Page 7 of Sweet Duke of Mine

NOTHINGNESS

O ne second, fire raged beneath his skin. The next, his body was wracked with violent shivers.

But every time he opened his eyes— she was there.

A distant dream, blurred at the edges. Or was she a memory?

Pain dragged him under before he could decide.

It pulsed behind his eyes, a relentless throbbing, squeezing his skull like a vise, tighter and tighter. Every attempt to focus, to grasp at consciousness, was met with a fresh wave of agony.

For days, weeks, months?—he was trapped between earth and hell—untethered, drifting, lost.

And yet… he didn’t care.

Had he given up on life? What life?

The question echoed empty in his mind.

He searched for anything to anchor himself—a name, a place, a purpose—but over and over again, he came up empty.

Nothing.

Just fragments of sensation—vague recollections of a cold, dark room, boots kicking him. Endless beatings.

“Swallow,” the mysterious woman ordered .

He didn’t have the strength to fight her. Didn’t have the strength to fight much of anything.

When panic threatened to drown him, he latched onto the comfort of her voice, the occasional warmth of her touch.

Warm. Soothing.

When the pain grew unbearable, he welcomed the darkness again. Over and over, sure it must be the end.

There was no sky, no shifting of light, nothing to mark the passage of day or night. Just the ebb and flow of pain, pulling him under, dragging him back to that dark place where time didn’t matter.

Until, finally, the thick fog in his mind shifted. Unconsciousness eased its grip, and instead of falling back under, he floated up.

Sounds sharpened.

A faint creak—wood shifting underfoot.

More awareness took hold.

The mattress beneath him was thin and lumpy, but it wasn’t stone. There was warmth in the air, not damp, not freezing.

His mind fought to find facts, anything tangible—but over and over again, it came up empty.

With great effort, he forced his eyes to open, blinking against a very dull light. The room was dark, but not the same suffocating blackness as before.

This wasn’t the place where they had imprisoned him.

Delicate aromas drifted to his nose, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. Was this… a larder?

Turning his head, a fresh wave of pain lanced through him, but before he could dwell on it, the door creaked open.

And then—she appeared.

The woman from his dreams.

She was real.

His head still throbbed, his entire body was one giant ache, and yet… staring at her, he felt …

“You’re awake!”

Her voice rang through the small room, light and clear as a bell, and for a moment, he thought he might still be dreaming. Was she an angel?

Her eyes widened with something between relief and disbelief, as though she hadn’t quite expected him to live.

And then—she smiled.

Warmth flickered in his chest—an odd sensation, given that he should be in agony.

“I—” the single word died on his tongue.

But it didn’t matter because he didn’t know what he’d been going to say anyway.

She disappeared back out the door but then almost immediately returned, this time with a cup in one hand.

She moved easily, with purpose, yet even in his muddled condition, his gaze caught on the graceful lines of her form, the way the filtered light dusted her features.

As she lowered herself onto the footstool beside the mattress, he sensed something else too—a steadying presence, one that had been here long before he was aware enough to notice it.

Had she been watching over him all this time?

“Willow bark tea. I ran out of laudanum two days ago.” Leaning over, she touched his forehead, and he felt her soft breath on his cheek. “I think it’s gone now. The fever. I thought we were going to lose you more than once.” And then she sat back, staring at him.

"Where am I?" The question rasped from his throat, raw and unfamiliar, like everything else in his head.

The woman—his angel with curls—cocked her head, studying him as though weighing how much he could handle.

“You’re not in danger, if that’s what you’re asking.” There was a cadence in her voice that tugged at his mind—a memory just out of reach .

It wasn’t the clipped refinement of Mayfair or the drawling indifference of a London aristocrat.

No, this was something softer, earthier—familiar. A country lilt.

“I’d reckon you’re still feeling muddled.” She sighed, shaking her head as she reached for the tea.

“Who… who are you?” His voice came out gruff-sounding. Raspy.

She handed him the cup, grimacing with a shrug.

“You are in my pantry,” she announced. “And I am Miss Daisy Montgomery.” When he made no response, she peered closer. “Who are you?”

