She had no right to be jealous. To want to keep him for herself.
And yet everything within her was flaming, territorial. The Duke of Carlisle, right or wrong, belonged to Bridget more than to this pallid waif.
What fire had she to offer him? What stubborn resistance? What daring?
A man like Carlisle deserved a woman who was his match.
A woman very much like herself.
Lord have mercy on her.
She was not meant to think such things.
And with the ashen pallor to Carlisle’s skin, along with the ferocious fever terrorizing his body, she could not even be certain he would survive whatever ailment had seized him. To see a large, strong man felled with such ease, his body trembling and skin on fire, had been worrisome indeed.
Nay, she could not care for him. He was her enemy.
The duchess offered her a small smile, but it did not reach her chocolate-brown eyes. “I am certain you do care for him. How can you not? He is your husband, and he is a noble and honorable man.”
Noble?
Yes.
Honorable?
Bridget was not so certain.
Before she could respond, the door to Carlisle’s bedchamber opened, revealing His Grace’s personal physician. Bridget shot to her feet and went to him, not liking the grim cast to the man’s features. “How is His Grace, Dr. Cabot?”
The doctor clutched his black bag of medical instruments, looking grim. “Unwell, I am afraid. I have done what I can to make him comfortable. If this is a fever that will pass, he should improve in the next two days. However, if it is something worse, he will not.”
Bridget’s stomach knotted. “Something worse, Doctor?”
“Has His Grace been coughing?” he asked.
Surely he did not think Carlisle had consumption, did he?
Bridget swayed on her feet before collecting herself. “No.”
He had not, had he? Not on the day they had wed, anyway. But how was she to admit before this stranger and the woman who most certainly still harbored tender feelings for Carlisle that she had not seen her own husband in days? That he had been keeping her locked in her chamber because she was not, in fact, his true wife but a prisoner?
It was a miracle the servants had not already seized her and attempted to seal her back up within the duchess’s apartments.
“Excellent,” the doctor said, nodding. “His lungs sound healthy, but that could change. I am concerned by the fever, Your Grace. He will require someone to attend him, bathing his brow with cool compresses, or submerging him in a cold bath if he awakens, to keep his temperature from remaining too high.”
If he awakens.
Bridget did not like the sound of that. “What else must be done for him?” she asked.
“I have left some quinine, which may also help to reduce the fever and make him more comfortable, along with instructions. I have administered an initial dose, which will enable him to rest and has already lowered the fever.”
Bridget swallowed down a sudden wave of fear he would not get well, brought on by past experiences. In her world, when someone took ill, help for them was rare if not impossible.
She had tended to many invalids in her life. She had nursed her mother before her death. She knew what to do. No servant would be relied upon for this task. She trusted no one better than she trusted herself. Perhaps for the Duke of Carlisle, that would be a frightening thought indeed, but though he remained her enemy in this war they fought, the need to tend him beset her.
“Thank you, Dr. Cabot.”
The physician nodded. “Send for me, Your Grace, at the slightest change for the worst, should it happen.”
