“Perhaps so,” the doctor returned testily. “Although one suspects that my presence is superfluous in light of Mr. Hunt’s expert diagnosis.” With that sarcastic comment, the old man entered the room, followed by Mrs. Peyton and Lillian Bowman.

Left alone in the hallway with Westcliff, Simon rolled his eyes. “Bilious old bastard,” he muttered. “Could you have sent for someone a bit more decrepit, Westcliff? I doubt he can see or hear well enough to make his own damned diagnosis.”

The earl arched one black brow as he regarded Simon with amused condescension. “He’s the best doctor in Hampshire. Come downstairs, Hunt. We’ll have a brandy.”

Simon glanced at the closed door. “Later.”

Westcliff replied in a light, far-too-pleasant tone. “Ah, forgive me. Of course you’ll want to wait by the door like a stray dog hoping for kitchen scraps. I’ll be in my study—do be a good lad and run down to tell me if there’s any news.”

Rankled, Simon flashed him a cold glare and pushed away from the wall. “All right,” he growled, “I’ll come.”

The earl responded with a satisfied nod. “The doctor will deliver a report to me after he’s finished with Miss Peyton.”

As Simon accompanied Westcliff to the great staircase, he reflected moodily on his own behavior of the past few minutes. It was a new experience, being driven by his emotions rather than his intellect, and he didn’t like it. That didn’t seem to matter, however. At the first realization that Annabelle was ill, he had felt his chest turn painfully hollow, as if his heart had been seized for ransom. There had been no question in his mind that he would do whatever was necessary to make her safe and comfortable. And in the moments when Annabelle had struggled to breathe, staring at him with eyes bright with pain and fear, he would have done anything for her. Anything.

God help him if Annabelle ever came to realize the power she had over him…a power that posed a perilous threat to pride and self-control. He wanted to possess every part of her body and soul, in every imaginable cast of intimacy. The ever-increasing depth of his passion for her shocked him. And no one of his acquaintance, least of all Westcliff, would understand. Westcliff had always kept his own emotions and desires firmly in check, displaying contempt for those who made fools of themselves for the sake of love.

Not that this was love…Simon was not about to go that far. And yet it was far more than ordinary desire. It required nothing less than outright ownership.

Forcing his features into a blank mask, Simon followed Westcliff into his study.

It was a small, austere room, fitted with gleaming oak paneling and ornamented only by a row of stained-glass windows on one side. With its hard angles and unforgiving furniture, the study was not a comfortable room. However, it was a thoroughly masculine place, where one could smoke, drink, and talk frankly. Lowering himself to one of the hard chairs positioned by the desk, Simon accepted a brandy from Westcliff and downed it without tasting it. He held out the snifter and nodded in wordless thanks as the earl replenished it.

Before Westcliff could launch into an unwanted diatribe regarding Annabelle, Simon sought to distract him. “You don’t seem to rub on well with Miss Bowman,” he remarked.

As a diversionary tactic, the mention of Lillian Bowman was supremely effective. Westcliff responded with a surly grunt. “The ill-mannered brat dared to imply that Miss Peyton’s mishap was my fault,” he said, pouring a brandy for himself.

Simon raised his brows. “How could it be your fault?”

“Miss Bowman seems to think that, as their host, it was my responsibility to ensure that my estate wasn’t ‘overrun with a plague of poisonous vipers,’ as she put it.”

“How did you reply?”

“I pointed out to Miss Bowman that the guests who choose to remain clothed when they venture out of doors don’t usually seem to get bitten by adders.”

Simon couldn’t help grinning at that. “Miss Bowman is merely concerned for her friend.”

Westcliff nodded in grim agreement. “She can’t afford to lose one of them, as she undoubtedly has so few.”

Smiling, Simon stared into the depths of his brandy. “What a difficult evening you’ve had,” he heard Westcliff remark sardonically. “First you were compelled to carry Miss Peyton’s nubile young body all the way to her bedroom…then you had to examine her injured leg. How terribly inconvenient for you.”

Simon’s smile faded. “I didn’t say that I had examined her leg.”

The earl regarded him shrewdly. “You didn’t have to. I know you too well to presume that you would overlook such an opportunity.”

“I’ll admit that I looked at her ankle. And I also cut her corset strings when it became apparent that she couldn’t breathe.” Simon’s gaze dared the earl to object.

“Helpful lad,” Westcliff murmured.

Simon scowled. “Difficult as it may be for you to believe, I receive no lascivious pleasure from the sight of a woman in pain.”

Leaning back in his chair, Westcliff regarded him with a cool speculation that raised Simon’s hackles. “I hope you’re not fool enough to fall in love with such a creature. You know my opinion of Miss Peyton—”

“Yes, you’ve aired it repeatedly.”

“And furthermore,” the earl continued, “I would hate to see one of the few men of good sense I know to turn into one of those prattling fools who run about pollenating the atmosphere with maudlin sentiment—”