Page 64 of His Illegitimate Duchess

What was real and what was a lie? What kind of man have I been living with?

In her agitated state, all the men who had wronged her would ultimately blend into one giant, cruel man – sometimes he wore her father’s face, sometimes Nicholas’s, but most often, her husband's.

The combination of shock, the aftermath of the betrayal, being weakened by her illness, and the overall lack of comprehension of everything that had led to that fateful night at the Pearsons’ and why, all made it impossible for Elizabeth to untangle all her feelings or examine the facts rationally, not to mention come to any decisions.

So, whenever the helplessness and frustration would overwhelm her, she’d close her eyes and reach for a fantasy she hadn’t entertained since she’d been a child.

As ridiculous and dark as it was, Elizabeth would imagine what would happen if she were to succumb to her illness. She’d imagine herself lying in a coffin at her own vigil, completely and utterly dead.

All the people who’d harmed her in the course of her short life would be there, and they would all be devastated.

Her husband, Colin, would be inconsolable, sobbing like the real version of him never would, and telling all the other (numerous) mourners who’d gathered at the vigil how deeply he regretted how his callous disregard for Lizzie’s feelings, reputation, and good name had led to the illness which ultimately claimed her life.

She’d picture her brother on his knees, devastated by the loss of the sister he never bothered to truly know.

In Lizzie’s fantasy, several people would approach him and tell him wonderful things about her that he’d been unaware of, or relay interesting and exciting experiences they had shared with her.

He would finally be aware of how badly he had misjudged and maligned her.

And her mother would bitterly regret ever having put Lizzie on this earth as an illegitimate child, forever to be branded by her parents’ sins, and to be sentenced to a life as an outcast from the glittering world that should have been her birthright.

For good measure, she imagined Lady Georgiana receiving news of her demise and clutching her chest in disbelief, immediately regretting her cruel letter to Elizabeth.

Lizzie found a perverse sense of satisfaction and vindication in the imagined pain and remorse of those who had sinned against her, and this usually helped her calm down enough to realize that the people standing next to her mother at the funeral would most likely be the Barlows, and that her death would also be hurting Mary – pregnant, radiant Mary, and Lady Burnham, and even cousin Andrew, so in the end, she’d expel a put-upon sigh and resign herself to spending some more time among the living, for their sake.

*

Duke Talbot, of course, knew nothing of his wife’s nightly excursions into the land of fancy, so when he saw her open her eyes on the third day of her illness, he was ecstatic.

“Lizzie! By God, you’re awake!”

She wordlessly stared at him.

Heavens, were her faculties impaired by her illness? He’d heard cases of people never fully being themselves again after a dangerous fever, and fear seized his heart.

“Lizzie… Kitten, it’s me. Colin, your husband.”

She turned her head away from him and, in a raspy voice, said, “Get Mary.”

“Of course,” he replied immediately, deciding to soothe the sting of rejection with the joy of hearing her voice for the first time in days.

Colin walked over to the ropes and rang for her trusty maid.

“Can I help you with anything while we wait? Would you like some broth, or another pillow?” he prattled on, afraid of what she might say if he let the silence go on.

Elizabeth said nothing.

He tried again, “How do you feel?”

Just then, Mary walked in, saying, “You rang for me?” Before her gaze fell on Elizabeth, and she screamed, “You’re awake?!”

Elizabeth smiled weakly as her friend ran over to her bed and almost threw herself at her in an attempt at a hug. Talbot heard murmurs of reassurance and sniffling, and it all made him feel like an interloper in his own bedroom, so he quietly retreated and closed the door.

As he leaned the back of his head against the door that separated him from his wife, he burned with jealousy at the memory of how tightly her (feeble-looking) arms had been wrapped around her friend.

“She’s good for her,” he told himself as he straightened up and waited for Mary’s exit.

“How is she?” he asked as soon as he was certain the door was fully closed.

“As far as I can tell, she’s feeling much better. She asked me to get her mother and to order her a bath,” Mary said with a big smile.

Talbot hadn’t even realised the strain Mary had been under until now. Her smile made her look like a different woman. And her complexion was different somehow.

“Mary, I have to discuss something with you, in confidence,” he said quietly, and she nodded. They moved further away from the door. “Do you think we should tell Her Grace about the possibility the Doctor mentioned?”

The way Mary’s hand flew to her stomach was unmistakable.

She shook her head quickly, “She hasn’t… but I cannot… I cannot remember the last time she asked me for the belt. Do you think she…?” Mary shook her head, exasperated with herself. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I thought you might know whether Elizabeth herself had any suspicions… And you’re a woman, would you want to know in her situation?”

“She never told me anything,” Mary said. “I think it’s best not to speak of it. What would be the point, other than inflicting doubt and pain on her while she is still so weak?”

“Then that’s what we shall do,” Talbot said, and Mary nodded, looking haunted. “I’ll go write to her brother.”