“I need a horse this instant!” He tossed a coin at the boy, who grappled for it, bowed, and ran for the stables.
“My lord?” John asked, clearly concerned.
“Lady Norwich is ill, and I haven’t the time for a carriage. Go—I will follow!”
“Yes, my lord.” With a hurried glance to ensure the Norwich footman was clambering onto the back of the equipage, he whipped the reins and left the stableyard.
Edward was left standing in the busy stableyard alone. Vivid memories of his mother’s sickness pressed, unbidden, upon his mind. And then the resulting death.Death.
Amelia could not die. Amelia could not die.
His hand pulled down his face. He needed to be moving. He needed to return. Now!
The five-minute interim of waiting nearly killed him before the stableboy came rushing back into the yard, a fully tacked horse beside him.
“Here you are, my lord.” His breaths came quickly, attesting to his hurried flight. “This here’s Midnight. He’s a mighty fast horse, my lord.”
“Thank you, boy.” Edward was already swinging into the saddle as he spoke. He tossed another coin, then galloped from the yard with a cloud of dust, a tight chest, and a prayer flung into the heavens.
***
Coombs had the door to Edward’s London home open before Edward had even made it halfway up the steps. The concern in the old butler’s eyes caused the desperation Edward had barely kept at bay over the last hours to flare up within him.
“Where is she? How is she? How did this happen?” The words tumbled from him, demanding and terrified.
“My lord, oh thank the heavens you are here.” Mrs. Huckabee came rushing into the hall with small, hurried steps just as Coombs opened his mouth. “She is upstairs. Come. I will take you to her.”
Edward took the first six steps two at a time before realizing that Mrs. Huckabee’s legs could not possibly keep up. He restrained his stride. Barely.
Before entering Amelia’s room, Mrs. Huckabee stilled him with a hand. His own was on the door handle when he looked back to the housekeeper.
“She is likely sleeping, my lord. She needs the sleep dearly, the physician said, and I do not want you to burst upon her and awaken her slumber.” Her eyes were wide, and Edward nodded his understanding.
With care, he turned the handle, entering his wife’s chambers.
Despite the hour, the room was dim, with the curtains drawn and no lamps lit. It took a moment for Edward’s eyes to accustom themselves to the lighting before he made out furnishings inside. The grate in the fireplace stood empty, towels and a basin lay on a small table, and Amelia’s form was barely visible within the large bed at the end of the room. He was at her side in a breath and a few long strides.
The sight of her broke his heart.
Her face was pale, and her hair—tied back in a braid over her shoulder—had wisps escaping to cling to her forehead and cheekbones. When she breathed, it was not the breathing of one who slumbered deeply, but of one who slept fitfully. Her chest rose and fell in a stammering tempo, and her brow furrowed as he regarded her.
Edward came to his knees quietly, brushing the hairs from her face and smoothing the spot between her brows. She did not stir. “Oh, Amelia,” he whispered, the words as halting as her breathing.
Her head was warm, and without thinking, he pushed the blankets from her shoulders so she would not be so hot. Yet the moment he realized she wore but a shift, he halted. But something—some gash, clearly deep, was visible there on her collarbone, the skin long healed but still marred and twisted. More, shallower cuts could be seen across her shoulders.
The scars.Thesewere the scars Amelia’s sister had so callously told him of? For weeks he had wondered, but no wondering could have conjured up this exact image. Nothing could have prepared him for the extent of her injury. From what he could see, they covered all of her shoulders and continued below her shift. A few faint scars even seemed faintly visible climbing up her neck.
What had happened to her? His hand fisted into her bedclothes.
And why had she not told him?
Yet in that moment, despite not learning anything from Amelia herself, so many things became clear. Her dresses with the abnormally high necklines, her discomfort when he complimented her appearance, the wall she kept between them even when heknewshe must feel something.
Edward sighed, shifting on his knees and pulling the blankets back up. The scars made no difference to him, but he could not very well tell her that now. Still, he swallowed, his throat thick with questions he could not ask.
How long he stayed there at her bedside he could not guess. But he drank in the sight of each breath and longed for her to open her eyes, share some cutting remark, and assure him she was well.
But she did not.
