Instead of watching her feet, Amanda watched Jemmy. And he, her. Airy and light, she swung about the room, her gaze never leaving his. He’d held her less than a handful of times, but he knew every curve of her body, could almost predict the way she moved.
Please, let her live, he prayed silently. But most of all, let me love her.
Just then the last notes twinkled from the pianoforte, and Amanda and the dancing master came to an elegant stop.
“Monsieur, you’ve done it!” Lady Finch declared, clapping her hands and grinning, as did all the servants—probably from relief that this critical step in finding Amanda’s match was finally concluded.
The dancing master made his bow to Lady Finch, then departed, limping and muttering a litany of complaints as to his poor beleaguered fate, lost and adrift in the graceless ballrooms of England.
In the meantime, Jemmy’s mother had been taken aside by the seamstress and was consulting on laces, while Amanda stood frozen in place glancing shyly at him. After a few moments she started for one of the chairs.
Dear Lord, his mother had probably pushed Amanda’s frail health to the very brink.
“Addison, please get some tea for Miss Smythe,” he ordered as he passed the butler on his way to her side.
The man nodded and went to fetch a tray, while Jemmy crossed the room, taking in every detail of the lady. How stray tendrils of her hair curled around her ears, how her brow furrowed as she rubbed her feet. He would have kissed that crease away if his mother and the entire staff hadn’t been in the room.
Oh, damn them all, he’d kiss her anyway.
“What are you doing—” she began to say as he knelt before her.
“Shh,” he told her, taking her foot in his hands and rubbing it. “Don’t tax yourself.” He looked into her eyes and nearly drowned in those beautiful green depths. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
She said nothing, just looked away.
“How long?” he managed to ask. Gads, he who had longed and prayed for death in his narrow cot in Spain now found himself angry and willing to fight any battle to snatch Amanda away from its cold clutches.
“Days, maybe weeks,” she whispered, still unwilling to look at him.
“And you are going to Brighton to see a doctor?”
She shook her head. “No. For the sea.”
He wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. “Sea bathing will save your life?”
At this she smiled. “No, nothing will do that, but I would like to hear the waves and surf once before I die. And perhaps,” she said, pulling her foot free from his grasp, “put my toes in the water.”
His heart constricted. Of all the possibilities he’d considered for why she wanted so desperately to go to Brighton—employment, a lover— never once had he considered some fanciful dream to stand on the shore.
And as much as he intended to be the one who made sure her every wish was granted, he also wanted something else. Something more.
He took her hands in his. “I’m going to take you to London. I’ll find you a doctor. Someone who knows of these things, someone who knows of a cure.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already seen the doctor. And he was quite positive that there is nothing to be done. Well, except to wait.”
Wait? Wait for her to die? Jemmy wasn’t going to stand for that. “Are you sure?”
Nodding, she bit her lip and looked away. “I was ill all winter. A decline, my mother called it. Recently I just couldn’t get out of bed, and she feared I was about to die, so she summoned the doctor. All the way from London and at great expense.”
Now it was Jemmy’s turn to nod. “She must have been overcome with worry. No wonder she sought out someone so qualified.”
To his shock, Amanda laughed. “Not for the reasons you would think.” She looked away again, and this time when she glanced back at him, her eyes brimmed with tears.
“What is it?” he asked. “What other reasons would there be to call a doctor other than to see you live?”
Amanda swiped at her cheeks and forced a small smile to her lips. “My mother’s reason had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my sister.”
“Your sister? Is she ill as well?”