Page 32 of A Lord in Want of a Wife (Daring Debutantes #2)

C edric woke with a groan, his head pounding and his throat dry. He could barely tell that he was on dry land with the way his vision swam, but he knew the sounds of an English household. Knew, too, that he was in London by the distant cry of the hawkers.

He was probably in his cousin’s house, he thought, and slammed his eyes closed. Better to remain in the dream of when he and Lucy had first met than face the reality of his life now.

But the more he remembered the carefree whimsy of his first nights on board The Integrity , the more he realised what a fool he’d been.

He’d imagined her a timid flower drifting on the world’s whim.

In truth, she was a tiny, clever dragon, quietly gathering the world’s riches.

She would lead a man to wealth beyond measure.

If he weren’t dying, he’d move heaven and earth to marry her.

But since he was, he planned to wish her well and expire with her name on his lips like a romantic figure of old.

Getting to see her one last time had been his singular focus for weeks now. Having achieved that, he could go to his final rest. He let all the strength go out of his body, allowed his lips to shape her name and dropped into death.

Right now.

He was dying…now.

Oh hell.

He was thirsty. He tried to ignore it. He’d gone without drink so much of the voyage. But to have clean water at hand and ignore it? That was a travesty. And he really wanted that drink.

He forced himself to sit up, his head swimming worse than in the storm that had cost them months to repair the ship. Too embarrassed to ring the bell for help, he reached for the water, but his hand was shaking too much. He was going to spill the precious liquid all over. Oh hell.

And while he was bracing his head and his hand, he had the errant thought that he might not be dying. What if returning to Mother England brought him back to life?

How terribly inconvenient.

If he wasn’t dying, he’d have to get strong again. He’d have to deal with his still crumbling estates, his dowerless sisters and his horrid parents. The very thought of that had him praying for death.

It still didn’t come, but something else did. Some one entered the room and immediately began cursing.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed a female voice. It was spoken in Chinese, so he knew it was Lucy by more than the cadence of her voice. ‘I was gone for five minutes!’

‘I’m fine,’ he lied, though it sounded more like a grunt, so she could be forgiven for not heeding his words.

She plumped his pillows and helped ease him back under the covers.

‘Why didn’t you ring the bell for help? I set it right there beside the bed.’

Wasn’t the answer obvious? Proper English lords did not ring the bell when they were dying. They were supposed to already be surrounded by beautiful ladies who bathed them in their tears. And if they weren’t dying—which, apparently, he wasn’t—then proper boys got their own drink of water.

‘Don’t sigh at me like that,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been harassed for three days now by ladies inquiring after your health. You’re the talk of the ton , and I’m in the envious position of getting to spoon broth into your mouth as I pray for your survival.’ Her tone was sarcastic, but not cruel.

Had she been spoon feeding him? God, that was tedious work. He’d done it himself with ill sailors. Did he remember her by his bedside? Maybe, but it was too much work to recall. Especially when the memory of their first meeting lingered in his thoughts.

‘You used to be shy,’ he said. It wasn’t an accusation. Merely a memory.

‘I’m frightened. My sister says I get shrewish when I’m frightened.’

He relaxed against the pillows, his body sagging like a sack of meal. ‘I don’t mean to be a bother,’ he muttered.

‘A lie if there ever was one,’ she retorted, a teasing note in her voice. ‘You enjoy being the centre of attention.’

That wasn’t true. Or it wasn’t exactly true. He liked it when people noticed him. And if he couldn’t be a jolly good fellow, then he was a jolly awful bother. Good God, his thoughts were a jumbled mess.

A string of Chinese words melded into his thoughts, confusing him even more. And then she spoke, her voice a great deal more tender.

‘How do you feel now? Are you hungry? You really need some food.’

‘Did you pray for me?’ Where had those words come from?

‘I did,’ she said as she rang the small bell at the side of the bed. ‘I prayed that you would choose one direction or the other. Life or death.’ She cupped his face and gently lifted his chin until his gaze met hers and she smiled that radiant smile of hers. ‘I am pleased you chose to live.’

He blinked as he tried to focus on her face. Actually, he’d tried to choose death, but obviously God had other plans. He wasn’t arguing. If she were part of the plan, then he would be exceedingly grateful.

‘Don’t leave,’ he said. ‘I might die if you abandon me.’

‘See? Alive and well. You’re flirting again.’

