A raspy noise came from Roxboro’s chest. He panted slightly. Settled again.
“I’m sure, given I’m so bloody annoyed, you’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen to sit with you. Well, you’re my husband, whether you wish it or not. And I have come to the unwelcome conclusion; I don’t dislike you as much as I should. But that could change at any moment once you are well. Also, and I will insist on this, but I think,” her voice broke just a little. “That Samson deserves a bonus for saving your life.”
Roxboro twitched once more, eyes moving beneath his eyelids.
“Good, you agree. I didn’t want to argue over it.”
Samson had the presence of mind to bind Roxboro’s wounds even as the duke instructed him to turn the carriage and retrieve John, a short distance behind them. The footman had only just decided to ride for The Pillory to seek help when the footmen Barstow dispatched arrived.
“No one was more surprised than I to discover you could handle yourself in a fight. Honestly, Roxboro, I was shocked. As is the entire staff.”
Not entirely true. Barstow hadn’t seemed surprised at all.
“Clumsy duke that you are,” she halted and pressed a cloth to his forehead. “I would have thought it more likely you’d shoot your own foot off. I wouldn’t have guessed you would remember there were pistols under the seat since your memory is spotty at best.” A tiny sob escaped her lips. “And being able to aim properly while bleeding to death was truly inspired. Not to mention your use of a knife.” A tear trailed down one cheek. “Roxboro,” she choked.
Sophia laid her head down on the bed, cheek next to her husband’s chest so that she could hear the rattle of his breathing. The terror and fear at the last few hours bubbled to the surface, no matter how she tried to stop it. She sobbed, wretchedly, against Roxboro, soaking the sheets with her tears while he stayed silent and unmoving.
I do not dislike him.
Quite the opposite.
Chapter Nineteen
Roxboro remained unconsciousall through the night and into the following day. At times, he thrashed about as the fever took hold, his big body trembling. Elegant fingers twitching in agitation. Sweat dotted his brow.
“The fever is from his wounds, Your Grace. But that jerking about is the withdrawal from spirits,” Barstow informed her, while checking Roxboro’s bandages. “My uncle did the same. It lasted…for some time.”
Sophia refused to leave Roxboro’s side. If anyone were to ask why she was so committed to caring for him after the circumstances of their marriage, she would have been hard-pressed to explain. She didn’t know the reason, or rather, she did but decided now was not the time to examine those feelings.
Barstow asked if he should send word to Lord Damon, but Sophia decided against it. “I’ll write to him tomorrow.”
But she didn’t. Nor the next day.
“Open your eyes,” Sophia said to him, smoothing her hand over his forehead, brushing away the coffee-colored strands, now damp and clinging to his skin. Even barely alive, Roxboro was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“I must confess, Roxboro, I don’t have a great many suitors. None, in fact. I’m sure you find that surprising. Mara has dozens, though she’s set her cap for Caster. Who I do not think is truly your friend. Maybe once. Your uncle is quite manipulative. But…you appeared and Iwanted to know what it was like to feel desired, by…someone like you.” A self-deprecating laugh broke through. “When you said to me, on our wedding night, that I behave the way I do merely to shock and be seen, you are correct. I have been invisible most of my life. But the greatest tragedy of this entire affair is…the man in the Perswick gardens wasn’t you.” Sophia looked away, giving the truth to a man who should have heard it well before wedding her. “I should have—stopped our marriage, but it seemed so impossible that there was another man in London, or anywhere else, who looked so much like you. Exactly like you. I can’t make sense of it. But—it couldn’t have been you. There’s no freckle. And I know about…the wine cellar.”
On her very first night at The Pillory, Sophia had a tray brought to her prepared rooms, far too exhausted by the journey and her new life to dine alone downstairs. She had asked Ann to bring a bottle of wine as Sophia had decided a glass with dinner was appropriate. A short time later, Ann returned with her tray, but there was no fine French Bordeaux to enjoy with her roasted chicken.
“There isn’t any burgundy at The Pillory,” Ann explained. “The duke detests wine. There is nothing in the wine cellar except mice. If Lord Damon stays for any length of time or the duke has visitors, he allows wine to be procured. Barstow has placed an order for a crate of Bordeaux which should arrive tomorrow, Your Grace.”
No wine at The Pillory. Nor at the duke’s home in London. And Barstow had told Sophia why.
“You never drink wine. Not ratafia. Nor Madeira or port. Nothing of the kind. Yet the night of the Perswick ball, the Roxboro I spoke to held a glass and drank from it. His lips tasted of wine when he kissed me. And there was a large, purple stain on his coat.” A sound of regret left her. “I cannot fathom how it is possible, Roxboro. But there is a gentleman who resembles you so strongly, right down to your eyes, that he fooled the other guests at the Perswick ball. Lady Brokeburst. My father. But especially me.”
Sophia pulled up the sheets he’d kicked off in his thrashing, tucking them gently around his waist. She allowed her fingers to trail over thelines of Roxboro’s torso, carefully securing the edge of a bandage that had come loose. She’d never seen a male unclothed before now. His body was so different from hers, all muscle and strength. More so than she’d expected from a libertine.
And so unbelievably beautiful.
“I’m not sure why anyone would want to pose as a sot of a duke,” her words trembled as the worry for him blotted out everything else. “But someone is.”
Sophia rose and stepped back from the bed, meaning to leave only long enough to fetch a pitcher of cool water. Dr. Reading said she must force some between his lips.
“I believe you, Roxboro. And I’m sorry I didn’t before.”
*
Sophia’s eyes snappedopen. She’d fallen asleep in the chair beside her husband’s bed, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. A low moan came from the bed where Roxboro twisted and panted, whether from the fever, which most definitely had taken hold, or the withdrawal of spirits, she wasn’t sure.
