She swallowed again at the notion of Carlisle growing more ill than he had already appeared. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Doctor.”
If the servants attempted to wrest her back to her chamber and lock her within now, they would have a fight on their hands. She would blacken the eye of any man—or woman for that matter—who tried to take her from Carlisle’s side. Later, perhaps, she would investigate the reason for her need to take care of him. For her reluctance to leave his side when fleeing him would be in her best interest.
Dr. Cabot took his leave, then a presence appeared at her side, unwanted and unwelcome.
How had she forgotten the duchess remained within the chamber, a trespasser? Moreover, why was the woman still here, and what was her connection to Carlisle?
“May I see him before I leave, Your Grace?” the duchess asked. “Forgive me this intrusion, but I am worried for him.”
Bridget searched her gaze, torn. She could deny the woman with ease. Certainly, she ought to. “Why did you come to Blayton House this evening?” she could not resist asking.
She wanted answers. She wanted the Duke of Carlisle’s secrets.
A sad smile flitted over the other woman’s lips before disappearing. A shadow clouded her gaze, a glimmer of something undistinguishable.
Regret, perhaps? Longing?
“Leo and I were betrothed once. I do not suppose he told you, as it is old news indeed.” The smile returned, just as sad. “In the end, I chose another over him. I thought I chose wisely, but I was wrong. You need not fear me, Your Grace. I have no designs upon your husband, being wed myself, but I did want to tell Leo how sorry I was for the hurt I caused him. I still wish to do so, even if he cannot hear me.”
This ethereal beauty had once been Carlisle’s fiancée.
It made horrible sense.
And she had jilted him. Had hurt him. It was knowledge Bridget could use in her favor, though the knowledge felt intrusive. One more small sin against her soul. Strangely, the notion of the powerful, omnipotent Duke of Carlisle having been in love with the delicate creature before her, only to have his heart dashed, did not give her a drop of pleasure. Instead, it filled her with bitterness.
And jealousy.
And a strange, territorial urge to refuse the woman entrance.
But who was she to deny the duchess?
Bridget was Carlisle’s opponent, someone he dared not trust. Someone he reviled. She was the woman he had only married out of necessity, because the Duke of Trent had forced his hand. Because he had wanted to save his own skin.
“Very well,” she allowed grudgingly.
Rather than offer the woman any obligatory words of reassurance that she was not intruding or trampling upon Bridget’s good graces, she turned on her heel and led the way into Carlisle’s bedchamber.
The gas lamps were turned low, but the chamber was so indicative of the man, it almost stopped her on the threshold. The carpet was rich, thick, and dark. The wall covering was gray damask, interrupted by shelves lined with books and paintings. The pictures on the wall were striking, desolate landscapes. And there, in the midst of the immense solid oak bed dominating an entire wall, lay an unusually still and helpless Duke of Carlisle.
Her heart clenched.
Her feet moved, flying over the carpet, closing the distance between them, until she was at his bedside. There he was, pale and slumbering beneath the bedclothes. A sheen of perspiration slicked his brow. His breathing seemed normal. She planted her hand upon his forehead, testing the heat of it.
Still scalding.
She ought to be celebrating her good fortune and slipping out the door, into the night. Disappearing from his life forever. And she would, if only the mere thought of leaving him did not fill her with a hollow ache she did not dare comprehend.
He needed her. She would not leave him now. She should. Her every instinct for self-preservation told her to go. To run. To hire a hack. Take a train. Flee! Be gone!
Yet, there he lay, at the mercy of whatever sickness had chosen to menace him. Just a man, after all.
Her man.
No!
Not her man, and who better to remind her of it than his spritely goddess? As if on cue, the duchess appeared on the opposite side of his bed like an apparition. It nettled Bridget to face someone who had known him for longer. Who had shared a past with him. Who had once—and perhaps still—owned his heart.
“I have never seen him ill,” the duchess whispered, reaching out as if to touch him, then apparently thinking better of it and withdrawing.
