Page 43 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 43

“H e will do well enough.”

Elizabeth jerked her head up to look at the dowager. They had been watching a sleeping Richard in silence for half an hour, with hardly a word exchanged even when Elizabeth had come into the room. “I hope it is so, my lady. I am glad to see him resting quietly.”

“Not my son,” the dowager corrected. “I mean your other young man.”

Elizabeth’s gaze fell. “I am afraid he is not my ...” She cleared her throat. Her very soul ached. William might not be hers, but she could not say she was not his .

“Of course, he is. Anyone with eyes can see the poor man’s heart is split open. And why should it not be so? It is not wrong to pity him, my dear, nor yourself, but give it time. He will mend well enough, you will see. So will you—though I dare not suggest you will forget, you will, indeed, survive. ‘Tis not the end of all things, my dear.”

Elizabeth stared sullenly at her feet. Just now, the last thing she wished to think of was William “mending.” That would mean putting her aside, moving on, perhaps even seeking love elsewhere. Or, worse yet, settling once more for the idea of a marriage without love... and she would be forced to watch it all.

“And what of yourself, child?” the dowager enquired. “Your heart is torn as well.”

Her lip trembled, and she considered not replying at all, but she could not hold back the truth. “Shredded, my lady,” she gasped.

The older woman nodded slowly. “Better to start again with shattered fragments grown anew, than to try to piece together something only slightly cracked.”

Elizabeth laughed wryly. “I do not see how that makes any sense. Your words come at a bitter time, my lady.”

The dowager leaned towards her with a whisper. “How is your faith?”

“Very weak, I am afraid.” Weak . Weak was not the half of it. Her throat was utterly strangled at each breath, and it was all she could do not to heave herself against the door, cry out, and run after the one who made her world whole again. Instead, she just sat, with tear-drenched eyes and trembling body, trying with the last ounces of her strength to listen instead of collapsing into a mournful heap.

The dowager sat back and nodded towards the bed. “He was awake when I first came in. The fool boy had fallen from his bed and was carrying on some nonsense I could not make out. Except for your name—yes, I heard that clearly enough.”

Elizabeth’s breath stilled, and she dashed moisture from her cheek. “He-he said my name?”

“Two or three times. Insisted on seeing you, but I could see you had another conversation to tend, so I told him he would see you after you had done. Then he bellowed something about calling for Darcy—again, I said he must wait. He raised a dreadful fuss when I ordered him back to his bed and made him take his draught.”

Elizabeth leaned forward. “You understood nothing else he said?”

“There was a moment, just before he succumbed to sleep, that he sounded like himself.” Ageing eyes shone watery from that angle, and her chin quivered. “For a moment, he was my own young lad again.”

“What did he say?” she pleaded in a desperate whisper.

The dowager frowned. “He asked where his father was. I did not answer, but he knew it at once.” She sighed wearily. “Then he became insensible once the medicine took hold. My poor Richard! ‘Twas too much to bear.” She twisted to look at Elizabeth again. “My child, it will take all the strength you possess, and then some, to see him to health again.”

“My lady... my mind is willing, but I fear my heart and flesh are but mortal and frail.”

The dowager patted her hand comfortingly. “So are his, child. So are his.”

For another hour, they sat together—gentle wisdom slowly gaining over youthful despair. At least in appearances. How long would it be before she could breathe without this stabbing agony? How long before she could accept, without rebellious affliction driving her every desire? How long before she could sleep again, smile again... could settle ?

Her first longing at every turn of her heart was to run to William and beg him to find a way clear, a way for them, but her second notion—the more rational one that must carry her through—was to lean into this woman who had first shunned her, then accepted her as her own.

It made sense, the dowager claimed. Richard needed her in ways William never could. She and Richard would be well matched. Happy.

She could love Richard.

She knew she could from the start. But her definition of love had undergone such a radical upheaval that she now wondered if she could still recognise that tame sentiment, a mild extension of the friendship and respect she had formerly shared with this man. But she could feel something warm for him, and that made her future a happier one than most could anticipate.

And she had a faithful ally in his mother. That had to count for something. She buried her face in her palms and hoped that formidable woman did not hear her weeping.

The dowager rocked forwards after some time of silence between them and peered at her son. “He is rousing. I believe I will let you speak to him alone.”

“No—wait!” Elizabeth reached frantically for the woman’s hand. “When last he woke, he became violent. I tried to comfort him, but he mistook me and—”

“Is he having any nightmares at present?” the woman asked with a stern brow. “No, he is quite calm. Now is the perfect time.”

Despite Elizabeth’s soundless protestations and imploring looks, the dowager set her cane before her and rose.

I t was quiet.

A bird chirped somewhere outside his window... or was that a voice? A thrush knocked—no, that was a door closing. The murky stupor of that cursed morphine was slow to recoil the tendrils of mist shot through his mind, but gradually, reluctantly, it rolled back at his command. One panting sigh, and the world came into focus again.

Instead of blazing smoke and dust, soft blues and golds rimmed his surroundings. Alabaster vases, mahogany furniture and classical paintings stood out as he swept one side of the silent room. He braced himself in the soft bed and turned to look at the other half of the chamber... and saw her.

She had taken a defensive posture behind a chair, her eyes large and her complexion red from... weeping? He studied her.

“I... I know you,” he said in a hoarse voice.

She nodded encouragement. “Elizabeth. Do you remember... Richard?”

