The Accidental Mistress (35 page)

As he took his seat beside her, he peered at her, his face a hard, white mask. Good God, he was worried. Really worried. If she hadn’t felt so vile, Lizzie would almost have been amused. The human male usually ran a mile from illness of any kind, fearing the risk of man flu or whatever, but John was no normal man.

‘Just relax, sweetheart. It won’t take long to get you home. I’ll just make a quick call. You need a doctor.’ He reached into his pocket for his phone.

‘Oh no, John. They won’t come out just for a bit of a bug. They’re very strict about out of hours home visits at our surgery!’

‘Not your doctor, ninny. A doctor I know … the man I’ll be seeing when I’m up here.’ He paused, reaching out to smooth her hair from her brow, then frowning because it was damp with sweat, even though she was shivering now. ‘He’s very good. The best general physician in the north. Luckily he lives in the area. Now, just lie back in the seat … relax. I’ll phone Thursgood too, and tell him to have things ready.’

It was useless to argue and, obeying him, she closed her eyes, listening to the beeps of his mobile phone, as he scrolled through contact lists.

Speaking quickly, John laid out a set of instructions. Prepare extra blankets in the master bedroom, along with hot water bottles, and were there certain basic medicines available? ‘Oh, and I’m about to call Sir Richard Spillsey. I doubt he’ll get there before us, but it’s possible, so expect him.’

When he rang off, he dialled again, and after a moment, said, ‘Richard? How are you? I wonder if you could do me a huge favour … I know it’s out of hours, but could you come over to Dalethwaite Manor? A friend of mine is ill and I’m taking her there … I’d like you to take a look at her.’

Lizzie tugged at his elbow, and he paused, putting the phone face down beside him. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart? We’ll be home in a few minutes, and everything will be ready. You’ll be fine …’ His fine eyes gleamed in the low light of the car’s interior, and a frown pleated his brow; he was her ministering angel, concerned, but on top of things.

‘I don’t need Sir Richard Thing, John, really I don’t. It’s just a bit of a bug …’

‘Shush … He’s going to take a look at you whether you like it or not. Just indulge me, love, eh? I’m not prepared to take any chances where your health is concerned, and I won’t be happy until I’ve had a medic’s opinion.’

‘It’s just a bug …’ The effort of arguing was like a ton of rocks weighing down on her, and even though she opened her mouth, to try and reason with him, the words just seemed too awkward to get out. She subsided back again, grateful for the deep, deep upholstery of the luxury car.

‘Sorry about that,’ he continued to the eminent man. ‘Can you come? Yes … that’s wonderful. I’d be so grateful. I don’t think it’s anything too serious, but I’d feel better if you checked her over. Do you know where Dalethwaite Manor is? Excellent! I’ll see you soon. And thank you so much … I’m sorry to trouble you in your free time.’

Agh, doctors. She was sure Sir Richard Wotsit was a lovely man, and at the top of his profession, but to bring in some kind of mega consultant on a Sunday evening was just ridiculous for a little touch of summer flu or whatever it was.

She would have fretted more, but it was too tiring to think now, so she just relaxed as John set the Bentley in motion. The car was such a smooth ride that, with her eyes closed, she was barely aware of their progress along the roads and lanes that led to Dalethwaite. It seemed that hardly had they set off than they were slowing to a stop again.

Squinting out of the window, she saw the lights of the big house burning, and Thursgood hurrying down the steps to greet them. At the door, his wife stood waiting too.

Lizzie almost giggled. It
was
just like
Downton Abbey
or
Upstairs, Downstairs
, and she was the clapped-out dowager duchess, marchioness, or female equivalent of whatever John was …
being lifted out of the car, and carried up the steps by him, flanked on either side by his retinue.

But the house lights were bright, and as she buried her face in his shoulder, the pain in her head ramped up ten more notches … and she whimpered.

She felt so wretched that, just for the time being, she didn’t even give a shit about bloody Clara!

