It left her in somewhat of a quandary, though. Despite his action, Edward loved his brother.Hewould never forgiveherif her silence prevented him from apologizing to William before he died.
A lump formed in her throat. Will couldn’t die.
She turned to the doctor. “What’s his prognosis?” she asked, trying to keep her tone measured.
The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Captain Stirling will survive his wounds, although he may never walk normally. My primary concern is the fever. It has taken hold of his body. Bloodletting may work, but there are no guarantees.”
“And if he were to die of this fever? How long would that…”She swallowed.“…take?”
“A day. Perhaps two.”
She drew in a ragged breath as she turned her attention back to Will, who’d succumbed to unconsciousness once again. His whole body flinched, over and over. Perhaps his fever dreams had taken him back to the fighting.
She raised his damp, cold fingers to her lips and pressed a kiss to them, trying to bring his mind away from whatever was causing him such a fitful rest and back to her.
She would give him the night to improve. If the fever hadn’t broken by morning, she’d send for Edward.
Private James used his one good arm to drag a stool across the room for her to sit on, running his fingers through his carrot-colored curls as she sat at her brother’s side, where she could hold his hand yet still reach to stroke his hair.
“You’ve missed a lot, brother,” she murmured. “So much has happened since you left.” His fitful shudders eased at the sound of her voice, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked up at the soldiers in the room. “Fetch some notepaper. I’ll need to send word to my maid to make my excuses if I’m going to be here all night.”
Facing her brother and stroking his hair, she launched into a summary of all the titillating things that had happened over the past four seasons, keeping up a stream of conversation that dipped and paused like music—a melodious lullaby for a grown man who had always loved a scandal.
As dawn broke, so did his fever. His breathing softened, and for the first time that night, his eyelids stopped their frantic flickering.
Chapter 7
John was as late to Lady Mortlake’s gathering as he could reasonably be. If he had timed it correctly, all the pre-dinner pleasantries would be over and he would only need to force himself through a meal and one drink before he could make an excuse to leave.
At least, he hoped that was all he’d need to do. He did not know what Luella meant when she’d said he would have to act as though their engagement was mutually desired. It was a statement that couldn’t be further from the truth. John didn’t want to marry anyone, but especially not her. Their life together would be miserable.
As the butler announced him, John quickly scanned the room, making note of who was talking to whom and each facial expression as they looked his way. Most of the attendees regarded him as though he were a specimen under glass, ready to dissect. It was to be expected. Walter was a man who never missed a party. Thetonknew him well. John had avoided society for the better part of a decade and thetonknew him not at all. No doubt there would be intense curiosity about the man who’d replaced the beloved fourteenth Viscount Harrow.
His hostess, Lady Mortlake, scowled as she came to greet him. “You’re late.”
“Pardon, my lady,” he said carefully. “Unexpected traffic.”
The countesshumphed and returned to the guest she’d been talking to. With little enthusiasm, John searched for Luella. Better to get the unpleasantries over with.
Instead of the caustic maybe-fiancée, John found Charlotte. She’d just been laughing; he could see it in the way her blue eyes crinkled. As she turned to him, her gaze brightened and the corner of his mouth twitched in total defiance of how the rest of him was feeling. She was not supposed to be here, and yet he was absurdly pleased that she’d come.
She wove her way through the gawking crowd until she was standing before him, looking up at him with eyes full of joyful anticipation. Although, now that she was close up, he could see the slight shadows beneath them. “Lord Harrow.”
The way she said his name, as though it were code for something else entirely, sent shivers through him.
“You look tired. Are you well?”
She arched a brow. “You are genuinely terrible at small talk, aren’t you?”
Blast. Even though her tone was friendly, his stomach twisted at his misstep. He hated the surface-level conversation of these events, but even he knew better than to begin a conversation with an insult. Especially toward a woman he was coming to like. “I meant no offense.”
She pursed her lips. “Luckily for you, I am incredibly difficult to offend. And I am well, thank you. Simply a trying afternoon followed by a sleepless night. Nothing a warm milk and some rest won’t solve.Youlook exceedingly well tonight.” She gestured to his wine-colored dress jacket.
Charlotte might admire it, but the close crop of the jacket across his shoulders and stiffness of the embroidery at his collar merely amplified his discomfort. He suspected his smile was more of a grimace. “I didn’t want to risk Lady Luella’s wrath. Who knows what parts of me might go missing if I appeared in less than my best?” He hadn’t resigned himself to the need to marry her, but neither was he ready to sever that one chance to save the estates.
Charlotte snorted quietly, a surprisingly undignified sound coming from the refined woman in front of him. “You don’t need to concern yourself with Lady Cruella tonight. I hear she was lured to the McGoughlin ball when word got out that the rarely seen Viscount Harrow would be in attendance. Which may or may not be an entirely falsified rumor given you are, in fact, here.”
The quick twitch of her shoulders and her cunning smile left him with no doubt that she had strategically placed said rumor.
