Anne struggled for something to say to ease Colin’s mind. Goodness, she had enough trouble maintaining her own composure during the ordeal. Illness and death didn’t just make her uncomfortable; they terrified her. Each time someone had so much as a cold, she would hide away in her room or would plan an extended stay with friends.
Barely sixteen when her father died, Anne found herself the only one left to comfort her mother while Andrew raced off to India in pursuit of Alice. And having recently married Lavinia, Arthur was no help either—not that he would have been much help regardless. Ill-equipped to manage even her own grief, she felt so helpless and alone.
She never wanted to repeat a nightmare like that again.
But Colin needed her. Oh, he didn’t say it in so many words, but the haunted look in his eyes, and the way he clung to her hand as they left Honoria’s sitting room spoke for him.
“Thank you, Anne.” Colin’s words surprised her.
“What for? I haven’t done anything.”
He stopped mid-stride. “Haven’t done anything? You’re herewith me. I don’t want to be alone.” Lifting their joined hands, he brought hers to his lips. “I’m sorry our wedding day was ruined.”
“That wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except for the gooseberries.”
A rueful smile flickered across his face so quickly, she might have imagined it.
“It is what’s wrong, isn’t it? The bicarbonate of soda will help, won’t it?”
His gaze became unfocused and drifted to a place somewhere over her head, and something in it triggered the desire to run. “Colin? That’s all it was, wasn’t it?”
His attention jerked back to her. “Let’s go to our room and discuss it there.”
Oh, she didn’t like the sound of that at all, but she followed Lady Stratford’s example. She would support her husband and resist the urge to yank her hand from his and run away.
Once inside his bedchamber, he strode to a table by the window and poured himself a drink. “Do you want one? Although it’s whisky.”
She swallowed her fear. “Will I need one with what you have to say?”
He answered by pouring a tiny amount into another glass.
Fear, bitter and dry, gripped her throat.
After he guided her to the bed, she dropped onto the soft mattress. An errant thought slipped through her panicked mind as she ran her hands across the smooth counterpane. “Someone made the bed.”
“So they did.” He handed her the glass of whisky. “Sip.”
Contrary to his instructions, he took a large gulp of his and then poured himself another.
The amber liquid burned her throat, but it warmed her icy stomach and gave her the courage to ask, “Is he dead?”
Colin shook his head, then after another drink—that time not draining his glass—he sat beside her. “But he’s extremely ill. I couldn’t tell Mother or Honoria just yet as he doesn’t want them to know.”
Anne clutched the glass as if it could give her strength and listened while Colin explained what his father’s physician and Harry had said.
“But they could be wrong.” She refused to accept such a negative outcome.
Colin stared at her as if she were a silly child who believed in Father Christmas. “Even if they’re wrong, it’s more than an overindulgence of gooseberry tarts, and we must prepare ourselves for the worst. In the meantime, Father wants to apply for a writ of acceleration.”
“A writ of what?”
“Acceleration.”
“What would it do?”
“Allow me to join my father in Lords prior to his death under one of his lesser titles.”
Why didn’t he look pleased? “But that’s good, isn’t it? You said that you want to serve in Parliament.”
