Recalling the journalist whose loyalty Mr. Smith had paid for, Bartholomew nodded. “I want Florian’s reputation ruined. And when that’s been accomplished, I intend for him to watch the woman he’s saving suffer and die so he’ll understand what it truly means to lose everything. The way I did.”
The gentling of Juliette’s breathing as she fell asleep chased away some of the panic Florian had been feeling for the last seventy-two hours. She didn’t appear as restless as she had when he’d brought her home three days ago, her body shifting about in a constant attempt to seek comfort. She’d been pale with red-rimmed eyes and a cough that never boded well. Employing the strict rules he’d used on the ship which were equal to those he’d put into place at the hospital, he’d stripped Juliette of her clothing and given her a thorough bath, which had proven more necessary than he had expected after having discovered the lice in her hair.
What he had chosen to do because of this wasn’t something she would forgive him for soon, even though he was sure she would understand his reasoning.
Sighing, he stood. The worst was yet to come, but for now at least she was able to rest and forget what he had witnessed. She hadn’t wanted him to see her like this and it clearly pained her that he had. Which was why he’d felt compelled to remind her of his profession when she’d needed to use the chamber pot for the first time. He’d reasoned that if she thought of him as a physician instead of a man, she would not mind his help quite as much. And it must have worked, because she’d seemed more accepting of his assistance since then. For which he was grateful.
Tending to Juliette like this made him feel more connected to her than he’d ever felt toward anyone else. The disease denied her the chance to dress her hair in a pretty coiffure or to put on a perfectly cut gown, and yet to Florian’s eyes, no woman had ever looked lovelier than she did right now.
Which probably meant he was losing his mind since there was no denying her cracking lips, sweaty forehead or puffy eyes.
Shoving his hand through his hair, he wondered when it had come to this. When the devil had this woman slipped beneath his skin and taken up residence in his heart? She was all he could think of—indeed she had been for some time—but where lust had initially driven his desire to seek her company, he knew there was more to it than that. There was the gut-wrenching knowledge his life would be over if she did not pull through this.
He’d meant what he’d said when he’d told her brother he would do what he could to save her reputation. In spite of all the resistance he’d felt toward marriage, the idea of vowing himself to Juliette had become increasingly appealing. Whether she felt the same, he could only hope. What mattered the most right now, however, was her imminent recovery, not the story that had appeared in several prominent newspapers after Florian had failed to see to Guthrie’s arrest.
He recalled with perfect clarity the words originally written by Dorian Harper fromThe Gentleman’s Daily Gazette. They had been damning and horribly precise.
Each Season has its scandal. Last year it was Raphe Matthews’s unexpected elevation in status from bare-knuckle boxer to Duke of Huntley. This year, it seems to be the new Duke of Redding’s parentage.
More popularly known as Florian, until he claimed his uncle’s title, this physician turned peer has managed to deceive us all. He was, as rumor has it, not fathered by Viscount Armswell at all, but by the murderous traitor, Bartholomew.
While law dictates that Florian is Armswell’s legitimate son, since the earl and his countess were married at the time of Florian’s birth, one cannot help but wonder what role Bartholomew may have played in Florian’s life. The two are regrettably bound together by blood and since it is common knowledge that certain traits will invariably be passed from parent to child, one has to ask: To what extent does the new Duke of Redding resemble his real father?
As expected, a note had arrived this morning from Huntley, who naturally worried about how all of this was going to impact his sister. Unsure of how to respond, Florian had not written back yet. Instead he focused his attention on ensuring Juliette’s well-being.
Which became more of a struggle when her fever rose two days later, prompting nonsensical mutterings while she turned her head from side to side as if hoping to somehow escape the pillow, the bed, her body. He’d known this would happen and yet it still tore at his chest and made him feel more helpless than he’d ever felt before in his life. Because this was Juliette and... With trembling hands he forced some laudanum past her lips. Half of it dribbled down over her chin but he hoped she drank enough for it to soothe her nerves.
“Florian.”
He barely heard her, she sounded so weak. “Yes, Juliette.” He placed a new compress upon her forehead and took her hand in his. “I am right here and I am not going to leave you.”
Her body shook. “Not ever?” She clutched at the bedding as if it could save her.
Considering her delirious state, he doubted she spoke of a permanent attachment, and yet as he gave her his answer, he pretended this was precisely what she asked for. “That’s right, Juliette. I will always be with you.”
A lengthy bit of silence followed and he almost thought she’d fallen asleep. Until she spoke one word with greater insistence than anything else she’d said since he’d taken her into his care.
“Love.”
It wasn’t perfectly pronounced but there was no mistaking what she’d said. He understood and his heart swelled with gladness and hope and a torrent of powerful emotion. It was as if all sentiment had been locked away deep inside him forever and she had released it from its confines, allowing it to roam free.
“I love you.” She pushed the words past her lips with impressive stubbornness, her determination and honesty in the face of her suffering prompting tears to gather at the corners of his eyes.
He had not cried since he was a boy and yet Juliette caused him to do so now, the fear he might lose her when he had barely won her tightening his throat to the point of severe discomfort. It was only made worse by the knowledge that her love for him wasn’t real. It couldn’t be when she did not know the most vital thing about him. And with this awareness came additional fear, of how she would respond when she learned his real father had almost succeeded in killing her sister the previous year when he’d been trying to stop Amelia from buying the house on the edge of St. Giles—the one she’d since turned into a school. Would Juliette be able to forgive Florian for keeping this from her? He wasn’t sure, but since doubt wasn’t helping, he did his best not to dwell on it extensively. There would be plenty of time for that later after she recovered.
So with this in mind, he bowed his head over hers and touched her brow with his lips. “I love you too, Juliette.” The words were as clear as could be, and God help him if they weren’t the truest he’d ever spoken.
Juliette wasn’t sure if she was awake or if she was dreaming. It felt as though she was drifting beyond the confines of her body, yet somehow aware of the aches sliding through her and the shivering chill that caused her to shake. Whatever the case, she felt at peace, safe in the knowledge that her feelings had been reciprocated.
Terrified she might die without telling Florian how she felt, she’d delivered the message as well as she’d been able. And he had answered, ensuring her that he loved her in return. She was certain he’d said so while kissing her forehead, though it felt so surreal now she’d started to doubt if it had in fact happened or if it was the fever playing tricks on her brain.
Then he’d brought her additional food, mostly meat, accompanying each serving with a full glass of red wine. He’d changed her nightgown more than once, an act she’d become increasingly used to since he always did it briskly and without appearing to pay any interest in her nudity. Caring for her comfort seemed to be his priority now, completely overshadowing the blatant desire he’d shown for her before she’d succumbed to the illness.
The effect was calming, for it allowed her to ignore the initial apprehension she’d had about him seeing her so disabled.
She relinquished herself to his ministrations, sitting limply in the bath while he bathed her and leaning on him for support while he dressed her. All without a single inappropriate touch. His professionalism was such a stark departure from the passionate man who’d whispered scandalous suggestions in her ear that she began to wonder if she had indeed fabricated his declaration of love. And because of this doubt, she refrained from repeating her own, lest he respond contrary to how she hoped.
“How long have I been here?” she asked one morning when he brought her a larger plate of food than usual. She truly had no idea how much time had passed since he’d taken her away from Lady Arlington’s house and brought her here to his home.