As her temperature rose, Lizzie’s consciousness wavered. She was in the master bedroom again,
her
bedroom, but barely able to keep her eyes open. She was certainly in no condition to enjoy its luxurious decor. The firm mattress and the crisp bed linen felt heavenly, though, fresh and cool against her overheated body. She lay quite still, not wanting to disturb her pounding head, and just drifted, listening to the sough of the night breeze outside, and the barely audible flutter of the delicate voile inner curtains. Every now and again, there was the sound of a bird or owl in the garden or the park beyond … and the occasional rustle of John’s clothing, as he shifted position in the chair at her bedside.

It seemed he was standing – or at least sitting – guard over her. When she essayed a little movement, turning over, he was on his feet, hovering.

‘Would you like some iced water, love?’

‘Um … yes. Yes, please …’

As she raised herself up, wincing, he slid one supporting arm around her, and held the glass to her lips, gently helping her to drink the deliciously cool water. When she was done, he
settled her down again, tucking the quilt around her, as if he were swathing a priceless crystal figurine in protective cotton wool.

Lizzie wanted to laugh again, but she suspected that even a smirk would kill her head. John made the most adorable nursemaid. And a rampantly sexy one too, if only she’d been in a fit state to appreciate him.

After a period of time that could have been minutes or hours, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs Thursgood quietly announced the doctor and ushered him in.

Helped up again by John, Lizzie allowed herself to be examined: pulse and temperature taken, eyes and throat inspected, glands felt. Sir Richard Spillsey had cool, gentle hands, and an equally gentle and good-humoured bedside manner. He was like a kindly but authoritative uncle, and a world away from her own poor harried GP, who always seemed careworn and bogged down by paperwork.

‘I don’t think there’s too much to worry about. It’s just one of those tiresome summer viruses that are going about. Rest, quiet, plenty of fluids and paracetamol for the headache and body pains. In two or three days, I think you’ll find yourself feeling much better, Miss Aitchison. Just let John here wait on you hand and foot. That’s the best medicine of all.’

‘Thank you very much. I’m sure you’re right.’ Lizzie managed a feathery grin from amongst her bundle of bedclothes, and John winked at her, before escorting the doctor from the room.

Stupid as it seemed to her, as she burrowed under the quilt, the simple act of being examined had worn her out, and she floated into her netherworld again almost immediately. Soft footsteps returned to her side, and she wanted to emerge, and thank John for just being there, but that too was a huge
effort. Summoning all her strength, she pushed a searching hand out from under the bedding, and it was grasped, gently, then kissed.

As she slid into sleep again, she felt John stroking the back of her hand … and it soothed her away.

The next time she awoke, he was still there. Well, perhaps not ‘still’ because when Lizzie cracked open an eye with extreme caution, and then found it safe to open the other, she found John was lying beside her on the bed, on top of the covers, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and with wet hair as if he’d recently showered. He had newspapers, and what looked like work files spread out on his side of the duvet, and he was frowning into the middle distance. Twisting a little, Lizzie discovered he was watching a financial report on the large flat screen television on the far wall. He had the subtitles on and the sound muted. It must be some kind of City morning programme, because judging by the sunlight filtering through the curtains, it was indeed the next day.

Even though she’d barely moved, and not made a sound, he snapped towards her, leaning close.

‘How are you feeling, love? You’ve slept for hours.’ He reached out and brushed tangled strands of hair from across her face.

Lizzie breathed deeply, trying to listen to her body and work out how it felt.

Better. Definitely better. A bit weak and washed out, but a vast improvement on last night.

‘Better, I think … but I’m not sure, because I’m not sure I’m fully awake yet. What time is it?’ She wiggled around, carefully, trying to sit up, and all the time bracing herself for
jabs of head pain. Mercifully, only faint wisps of discomfort floated around.

John helped her to sit. ‘It’s ten-thirty. Would you like some tea? Or breakfast?’ His blue eyes were intent, full of apprehension, as if monitoring her for the tiniest of signs. Still half holding her upright, he dragged a light fleece throw from further down the bed, and arranged it around her shoulders. Lizzie pulled a face on discovering that she was wearing only her knickers and yesterday’s striped t-shirt. There was no sign of her Capri pants, and her bra seemed to have disappeared. John must have helped her out of it at some time during the night but she had absolutely no memory of that.

‘Ooh, tea would be good,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. She was sweaty and far from fresh, and what her breath was like didn’t bear thinking about. ‘But don’t get too close to me … I smell and I’ve got disgusting morning breath … and I’m riddled with germs, presumably.’

