Page 46 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
“ O f course, Your Grace,” Dr. Middleton replied, already opening his satchel to extract various vials and instruments. “Though I must warn you, the treatment will be unpleasant, and the young lord’s fever may worsen before it improves.”
The hours that followed proved the physician’s words prophetic.
The cleaning and draining of the wound drew agonized cries from Percy despite his semi-conscious state, each sound piercing Ewan’s heart like a physical blow.
When the procedure was finally complete, the fresh bandages applied, and a draught of laudanum administered to ease Percy’s suffering, Dr. Middleton drew Ewan and Samantha aside.
“He must be watched carefully through the night,” he instructed, his expression grave but not without hope. “The fever will likely peak before dawn. Cool cloths, small sips of water when he wakes—these are the best remedies we can offer now.”
“Will he recover fully?” Ewan asked, the question that had been lodged in his throat since he’d first seen Percy’s condition.
“I believe so,” the physician replied cautiously. “Lord Stonehall is young and appears otherwise healthy. With proper care and rest, I expect him to overcome this infection. However, the next twelve hours will be critical.”
After the physician’s departure, a heavy silence descended upon the sickroom, broken only by Percy’s labored breathing and the occasional rustle as Samantha refreshed the cool cloth for his forehead.
Jane had retired to her chamber, promising to relieve them in a few hours.
Lord Norfeld had looked in briefly before retreating to his study, clearly uncomfortable with sickroom duties.
“You should rest,” Ewan said finally, noticing the shadows beneath Samantha’s eyes, the weariness evident in the slope of her shoulders. “I can watch over him.”
“I prefer to stay,” she replied simply, not meeting his gaze as she adjusted the coverlet across Percy’s restless form.
Another silence fell between them, heavier than before, laden with all that remained unspoken.
Ewan found his gaze drawn repeatedly to Samantha’s profile, to the determined set of her jaw and the gentle movements of her hands as she tended to his nephew.
His nephew, not hers… and yet she cared for Percy with the devotion of true family.
As midnight approached, Percy’s fever intensified as predicted.
He tossed and turned, murmuring incoherently, occasionally calling out for his father or mother in heart-wrenching tones that left Ewan shaken to his core.
Samantha moved with quiet efficiency, replacing the warm cloths with cool ones, speaking soothingly when Percy grew agitated.
“He called for Matthew,” Ewan observed during a brief period of relative calm. “He rarely speaks of his parents.”
“Perhaps the fever has loosened the constraints he places upon himself,” Samantha suggested softly. “Much like you, he keeps his deeper feelings carefully guarded.”
The observation, gently delivered but piercing in its accuracy, drew Ewan’s gaze to her face once more. “A family trait, it seems,” he acknowledged. “Though not one I would have wished him to inherit.”
“Some inheritances cannot be avoided,” she replied, her eyes meeting his across Percy’s prone form. “But I have observed that we often have more choice in such matters than we believe.”
The pointed nature of her comment was unmistakable, but before Ewan could formulate a response, Percy’s condition deteriorated sharply.
His temperature soared, his breathing became increasingly labored, and a sheen of sweat covered his flushed skin despite their best efforts with the cooling cloths.
“Percy!” Ewan called, alarmed by the sudden decline. “Percy, can you hear me?”
But his nephew gave no sign of recognition, his head thrashing from side to side as the fever consumed him. Ewan felt the ground tilting beneath him, the familiar specter of loss threatening to overwhelm the careful control he had maintained for so long.
“I cannot lose him,” he whispered, the words torn from him. “Not him too.”
Samantha moved to his side then, her hand finding his where it gripped the edge of the mattress. “You won’t,” she said with quiet conviction. “I promise you, Ewan. We will see him through this.”
The simple touch of her fingers against his, the first physical contact between them since their separation, anchored him in the storm of his fear.
Together they worked through the darkest hours of the night, their previous estrangement momentarily set aside in the face of their shared concern for Percy.
Dawn found them still at their posts, exhausted but vigilant.
The first pale light of morning filtered through the curtains, illuminating Percy’s face which, to Ewan’s immense relief, appeared somewhat less flushed than before.
