Chapter Twelve
Robert awoke to the rumble of conversation as each voice blended into the next. He had a vague impression it was daytime, although the thick curtains were drawn and candles and a rolling fire were the only source of light in the room.
He remembered another voice. The voice of a woman reading to him while he slipped in and out of consciousness. Her voice had been distinct in its crisp American accent and its way of laughing when she found a phrase humorous.
He recognized the story, one of his mother’s favorites—Shakespeare’sA Midsummer Night’s Dream.He had asked his mother why that story and notRomeo and JulietorTaming of the Shrew, and his mother’s response had been curious. She had said she enjoyed the story because in it the people removed their masks of proper decorum and doing what others thought correct behavior and gave in to their inner desires and dreams.
The story gave him respite from the reality that he had been shot in the shoulder. It felt as though someone had stuck a red-hot poker into his flesh. Then someone had tried to smother him with a pillow.
A woman had intervened to save his life, not once but twice. He remembered her name was Miss Madeline Mercer, the same woman he had dubbed the Lady in Green and who had read to him.
When he first met her, on the day he had chased down her carriage, he had thought her lovely. Her eyes were expressive and changed color from forest green to sapphire blue. But it was her kindness and courage that brought out her unique beauty, the type of beauty that lasted a lifetime.
Had she been harmed in the attack? No. He had used his father’s sword and run the bugger through. Why were people trying to kill him?
He had been shot and attacked before, but what was different this time was the quiet. He tried to pull himself higher on the bed and a sharp pain chased through his shoulder, a reminder that he was still healing.
Robert had tried to concentrate on the threads of conversation he had overheard since he had been shot, but it was to no avail. He kept losing focus. At one point he overheard his mother’s voice as well as Lady Montgomery’s, overlaid with others in the room, as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
He remembered a conversation between Miss Mercer and her mother. Miss Mercer was here to marry a man with a title, and her mother encouraged her to set her cap for his brother, William. The announcement had unsettled him, and he did not understand the cause.
The door to his room opened and a fresh wave of people entered, sending the buzz of conversation higher until it rang in his ears.
Miss Mercer approached his bed, a vision in meadow green with snow-white lace gracing the high neckline and the cuffs on her sleeves. “Your color has returned.”
“I feel better.” And he did. Seeing her was like a breath of spring.
“You are awake,” she said with a gentle smile that warmed his heart and soul.
“Apparently.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like someone shot me.”
She laughed, the sound like chimes teased by a summer breeze. “You have a sense of humor. That is a good sign. Are you hungry?”
“Your name is Miss Mercer. Madeline.”
“You remembered,” she said, smiling. “And you are the Duke of Conclarton.”
“Robert. You saved my life.”
“I cannot call you Robert, Your Grace. You are the Duke of Conclarton.”
He wanted to object. She was right, of course, but he longed to hear his name on her lips.
He liked her smile. It was natural, as though she liked to smile and did it on a regular basis. The women he was acquainted with had smiles that looked as though they had been painted on with a brush.
“I always remember the people who save my life.”
Her blush brought a rosy glow to her cheeks. “You saved mine. So, we are even.”
He waited for a beat, drinking in her beauty. “Not even close.”
She tucked a curl behind her ear as though flustered, which pleased him for some reason.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “But in the incident with the pistol, I’m sure Viscount Devonshire wouldn’t have fired again.”