‘Don’t fret, woman. You’re as adorable as ever.’ As if to prove it, he kissed her lightly on the lips, not cringing in the least. ‘And I’ve got the constitution of an ox. I never get ill. So your germs don’t stand a chance against me.’

Something in Lizzie seemed to float up, buoyed by him. His beautiful golden smile was like a healing radiance, washing over her. The doctor, last night, had said having John to wait on her was the best medicine, and he’d been right. Or perhaps just the smile alone would do the trick.

‘Right, then, how about some toast with that tea?’ John stroked her face, relief showing in his. Lizzie realised that bed-hair, gruesome sweaty sleep clothes and morning breath notwithstanding, she must indeed be looking at least a little bit better.

‘Er … yes … maybe … please …’ She frowned. There were other priorities. ‘Think I need the bathroom first though, before all that,’ she said, starting to wriggle from under the covers.

John sprang up, on to his feet, at the side of the bed. ‘I’ll take you.’

‘No! I can manage. For heaven’s sake, John, there are some things a girl has to do alone. I’d have to have Ebola and two broken legs at least before I’d need a loo escort.’ She slid her feet over and set them on the floor, praying that when she stood, she wouldn’t sway.

Thankfully, she didn’t, but she wasn’t exactly steady as a rock.

‘Very well … but I’ll be here if you do need me, and I forbid you to lock the door, just in case.’ He gave her a stern, mock-authoritarian look. ‘And just the essentials … don’t launch into any elaborate beauty routines or bathing. I like you smelly!’

‘Yes, but you’re a pervert,’ she muttered at him as she padded across the carpet.

‘Very true … but no dawdling, promise?’

‘Promise.’

Ten minutes later, after sneaking a forbidden teeth cleaning, and a smear of moisturiser to soothe skin that felt as if it had turned to parchment, Lizzie crept out again, fleece throw clutched around her shoulders as she tottered through the vestibule and into the bedroom.

The tea and toast had arrived, and John was eating a slice, watching the television again, now with the sound on, down low. He muted it when he saw her, and swung his legs off the bed, as if about to storm over, sweep her up, and carry her back to the bed.

‘It’s all right. I can manage.’ She hurried over and slid into bed beside him.

He gave her an old-fashioned look. Lizzie lifted her chin, defiant.

‘So, I cleaned my teeth and put on moisturiser … call the cops.’

‘Bad girl, I’ll spank you when you’re better.’

Lizzie grinned, feeling better and better. She grabbed a slice of toast and bit into it. ‘I’ll look forward to it!’ Mm … the toast was from a fresh country loaf, and the butter was butter, not ‘healthy’ spread. Sheer heaven!

‘I should ring Brent and Shelley,’ she said, still chewing.

Her friends would be wondering where the hell she was, but it was more than that; she needed to know that
they
were OK too. Both of them seemed to be plunging in far too deep with people they barely knew yet … although on
that
particular score, she had no right to judge, she acknowledged wryly.

‘It’s all right. I’ve put them in the picture,’ said John quickly. ‘They send their love and their “get well soon” wishes. And I’ve also contacted Marie and said you won’t be in for a few days. She says you’ve not to worry at all, everything’s under control, and you’ve to concentrate on getting better. Oh, and someone called Serena’s decided she doesn’t want any more appliqué after all, so the design is good to go and you’ve “oodles” of time.’

He was taking over again. Running her life for her. Lizzie squashed her feelings of rebellion, though. He did mean well. He always meant well. And having spent most of his adult life controlling things, it was just his standard
modus operandi
. Nobody, least of all her, would ever be able to change that. John was John.

‘Thanks … you’ve saved me a job. I was feeling guilty just disappearing again like that, without telling anybody. Especially with New Again so busy, and the wedding dress and everything.’ It was a concession, but the sharp way John looked at her told her he’d sensed her qualms, and his odd little smile, in lieu of a reply, said he didn’t particularly want to get into an argument about them.

She smiled back at him. ‘Thank you for looking after me, John. You’re a very kind man.’ In spite of all the revelations of yesterday, he’d made her feel safe. And that touched her. She could cope with a bit of this kind of ‘taking over’ sometimes.