He nearly lost himself in her eyes, large and blue and inquisitive. Daisy. Her name whispered through him, and all he could do was try to remember why. She blinked, but then she shook her head.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I am?—”

The words caught, his tongue moving but producing nothing. “I am…”

His stomach clenched. His mind soured. The emptiness inside him swelled, and with it, a slow-rising panic.

Who was he?

His hands shot up, clutching the sides of his aching skull as if he could physically hold the missing pieces in place.

“I cannot…”

“Shh…”

Her hands were gentle but firm, pushing his away. A cool cloth pressed against his brow, soothing the heat pulsing beneath his skin.

“You’ve been… you were badly injured.”

Injured?

Miss Montgomery’s gaze flickered away, just for a second—too brief to be intentional .

“You mustn’t upset yourself,” she went on, her voice steady, careful, as though willing him to believe her.

But her words didn’t quite land. Because beneath them, something unspoken hummed between them. Something she wasn’t saying.

“Trust that you are safe here.”

Safe.

The word settled uneasily in his chest, foreign and fragile, as though it didn’t belong to him.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He latched onto her voice, clinging to it like a drowning man. Even though he was the one who should be saying that to her.

He was a gentleman, for God’s sake. A man.

A protector.

A flicker of something distant, buried—a sense of duty, of purpose—tried to claw its way free.

“I should?—”

“Hush.”

Her soft command silenced his unease.

“There will be plenty of time to talk later.” She reached for the cloth again, pressing it lightly over his temple. “For now, just rest.”

Her voice was a lullaby in the darkness.

He’d been resting for days now, possibly weeks. How much rest did one man need?

But a massive weight held his limbs down, and the spinning in his head dragged him away from reality.

The darkness returned, and he slept.

Daisy exhaled, and only when she was certain he slept did she force herself to leave the pantry.

Back in her kitchen, she determined to finish her tasks before Gilbert arrived home. There was soap to measure, to cut, to package for delivery. Orders to fill. Responsibilities to keep.

She was a businesswoman, a successful shopkeeper. She had made goals for herself, and through sheer will and careful planning, she was achieving them.

And yet?—

When she reached for the knife, her hand trembled.

She stilled, staring down at her fingers, at the subtle, traitorous shake.

His eyes.

She hadn’t seen those eyes in years.

Light green. Alive. Hopeful. Mesmerizing.

If not for the flecks of amber swirling near his pupils, they might have seemed cool—but she knew better. Oh, how they could burn.

Similar eyes had once melted her heart.

Now, they unraveled her. So familiar, yet so distant.

Her grip tightened around the handle of the knife.

It was not him.

It couldn’t be.

Lack of sleep was playing games with her mind. That was all.

Nearly a week had passed since she and Gilbert had begun caring for him, and it had been a week of uncertainty, of exhaustion, of waiting.

More than once, she’d been sure he wouldn’t survive.

There had been nights when his pain was so great, so all-consuming, that she believed he might have welcomed death.

But he had held on. He had endured.

As had she.

And now, her imagination must be playing tricks on her.

It was not him.

It could not be him .

“Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered.

And now she was talking to herself.

Her fingers pressed into the wooden worktable, grounding her as she exhaled. Oh, but for one fleeting second, she had been seventeen again. Swept back to a time before?—

Before the old duke’s death.

Before her world crumbled beneath her feet.

Before she had learned that love was not enough.

She had been so young, so hopeful—so in love.

Throughout their friendship, their stolen moments, Daisy had always known change would come.

But she had never expected that day—that warm spring afternoon—to be the last time she would ever see him.

At first, she had been concerned. Then she had been angry. And in the end?—

She had been devastated.

But God help her, she had never been able to fully banish the hope.

After the move to London, the premature birth of Gilbert, and her mother’s death—followed by her father’s decline and Aunt Thea’s illness—she had grown up quickly.

Grieving the loss of a childhood romance had not been practical. So she had done what needed to be done. She had pushed him from her thoughts, burying him beneath work, beneath necessity, beneath survival.

And she had succeeded.

Except in the dead of night. Or while performing mindless tasks—the kind that left her thoughts unguarded.

Like now.

She swept the shop, the rhythmic drag of the broom across the wood normally soothing, but today, it did nothing to calm her racing thoughts.

Nor did washing some bedding. Or scrubbing the floor.

Because of him .

