The Mad Earl's Bride by Loretta Chase

hear her approach past the relentless hammering in his head, but he could smell it, the faint scent growing richer, more potent. Jasmine?
    Slim, warm fingers closed over his icy ones.
    He tried to speak. He moved his lips, but no sound came out. Pain slammed his skull. His stomach lurched. The bottle slipped from his hands.
    “Sick,” he gasped. “Christ, I—”
    He broke off as something else, cold and round and smooth, pressed into his hands. A basin.
    His body shuddered violently. Then all he could do was hold on to the basin, his head bowed, and give himself up to spasm after spasm after spasm, uncontrollable.
    Retching. Endlessly. Helplessly.
    All the while, he felt her warm hands upon him, holding him. He heard her soft murmurs above him.
    “Yes, that’s right. It can’t be helped. It’s a sick headache, I know. Beastly thing, isn’t it? Hours and hours. Then it won’t go quietly, will it? Instead, it must rip out of you and take your insides with it. I don’t doubt it seems that way, but you shall feel better in a moment. There. You’re done.”
    It was not a moment, but an eternity, and Dorian didn’t know whether he was done or dead. His body had stopped the spasmodic heaving, but he couldn’t lift his head.
    She caught him before he could sink into the revolting mess in the basin. She raised his head and put a cup to his lips. He smelled mint—and something else. He didn’t know what it was.
    “Rinse your mouth,” she commanded quietly.
    Too weak to fight, he obeyed. The tangy draught cleansed the foul taste from his mouth.
    When he was done, she gently guided him back onto the pillows.
    He lay there, exhausted, aware of movement. The basin disappeared, and its stench with it.
    In a little while, a cool, wet cloth touched his face. Gentle, quick, efficient—cleansing and cooling him. He knew he should protest—he wasn’t a babe. He couldn’t summon the strength.
    Then she was gone again, an everlasting time, and the pain rolled in during her absence. Though it was not so ferocious as before, it was there still, pounding at him.
    This time, when the scent returned, light came with it, a single candle. He watched her shadowy form approach. He winced at the light. She moved away toward the fireplace and set the candle on the mantel.
    She returned to the bed. “You are still in discomfort, it seems,” she said very softly. “I don’t know whether that’s the original headache or the aftereffects of laudanum.”
    He remembered, then, the bottle she’d stolen from him. “Laudanum,” he choked out. “Give me the bottle, witch.”
    “Maybe later,” she said. “At present, I have to work a spell. Do you think you can climb into the cauldron unaided, or shall I summon Hoskins to help?”
    T HE WITCH’S “CAULDRON” was alleged to be a steaming bath, and the spell appeared to involve her holding an ice bag on his head while she boiled the rest of him.
    That, at least, was the sense Dorian made of her explanation.
    He had no trouble deciding that the last thing on earth he wanted to do was climb out of his bed and stagger down to the ground-floor bath chamber.
    He changed his mind when he learned his servants were prepared to carry him. He couldn’t bear to be carried by anyone, anywhere.
    “Your extremities are icy cold,” she said as she handed him a dressing gown. She looked away while he angrily struggled into it. “Above the neck, you are much too hot. Your system is unbalanced, you see. We must correct it.”
    Dorian didn’t care if he was unbalanced. On the other hand, he could not bear her seeing him lying helpless and trembling like an infant.
    And so he dragged himself from the bed and stumbled across the room and through the door. Rejecting her helping hand, he made his way out of the room and down the stairs.
    He found the small, tiled room filled with lavender-scented steam. Candles flickered in the narrow wall niches.
    The scented mist, the warmth, the gentle light