‘You used to like it.’

She arched perfect brows at him. ‘Who said I don’t still?’

He looked at her. With his eyes focusing again, he saw changes in her. He’d made a study of her, so he noticed differences both small and large. They’d been apart for nearly two years, and he saw a new woman before him.

Her face was fuller now and her eyes seemed less haunted than before.

She was no longer a curious rabbit who ran away if one moved too fast. She looked like a woman now, one who could fit into the highest reaches of society.

But then he’d always seen the poise in her, even when she’d hung on his every word as he taught her English.

He supposed the difference was that she no longer hung on his words as if he set the moon and the stars in the sky.

‘How long?’ he asked, forcing himself to focus. ‘Since Almack’s?’

‘Three days.’

He winced. Had she been by his side all that time? ‘Have you slept at all?’

Her expression softened. ‘You will oblige me now by eating. Cook took great pains with her soup. She would like more than stained bedsheets for thanks.’

He glanced at the bedsheets and noted the dark splotches. The sight sickened him. Why wasn’t he properly insensate so that he didn’t have to face the millions of tiny humiliations that came with illness?

A footman arrived with a tray of food. Honestly, he didn’t feel like he had the strength to eat.

His body felt too heavy to move. And yet, when she gathered his hands in hers and pressed them to the sides of a small cup, he worked with her rather than against her.

It was the least he could do to ease the problem he had become.

At last, he got that drink. Better yet, it was broth and she was holding his hands as if he were precious porcelain.

‘A little more, Cedric,’ she chided gently. ‘Drink a bit more.’

He did so because she wanted it. And when he finally collapsed back in exhaustion, she gently wiped the drips from his mouth.

He winced. Now he was a drooling fool when he had a beautiful woman in his bed.

‘It is only pride,’ she said softly. ‘Haven’t you had your full of it?’

‘Not pride,’ he murmured. He’d given that up long ago. He took a deep breath and gathered the strength to explain himself. ‘I had such high hopes.’

Everything he tried to do, everything he’d fought to accomplish for himself, for his sisters, even for his blighted parents, had ended up as wasted effort. He’d made good for Prinny and his other investors. He had that much. But his own profit was negligible. And now he could barely feed himself.

What was that except failure?

‘Heaven does not count our failures,’ she said. ‘Neither does love. Only pride keeps count. Pride measures win and loss. Arrogance points to success while misery dwells on loss. Have done with that, Cedric. Life cannot be measured on a balance sheet. And neither can you.’

Spoken like a woman with a full dowry and a brother-in-law who was a wealthy duke. He didn’t begrudge her that. He knew she’d come from nothing. To be so cared for now was merely her due. She was worthy of such prosperity.

‘I meant to be worthy of you. To show your father that I could provide for you.’ He closed his eyes. He knew that no proper father would accept an impoverished man for his daughter.

Misery welled up inside him. He had worked so hard. He’d done everything right. He’d toiled until his hands bled. And then he’d worked at night with a quill until his vision swam.

‘Never mind,’ he heard her say. ‘You’ll see the truth of it when you’re feeling better.’

Or she would. When she had time to look at the books. When she could see what he had done while he had command of the ship. For a first-time captain, he hadn’t been so bad. But he hadn’t been great either and they’d lost so much in that storm.

At least Captain Banakos had survived his illness. The man was available for her next attempt. That, too, was a success. Cedric hadn’t sunk the ship while he’d been in command. Maybe that should be his epitaph: Here lies Cedric. He didn’t sink the ship.

She touched his hand, then stroked upwards to wrist and forearm.

It was a casual gesture, done to pass the time as he fell asleep.

And yet, it didn’t feel casual to him. He felt her caress like a balm on his soul.

Failure he might be, but she was still here.

She sat with him, helped him eat and even touched his sun-weathered skin.

His mind centred on that caress. He focused on it, he breathed with it and he used it to silence the misery that threatened to overwhelm him.

Could she be right? Could all his mistakes be the result of pride?

Absolutely not. His mistakes came from ignorance and greed. And from thinking he could outwit the weather.

And what was that but pride?

Oh hell. He couldn’t think anymore. It was too exhausting.

Thankfully, she began to sing. It was a Chinese song, one he had heard before with no understanding of its meaning. But that didn’t matter. He found it more pleasing because he had no idea what the words were. And because it was her who sang.

Finally, he slept.