"Of course I did."
Her eyes searched his face, too tired to say more. Her fingers curled faintly around his—
and held on.
Chapter 47
The door clicked softly shut behind Jasper, his footfalls fading down the corridor until all that remained was the hush of the room and the quiet flicker of the candle on the nearby table.
Abigail exhaled slowly, her body sinking deeper into the mattress. The bedsheets were stiff but clean, tucked neatly around her like a cocoon. Her ribs ached with every breath, and her collarbone throbbed dully beneath the bindings, but she was awake. And alone.
She let her gaze drift across the chamber—the pale-yellow walls, the high windows now dark with evening, the sharp tang of vinegar and the sweet scent of the fresh-cut flowers perched on the table nearby. Not her home. Not even Jasper's. Just a private hospital room in London. And still, she was grateful for it. For the quiet. For the fact that she was alive.
He had been here when she woke. She hadn't imagined that. His hands had been warm and trembling around hers, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and something else she couldn't name. Fear, perhaps. Or regret.
She recalled the way his voice cracked when he spoke. The way he kissed her hand as though it were a sacred thing. How he'd called herdarlingwithout hesitation.
And then he'd been told, quite firmly, that visiting hours had ended. The nurse had added that, should she remain stable overnight, she would likely be permitted to return home inthe morning—provided, of course, that a physician could be arranged to see her daily.
Jasper had nodded, though his jaw had clenched.
"Give Emmeline a kiss for me," Abigail had said softly, her voice still rough from disuse. "And a hug. Tell her I hope to see her tomorrow."
He'd smiled faintly. "I will."
And then he'd gone, reluctant but obedient, the door closing behind him with a soft but final sound.
"Now then," came a gentle voice from the side of the room. The nurse reappeared, bustling toward the bed with practiced efficiency and a warm, knowing smile. She folded back the covers to check the wrappings at Abigail's side.
"Let's have a look at you, shall we? Still pink in the cheeks—that's a fine sign. Breathing easier, I trust?"
Abigail nodded slightly. "I think so."
The nurse's fingers were cool but careful as she examined the bandage at her temple, checked the tightness of the wrappings around her ribs, and adjusted the sling cradling her collarbone. She hummed softly as she worked.
"His Grace has been quite beside himself, you know," she said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather. "Didn't leave this room once. Sat right there, holding your hand through the night and the whole of today—like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world."
Abigail's breath caught faintly. She'd drifted in and out of sleep since waking, but he had been there each time her eyes opened.
The nurse chuckled. "Didn't even go fetch your parents himself. Stood in the doorway and bellowed down the hall. Scared poor Sister Adeline half to death."
A pause, then a wistful sigh. "It's rather romantic, if I may say so. A Duke, no less. Looking as though the very ground might give way beneath him if you didn't stir."
Abigail blinked up at the ceiling, her throat tight. She didn't know what to say. Not yet.
The nurse patted her hand kindly. "From the looks of it, you've quite a few someone's worth getting better for."
And with that, she moved to tidy the room, leaving Abigail in the soft flickering glow of the candlelight, thoughts churning as quietly as the shadows on the wall.
Abigail's tired mind replayed all the nurse had revealed. She'd known Jasper was there when she woke, that he said he had stayed. But to hear it from someone else—from a nurse with no reason to embellish—how he'd refused to leave her side once he'd arrived, how he'd looked as though the world might shatter around him if she didn't stir...
Something warm unfurled in her aching chest. A fragile thread of comfort. Of hope.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Chapter 48
The carriage came to a gentle stop outside Winterset House, its lanterns casting golden halos on the pavement as dusk settled over London. Philip leaned forward and peered through the window at the familiar façade—handsome, dignified, and, to his eyes, still stained by betrayal.
