Decker’s head raised, and he nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Thompson.”
Jo did not miss the sparkle of tears in her husband’s sky-blue eyes. Nor did she hesitate to reach for his hands, settling hers soothingly atop his. The gesture said everything that mere words could not.
She was not going anywhere.
His mother wasgone.
Decker held his sister in his arms, her small body wracked by uncontrollable sobs, weeping along with her. Warring with the sadness was a confusing sense of relief, accompanied by the swelling tide of regret.
Regret that he had waited seven years to forgive his mother, and when he had finally done so, it had nearly been too late. Regret he had not swallowed his pride and tried to make peace with her before she had been lying on her deathbed. Relief that he had been able to tell her what he needed to. He wanted to believe she had heard him, that the brief flutter of her lashes had been her way of acknowledging.
Perhaps forgiving him, too.
When at last their tears waned, Jo was there, ushering them calmly from the room, taking them to a sitting room where tea and sandwiches awaited them. She fussed over Decker and Lila in equal measure, and he found himself being stuffed into a chair, a cup of tea thrust into his hands.
He was thirsty.
Weary.
Not hungry, he did not think. In truth, his guts were churning, and he thought he might vomit. The room seemed to swirl around him. He was a man grown, but he had not been prepared to contend with his mother’s death. From the moment he had received that troubling telegram the day before until the moment she had breathed her last, he had been desperate to believe she would recover. She was too young. Too vital. He had too much he wanted to say to her.
He wanted her to meet Jo.
To continue being a mother to Lila.
To cradle her grandchild in her arms.
Hell, did he want a child? What was he thinking? He had vowed to himself he would never saddle himself with heirs. The Earl of Graham’s legacy would die with him. It was just the wildness of his emotions, the tumult of the last few days, the lack of sleep, playing tricks upon his mind.
Yes, that was it.
“Decker?”
There was his wife’s voice, sounding as if it arrived to him from the other end of a tunnel. So far away. There was a rushing in his ears.Damn it, he could not pass out. Not now. He inhaled slowly, trying to still his rapidly pounding heart, trying to regain control over himself.
“Look at me, my love.”
The insistence in her tone reached him, grasping him and hauling him out of the fog infecting his mind. He blinked, settling his gaze upon her. Love for her surged inside him, stronger than the grief. Bigger than the pain. He should tell her, he thought for at least the hundredth time.
But the words would not come.
Instead, he allowed his eyes to drift over her face. She had spent the entire night at his side. Little ringlets had come free of her chignon, curling around her face. She looked weary but beautiful as always, concern pinching the fullness of her lips into a firm line. He wanted to kiss her mouth back to lushness again, but he could not seem to move.
Gratitude slammed into him, stealing his breath.
“Drink the tea, Decker,” she urged softly.
He did, because she asked him to. It was sweet on his tongue, prepared just as he liked it. Of course it was. His Josie took note of everything. Shecared.
“I need you to eat something. Just a bit,” she was saying. “It is nearly dinnertime, and you’ve had nothing since breakfast. I am going to speak with the servants, take care of a few matters. You stay here with Lila. I do not want either of you to worry about a thing. Let me take care of you. Will you do that for me?”
He wanted to argue. To tell her he must be the one to arrange for mourning drapery in the household, a funeral, his mother, everything. Instead, he nodded. Jo wanted to take care of him, of his sister. And he was going to let her.
“I will do that,” he rasped.
“Good,” she said, some of the tension easing from her countenance.
Perhaps she had supposed he would argue? His bloody mind had turned to porridge. He had not the capacity for thought at the moment. He was entrusting himself to his wife. His wife who loved him.