When he placed a tentative hand on his nephew’s forehead, the scorching heat had diminished to a more moderate warmth.
“I believe his fever has broken,” Samantha murmured, her voice hoarse with fatigue. “See how his breathing has eased?”
Indeed, Percy’s chest now rose and fell in a more regular rhythm, his expression peaceful rather than pained. As if to confirm their observations, he stirred, his eyelids fluttering open to reveal clarity that had been absent for hours.
“Uncle?” he whispered, recognition dawning in his gaze. “Are you… still here?”
“Where else would I be?” Ewan replied, his voice rough with emotion he no longer attempted to disguise.
A faint smile curved Percy’s lips before his eyes drifted closed once more, this time in natural sleep rather than feverish unconsciousness.
Ewan sat back in his chair, the tension of the night draining from his body, leaving relief only in its wake.
When Dr. Middleton arrived for his morning examination, his assessment confirmed what they had already observed.
“The crisis has passed,” he announced after checking Percy’s pulse and temperature.
“The inflammation is subsiding, and his fever has broken. With continued rest and proper care, I expect a full recovery.”
“Thank God,” Ewan breathed.
As the physician gathered his instruments, detailing instructions for Percy’s continued care, Ewan found himself watching Samantha.
The exhaustion of their night’s vigil had left its mark on her features, yet she remained beautiful to him—perhaps more so now than ever, her strength and compassion revealing themselves in ways that spoke directly to his heart.
When Dr. Middleton finally took his leave, promising to return that afternoon, Ewan rose from his chair. The movement drew Samantha’s questioning gaze.
“I must go,” he said quietly, though each word seemed to scrape his throat raw.
“Go?” she echoed, confusion evident in her tired eyes. “But Percy?—”
“Will recover, as the physician assured us.” He straightened his shoulders, gathering the remnants of his composure around him like armor. “There is something I must attend to.”
“Ewan—” she began, but he had already moved toward the door, unable to trust himself in her presence a moment longer.
“I shall return,” he promised, pausing at the threshold without looking back. “But there are matters that cannot wait.”
Without waiting for her response, he strode from the room, his steps carrying him away from the sanctuary they had briefly created in the midst of crisis, and away from the woman who had shown him, yet again, the depth of the love he had so foolishly rejected.
But he did not intend to walk away from her. Not ever. He had something to handle first.
“Your Grace,” the Earl of Comerford’s butler announced with obvious reluctance, opening the door to the morning room where his master sat. “The Duke of Valemont.”
Ewan stepped into the sunlit chamber, his composure a carefully constructed facade that belied the rage simmering beneath.
He had left Samantha and Percy only an hour before, the memory of his nephew’s fevered suffering still fresh in his mind.
That wound, that pain, had crystallized his purpose to a razor’s edge.
“Lord Comerford,” he acknowledged coldly, making no move to accept the Earl’s mockingly extended hand.
“Your Grace! What an unexpected pleasure.” The Earl gestured expansively toward a decanter. “Might I offer you some refreshment? Brandy, perhaps, despite the early hour?”
“I did not come for social pleasantries.” Ewan’s gaze fixed on the purpling bruise along Lord Comerford’s jawline where Percy’s fist had connected. “I came to ensure we understand one another perfectly.”
The Earl settled back in his chair, a smirk playing about his lips despite the wariness that flickered in his eyes. “Oh? And what understanding might that be, Valemont?”
Ewan moved further into the room, his steps measured and unhurried. The morning light caught the Earl’s features, illuminating every line of arrogance that Ewan longed to erase with his fists.
“You will never again approach my wife,” he said quietly. “You will never speak her name in public or private company. You will maintain a respectful distance from my nephew at all social gatherings. In fact, should you see either of them enter a room, you would be wise to find the nearest exit.”
Lord Comerford’s laugh held a brittle edge. “My dear Duke, surely you cannot expect to dictate my social interactions? Samantha and I share a history that?—”
“Her Grace,” Ewan corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “is the Duchess of Valemont. And your history with her is precisely why you will heed my words with particular attention.”
“Or what, precisely?” The Earl leaned forward, his posture attempting confidence. “Will you challenge me to a duel? How delightfully archaic.”