lips felt numb. She licked at them experimentally, alarmed by the lack of sensation. Had she been just a bit less disoriented, she would have noticed that Hunt was staring at her in a way that he never had before. Later, Daisy would describe in detail how protective Simon Hunt had seemed as he had stood with his arms around her. For now, however, Annabelle was too wretched to perceive anything outside her own swamping illness.

Lillian spoke briskly, moving forward to extricate Annabelle from Hunt’s grasp. “Thank you for the use of your handkerchief, sir. You may leave now, as my sister and I are fully capable of taking care of Miss Peyton.”

Ignoring the American girl, Hunt kept his arm around Annabelle as he stared into her blanched face. “How did you hurt your ankle?” he asked.

“The Rounders game, I think…”

“I didn’t see you drink anything at dinner.” Hunt laid his hand across her forehead, searching for signs of fever. The gesture was astonishingly intimate and familiar. “Did you have something earlier?”

“If you mean spirits or wine, no.” Annabelle’s body seemed to be collapsing slowly, as if her mind had released all control over the movement of her limbs. “I drank some willowbark tea in my room.”

Hunt’s warm hand moved to the side of her face, conforming gently to the curve of her cheek. She was so cold, shivering inside her sweat-dampened gown, her skin covered with gooseflesh. Perceiving the inviting heat that radiated from his body, she was nearly overcome with the urge to delve into his coat like a small burrowing animal. “I’m f-freezing,” she whispered, and his arm tightened reflexively around her.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, adroitly managing to shed his coat while supporting her trembling form at the same time. He wrapped her in the garment, which retained the warmth of his skin, and she responded with an inarticulate sound of gratitude.

Nettled by the sight of her friend being held by a detested adversary, Lillian spoke impatiently. “See here, Mr. Hunt, my sister and I—”

“Go find Mrs. Peyton,” Hunt interrupted, in a tone that was no less authoritative for its softness. “And tell Lord Westcliff that Miss Peyton needs a doctor. He’ll know whom to send for.”

“What are you going to do?” Lillian demanded, clearly unaccustomed to being given orders in such a fashion.

Hunt’s eyes narrowed as he replied. “I’m going to carry Miss Peyton through the servants’ entrance at the side of the house. Your sister will go with us to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“That shows how little you know about propriety!” Lillian snapped.

“I’m not going to debate the matter. Try to be of some use, will you? Go.”

After a furious, tension-fraught pause, Lillian turned and strode toward the ballroom doors.

Daisy was clearly awestruck. “I don’t think anyone has ever dared to speak to my sister that way. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met, Mr. Hunt.”

Hunt bent carefully to hook his arm beneath Annabelle’s knees. He lifted her with ease, clasping a mass of shivering limbs and rustling silk skirts in his arms. Annabelle had never been carried anywhere by a man—she could not conceive that it was really happening. “I think…I could walk part of the way,” she managed to say.

“You wouldn’t make it down the terrace steps,” Hunt said flatly. “Indulge me while I demonstrate the chivalrous side of my nature. Can you put your arms around my neck?”

Annabelle obeyed, grateful to have the weight taken off her burning ankle. Surrendering to the temptation to put her head on his shoulder, she curled her left arm around his neck. As he carried her down the flagstone steps of the back terrace, she could feel the facile play of muscle beneath the layers of his shirt.

“I didn’t think you had a chivalrous side,” she said, her teeth clicking as another chill shook her. “I th-thought you were a complete scoundrel.”

“I don’t know how people get such ideas about me,” he replied, glancing down at her with a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I’ve always been tragically misunderstood.”