Page 31

“I don’t—” The rest dissolved into a cough that felt like broken glass in her throat.

“Please, Abigail,” her mother whispered, pressing a handkerchief to her daughter’s face. “Just this once. Let someone care for you.”

Exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. She was so tired of fighting—against pain, against fear, against everything. Graham sat on the bed next to her and slipped an arm under her shoulders, supporting her. His touch, his gaze, his manner wrapped around her with comfort and gentleness.

Don’t be kind to me. I’ll only disappoint you in the end.

Graham brought the spoon to her lips. “Just a small dose,” he promised, his voice low. “It will keep the dreams away.”

In the candlelight, she met his gaze. This man knew something of terrors that stalked the night. She nodded, and the bitter liquid slid down her throat. She grimaced, but the cool glass of water that followed washed away the taste.

As he withdrew his hand, his fingers brushed against her temple and he drew the back of his knuckles down the side of her face as he looked down at her. So tender. Tears pricked behind her eyelids.

“Rest now,” her mother murmured, but Abigail was already drifting, carried away on dark, quiet waters.

Sunlight streaked across the bedcovers when Abigail next opened her eyes, painting golden rectangles on the Persian carpet. She stared at the light, tracing its path from window to floor, allowing her sluggish mind to accept the real world around her.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Abigail turned her head to find Bridget sitting in a chair beside the bed, a book open in her lap. Her middle sister smiled, the familiar mischievous gleam in her eyes softened with concern.

“What time is it?” Abigail croaked, her voice still painful, but much improved.

“Nearly two in the afternoon. You’ve been sleeping like the dead.” Bridget set her book aside and leaned forward. “Here, let me help you sit up.”

Abigail winced as she shifted against the pillows. Every muscle protested, and her ankle throbbed dully beneath the coverlet. Her head felt stuffed with wool, her mouth dry and sour.

Even my hair hurts. I must look a fright.

“How long have I been?—”

“A day and a half, more or less.” Bridget poured tea from a pot on the bedside table.

A day and a half? The children will think I’ve abandoned them.

“Beacon House? The children—” Abigail began.

“Are improving,” Bridget cut her off gently. “Marjory and Mother have been taking shifts along with a small army of volunteers. The worst of the fevers broke yesterday.”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank God.”

Bridget helped her hold the cup, the warm porcelain steadying her trembling hands. The tea was sweet with honey, soothing her raw throat.

“Indeed. Though I’m sure your Dr. Redchester deserves some credit as well.” Bridget’s tone was deliberately casual as she stirred more honey into Abigail’s tea. “He’s been quite attentive.”

Abigail nearly choked. “He is notmyDr. Redchester.”

“Hmm.” Bridget’s eyebrow arched. “According to The Morning Post, the Duke of Eyron, has emerged from his self-imposed exile to save a damsel in distress. It’s all quite romantic.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Abigail sputtered. “I wasn’t—he didn’t—” She stopped, the full impact of Bridget’s words finally registering. “Did you say Duke?”

Her sister’s smile was a touch too innocent. “Did I forget to mention that? Yes, your gallant doctor is none other than Graham Redchester, the Duke of Eyron. Back from obscurity and apparently intent on playing hero.”

The room tilted. Abigail gripped the counterpane, her mind racing to catch up.

“That can’t be right,” she whispered. “He’s a doctor.”

“And a duke. I don’t believe they are mutually exclusive.” Bridget took a drink of her tea, peeking at her over the rim like a cat with a dish of cream. “He’s been living in London for months, apparently, practicing medicine under his family name but without the title. Society’s been buzzing about it since yesterday.”