“Perfectly.” Nathanial racked his brains to think of what they had been discussing before he had, once again, let his mind drift to Theo. Hunting. Yes. “The fox hunting in Merton is extremely good, of course, but I know less about shooting potential elsewhere.”
Stapleton nodded, setting his chins shuddering. “Caddington Hall, my estate, is in Yorkshire, and I must assure you, the shooting is excellent. We have plenty of grouse. The shooting season begins soon—you must visit sometime, to try out the land. You would be welcome, you know, any time.”
“Thank you, Stapleton. A kind offer.”
“Not at all, Your Grace, it would be an honour.” He almost appeared to stumble over his words before remembering that dignity was his best approach. “We could arrange quite the party. Only think what fun that would be.”
Nathanial glanced at the river in time to see Montague pushing a boat containing Theo away from the shore. “Yes,” he said distractedly. “Such fun.”
“My wife would be delighted to host.” Lord Stapleton took the idea in stride and beamed. “I can think of nothing more ideal for the summer, perhaps.”
Nathanial spared him a glance. He knew no harm of Stapleton, except that he had made a foolish marriage in his youth and had regretted it ever since. If he joined a hunting party, would Theo accompany him? Or would she remain in the company of gentlemen whose companionship she preferred.
When he next looked in the direction of the boat, Theo was nowhere in sight. Montague, oars forgotten, was standing precariously and bending over something.
His body put the pieces together before his mind could, and he brushed past Stapleton as though in a daze. On the boat, Montague sat back down and rowed to the shore.
Nathanial could not see Theo.
There was a whining in his ears that only grew louder as he strode towards the shore. A hush followed him and all eyes turned to Montague, who lifted Theo from the boat. Limp, helpless Theo, who looked nothing like the lady he’d married. Her body convulsed periodically, brown liquid dribbling from her mouth.
This couldn’t be happening. Not his Theo. Not hiswife.
Montague laid her gently on the ground and Nathanial fell to his knees beside her. His heartbeat resounded in his ears as he wiped away the liquid and held her close to his chest. “What did you do?” he demanded of Montague, his voice not his own.
“I don’t know.”
“For God’s sake, man!” Nathanial cupped Theo’s cheeks, willing more air into her lungs, willing her to open her eyes and look at him.
Elinor pushed her way through the crowd to his side. “Robert,” she said to her husband. “Fetch a physician.Now.”
Theo lay utterly, terribly still. Nathanial was half afraid to move closer in case the delicate movement of her chest proved to be an illusion—but to remain where he was, poised by her side without helping, would be infinitely worse.
One of her hands, limp and pale, lay near him, and he took it in both of his. Her heartbeat fluttered anxiously in her wrist. Too fast.
His father had once told him that all creatures were only afforded a certain number of heartbeats; once they passed, the creature must die. That was why birds and mice, their heart thrumming like a purr, had such short lives.
“Please allow the Duke and Duchess room,” Elinor said, cold authority in her voice as she ushered the crowd away. Nathanial barely noticed. “They must have space.”
What good would space achieve? That would not bring colour back into Theo’s lips, or compel her eyes to open. It would not banish the foam from her mouth, or the jerky convulsions that still racked her body from time to time.
She couldn’t die. He would not allow it. She could not die believing he despised her.
Yet no matter how much he willed it, she did not open her eyes.
Chapter Twenty
Theo’s stomach ached. In fact, every inch of her ached; a deep, heavy ache that sank her further into the mattress. Sweat stuck her hair to her head. In the corner of the room, Nathanial and another man spoke in tones too low for her to hear.
The next time she woke, Annabelle sat beside her. “Oh, sister,” she said, clasping Theo’s hand and pressing it to her shaking lips. “Theo.”
The third time she woke, she was alone.
This time, the nausea had subsided a little. Cramps still racked her body, but she could think around them. The room was dark, but the moon’s cool light brushedthe far wall. For a moment, she lay still, acclimatising herself to her position. She was back in her room at Norfolk House, and—
Nathanial. Sir Montague. The boat.
She sat up too abruptly and her head throbbed. Her stomach heaved, and she thought she might expel what little was there onto the sheets. Cold sweat prickled her skin. The last thing she could remember was being in the boat and feeling as though she was going to die. In fact, dying had felt like a positively pleasant option in comparison to the nausea that had gripped her.
