When they pulled up to the cottage, Dr. Fernando didn’t hesitate, he simply climbed out and strode inside with his bag. He didn’t look at the patched roof and cramped rooms.
Henry watched him disappear through the door and turned to Matthew. The boy was trembling. Trying not to cry.
“You did well,” Henry said quietly. “Your sister is lucky to have you.”
“I should have found help faster. Should have?—”
“Dr. Fernando is here now. One of the best doctors in London. Because you knew where to find him.”
Matthew’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? Mr. Foley?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said honestly. “But he’s got the best chance now.”
They went inside together.
Dr. Fernando was already examining Mr. Foley. Margaret stood nearby, pale but composed. Her sisters watched from the doorway.
The doctor worked with practiced efficiency. He checked Mr. Foley’s pulse. Listened to his breathing. Tested reflexes.
Finally, he straightened. “Apoplectic fit. Mild, I believe. His arm may remain weak, but with proper care and medication, he should recover.” He pulled out a notebook and began writing. “I’ll need these medicines prepared. They’re specialized—you’ll need to send to the apothecary on Harley Street. I’ll also need to see him again in three days, preferably at Cloverdale House in London.”
Margaret’s face went white. “Dr. Fernando, I’m afraid we can’t afford?—”
“It’s handled,” Henry said quietly. “I’ll arrange it.”
She looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears.
Dr. Fernando glanced between them before clearing his throat. "Yes. Well. His Grace has been most generous. Now, let me explain the care instructions…"
If Henry wanted to do one thing right as duke—one thing that mattered—it was this. Lifting up people who deserved it. People who'd been overlooked and undervalued and judged by fools who had no idea what constituted real strength. The way he'd been lifted up and given a chance he'd never expected. A title he'd never wanted but could use for good.
Suddenly, the path was clear.
Everything led toher.
He needed her as much as she needed him. Maybe more. Because she made sense of this new life. Gave him purpose beyond signing papers and attending balls. Made him feel like he could actually do something meaningful with this absurd amount of power and money.
And oh, how he wanted her. Not merely in the carnal way—though that was true too, simmering beneath every look, every touch. But deeper, fuller, as if their souls had recognized each other across a crowded ballroom. As if he’d been searching for something without knowing it, and she was the answer.
It was madness. He’d known her for mere hours. It was also the truest thing he’d ever felt.
He paid the doctor enough to cover the visit and the medicines and probably several more visits if needed, then he rolled up his sleeves and asked the question that seemed to undo her completely, “What can I do to help?”
Her face crumpled. Then straightened. “Firewood. We’ll need more firewood.”
“Show me where it is.”
He carried wood. Cut more for the next day because Matthew was just a boy and cut slowly. They’d run low in days. He helped make broth, despite having no idea what he was doing—Margaret taught him with patience that made his chest ache. He did every unglamorous, undignified task without complaint.
He found more dignity in performing tasks for the people he hoped to count into his family soon than to stand useless in a corner with feigned honor that was a blank façade. Because this was what mattered. Not ballrooms or propriety or what the gossips would say. This. Her. This family that had become his the moment he’d decided to make Margaret his.
When midnight came, he settled into a chair outside Mr. Foley’s room. Margaret appeared with a blanket and insisted on sitting with him despite his protests.
They sat in the darkness. Her hand in his. Their silence comfortable.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