Because, on more than one occasion, she had imagined seeing Alastair walking down the street. She had fantasized that he was looking for her.

That he had been desperately looking for her for years.

Only to be disappointed—over and over again.

“It isn’t him.” The words came out sharp, gritted between her teeth.

Determined to banish her foolish thoughts, she returned to work on the soap, cutting five vertical lines, then five horizontal, creating thirty-six evenly portioned cakes.

She’d just finished wrapping the last one in cloth and tying it off with her signature ribbon when Gilbert burst into the kitchen.

Daisy stared at the clock in disbelief. Eight hours had passed. Had she really been working that long?

She had checked on their unexpected guest a few times, but he had slept the entire day away.

Hopefully, that was a good sign.

Gilbert’s eyes—so like hers, so like their mother’s—were full of his usual curiosity.

“Is he still alive?”

“He is.” Daisy untied her apron, suddenly bone-weary in a way that settled deep in her limbs. “And he woke up.”

Gilbert’s brows shot up. “That’s good then, right?”

“It is.”

“Who is he?”

Daisy exhaled. Because, of course, Gilbert would have questions.

“I still don’t know.” She ran a hand down her skirt, smoothing her apron. “He was only conscious for a few minutes, and he wasn’t very… aware.”

She paused, replaying the brief encounter in her mind, tilting her head.

No. That wasn’t entirely true .

He had been aware.

Of the pantry, the low mattress, the dim candlelight.

Of her.

But not of…

Himself.

Daisy’s fingers grasped the sides of her apron. “He’s most certainly a gentleman.” She knew it. There was a quality—a cadence to his speech, and even in pain, he had apologized to her.

Twice.

For what? Because he couldn’t answer her questions? Or simply for no reason at all?

A gentleman’s reflexive politeness.

His frustration had been palpable—he had tried, and then his pain had overtaken him again.

“Do you think he’ll live, then?” Gilbert’s voice pulled her back, his curiosity as sharp as ever.

Her brother had been as helpful as she would allow, but the reality remained—the man in their pantry was, in fact, a man.

No man had lived under this roof since their father’s death. And if this gentleman’s presence was discovered—if gossip took hold—her reputation would be damaged. Beyond repair. And she needed that reputation. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to do business with the ton .

Daisy let out a slow breath. “The fever’s gone. So I think so...”

It was the outcome she’d hoped for when she and Gilbert had dragged him inside, half-dead. And yet, his continued survival did not negate the difficulties his presence would bring.

Gilbert plunked his books on the chair by the door, shaking her from her thoughts. “Mrs. Farley asked about you.”

Daisy’s stomach tensed .

“She’s wondering why you haven’t come ’round for tea this week.”

A reminder. That people noticed her absence. That she had a routine, a life to maintain, watchful neighbors. All compelling reasons to proceed with caution.

Daisy forced a rueful smile. “Dear Mrs. Farley. What would we do without her?” The question was rhetorical—as they would likely never find out.

“I’ll drop in on her tomorrow after I’ve made my deliveries.”

Mrs. Farley, one of Aunt Thea’s old friends, had lived next door for decades. She made it a point to remind everyone that she had never missed a Sunday at church—even going so far as to critique the vicar’s sermons when she found them lacking.

Daisy had once asked her aunt why she endured the relentless scrutiny of their neighbor.

Aunt Thea had simply shrugged. “Mrs. Farley is lonely.”

And Daisy could not argue with that. Once one got past the woman’s penchant for unsolicited opinions, she was mostly tolerable.

And so, Daisy had taken up her aunt’s practice—sitting for tea once a week, listening to harmless gossip, playing the role of dutiful neighbor.

“Better to be friends with your neighbors than enemies,” Aunt Thea had added.

And Daisy had conceded the wisdom of it.

Unfortunately, and occasionally a little vexingly, Mrs. Farley considered it her Godly duty to keep Daisy appraised of her opinion—on other families who lived nearby, as well as the state of Daisy’s soul, which was in peril, seeing as how she, a woman of seven and twenty, insisted upon living her life without the protection of a husband.

But Daisy would deal with Mrs. Farley later.

For now, with the stranger showing signs that he might live, Daisy had an altogether different concern.

What on earth was she going to do with him?