He sat up further, and all the blood rushed from his head to pool in his stomach. “Elizabeth? Good heavens. I wondered if it was only a dream. What are you doing here?”

She grimaced. “It is a longer story than I can tell all at once. Shall I call for something for you?”

He held up a hand in denial, then put it to his brow. “No. Let my head clear a bit.”

Cautiously, she inched into the chair. “Does it pain you?” she asked with a nervous gesture.

“My head? Constantly, whenever this blasted malaria makes a resurgence.”

She bit her lip. “You have it often?”

“Heaven knows when I first got bitten, but yes. The first time, it held on for over a month. It came back when I caught the Cairo packet, some three weeks... what day is it?”

“The twenty-fourth. I beg your pardon, but how did you treat it before? If we knew what to do—”

“You have not asked me about my eye,” he interrupted.

She blinked. “I did not suppose you would wish to speak of it.”

“Wicked luck, that. I was hit by shrapnel during the ambush. Would you believe it? I saw a mere fifteen minutes of action before a little thing like that rendered me a washed-up old campaigner.”

Her hands knitted uncomfortably in her lap. “I am sorry. It must have been terribly painful.”

He grunted and passed a hand over the bandage the doctor must have applied. “Healed now, though. I had a leather patch. It was not much, but smarter looking than this. I wonder what came of it.”

Her shoulders rocked, and she offered a thin smile. “You must have had someone looking after you when you were...” She cleared her throat. “I am glad of that.”

He dropped his hand abruptly. “You haven’t said what you are doing here.”

Her head bobbed, and she bit her lip again. “Do you remember my letter?”

He winced as he tried to adjust his seating to see her better. “Letter? I sent you one from New York. Did you get it?”

“Yes, and I replied. Your fever—you may not recall just yet.”

He frowned in thought. “I never had word from you. As far as I knew, you were safe and well—I assumed you would become a teacher, like you talked of. I thought your father would—”

She sucked in a broken gasp and put a hand to her eyes. “Papa is dead.”

“What? How?”

She shook her head. “Please, we will speak of it when you are better.”

“I would hear it now if you please. When did you come to England?”

She swallowed. “Last July.”

He sat up straighter and earned a perilous wave of nausea for his effort. He put out his hand to steady himself. “Why? What happened?”

She looked down, and her cheeks flinched. “If you do not recall, I ought to wait and tell you after you have regained your strength.”

“Recall what? What is there to know?”

She rubbed the back of one hand with the other and looked uncomfortable. “I wrote to you in Africa, and your general sent the letter back with your belongings. I know you must have had other concerns, but I would not have presumed to come without writing.”

“Believe me, if I had a letter from you, I would have remembered. I never saw anything.”

Her brow furrowed. “But it was opened. You must have received it.”

“There is nothing wrong with my memory,” he retorted, a bit defensively. “I may have been delirious before, but... how long have I been here?”

“Three days. The earl had a letter saying you were at an inn in Liverpool and he had you brought here.”

He sagged in dismay. “I need to get back there. I cannot stay.”

She tilted her head in that innocent way he remembered from different days—days of desert sky and open spaces, when the darkest thing plaguing him was a rank horse or an uncouth American. “Why?”

“As you say, the story is a long one. The mere fact that I am known to be alive puts me in danger of death all over again.”

Her eyes scanned the length of his bed. The woman was lucky she did not have to earn her living at cards, for every thought rippled over her face. And her face, indeed, had much to say. “You should lie back. You are starting to perspire and look faint again. I can call for the earl if you need to speak with him.”

He permitted himself to droop. “I am feeling a mite ill,” he confessed. He hung his head for a few seconds, then carefully rocked back to his original position—no easy feat when his muscles were limp as rubber, and the throbbing dizziness continued to hound his movements. The blankets were a twisted ruin as well.

“Let me help.”

He flinched when she approached and then gaped in wonder as she boldly yanked on the bedding. She tugged it up under his chin, then smoothed it over his chest. And as he stared, a slight glimmer of light caught his notice. He grabbed her hand.

“I... I guess we are married.”

Her brow dipped, and he saw the cords of her neck tighten.

“Oh!” He emitted a dry chuckle—more of a gasp, really. “Do not fear me yet. I am in no condition to impose on you.”

“It is not that,” she whispered. Her hand curled and twisted faintly, as if she were afraid of letting him hold it, but he gently straightened her fingers and traced the dainty ring that caught his notice.

“I never gave this to you. I should have, shouldn’t I? I am glad someone thought of it. May I see it?”

Her lower lip pushed out, and she hesitantly permitted him to lift her hand before his eye.

“A diamond set with amethyst. Well,” he sighed out another bitter laugh, “at least you did not have to buy your own wedding ring.”

She withdrew her hand and shielded it in her lap, her face bowed. “Your family have been very generous and kind to me.”

“That was not my family—not my brother, at least. Reginald would have got you a boxy clunker of heavy gold, or if he especially liked you, perhaps a diamond the size of your thumb.” He snorted weakly and pointed. “This one suits you, how it is both rich and fine like that. It smacks of Darcy’s taste. He helped you, didn’t he?”

Her shoulders lifted, and she nodded.

He smiled, permitting his head to turn back to the ceiling at last. “I knew he would. I am glad I sent you to him.” He started suddenly and tried to twist upright again. “But things must have been fearful for you. What happened?”

She smiled, but it was a broken, tear-threatening sort of look. “If you promise to lie back and rest quietly, I will tell you.”