Bronson had the front door open and escorted them to a first floor bedchamber, where a maid had pulled down the counterpane and bed linens and had started a fire in the fireplace.
Styles assisted Pruitt in removing the duke’s greatcoat and topcoat. He lifted him onto the bed while Thompkins helped to straighten him. Carefully folding the top coat, Pruitt hung it over the back of a chair while Bronson draped the duke’s wet greatcoat over his arm.
Covering the duke with the bed linens, Angelika moved to the head of the bed and gently lifted his head to place a pillow under it. The two footmen stepped aside, leaving the room when the butler shoo’d them out.
“Might I stay in here? I think it best I be here when His Grace awakens,” Pruitt said.
“Of course. Please, do have a seat,” Angelika said. She turned to Bronson. “Will you bring tea? Biscuits, too, and broth, if cook has any.”
“Yes, my lady. I’ll see to drying his coat.” He gave a nod and left the bedchamber, closing the door behind him.
She leaned over the edge of the bed and placed the back of her hand against Andrew’s forehead.
For a moment, she was overcome with emotion. She remembered when she discovered him watching her from the back door of Dunfey Park. How her momentary fear had been replaced with the certainty he meant her no harm. How he had looked up the moment when the clouds had parted and the sun’s rays had hit the snow and made it look as if it was covered with glitter. How for the briefest of moments, an expression of awe had lit his features—or perhaps it was merely the sunlight—before the clouds once again hid the sun and his eyes seemed to roll up into the back of his head. That was before he collapsed backwards into the snow.
There was no evidence of a fever, and the duke’s features had softened. He looked so peaceful. So handsome. Not the least bit disfigured. Surely not a beast.
The thought of seeing him like this every day had the oddest sensations coursing through her body. To wake up and have him be the first thing she saw would certainly be an excellent way to start the day.
“What you said earlier, about being surprised he would leave the house?” Angelika asked in a quiet voice. “Why do you suppose he did?”
Having moved to an upholstered chair near the fireplace, Pruitt stood next to it and finally allowed a shrug. “He is quite taken with you, my lady,” he murmured. “I believe his curiosity helped him overcome his fear. At least for a time.”
“Hmm.” She pulled a chair to the side of the bed and settled onto it, resting her forearms on the edge of the mattress.
Once she was seated, Pruitt sat and buried his face in his hands.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Pruitt?”
Embarrassed by having been caught in such a state, the valet quickly straightened in the chair. “I had hoped by this time in his life, the duke would have recovered from his malady,” he replied. “Instead, he seems no better than when he was a child.”
Furrowing her brows, Angelika considered his words. “Since he was six years old?” she guessed.
Pruitt’s eyes rounded. “How did you know?”
Her attention went back to Andrew. “He mentioned something about living in that house since he was six.”
Audibly sighing, the valet seemed reluctant to offer more information until Angelika arched a brow. “His father moved him there. After his mother died,” Pruitt stated.
She swallowed, remembering very well the day her own mother had died giving birth to her younger brother. Her father hadn’t been the same since, his manner that of an overprotective parent when it came to his children. Deciding London wasn’t safe, he moved her and Richard to Stonefield Manor, where they had lived ever since, while Robert continued his schooling.
Mark Westbrook had to be cajoled and coerced by a fellow aristocrat to allow Robert to leave England for his Grand Tour. Until his recent return, their father worried himself sick about his eldest son’s fate.
At some point in the next fortnight, Robert and the marquess would return to Westmorland for Christmas and the Twelve Days, Angelika’s favorite time of the year.
“How did she die?” she asked, settling back in her chair.
Pruitt glanced at the duke, as if to ensure he was still passed out, before he said, “An awful carriage accident. During a sudden rain storm. One minute it was sunny, and the next, lightning struck and frightened the horses—some claim the coach was hit by a bolt of it. She was found with her neck broken while His Grace...” He paused and furrowed his brows. “He was thrown clear of the coach, barely a scratch on him.”
Angelika inhaled softly, her gaze darting to Andrew. “How awful. No wonder he fears being out of doors.”
“That was twenty-five years ago, my lady,” Pruitt said in a quiet voice. “I was valet to his father, the seventh duke, at the time. His Grace went to his grave saying his son would never recover. That he felt too much guilt, or that he must have experienced something awful when he was tossed from the coach.”
Angelika wondered at the mention of guilt. Surely the duke didn’t think it was his fault his mother had died. “I cannot imagine experiencing such a horrendous accident and not being haunted by it for the rest of my life,” she argued. “But perhaps...” She stopped and regarded Andrew with a wan grin. “Perhaps today he had decided to take a risk. To discover if being outside would be as awful as he remembered.” Her brows furrowed, and a look of sadness settled on her features. “Apparently it was.” Turning her attention back to the valet, she saw how worry seemed to age him, the lines in his face deepening. How his shoulders had slumped as he recounted the duke’s history.
“Why do you suppose so many believe him to be... disfigured?” she asked in a quiet voice. “He is a rather handsome man.” After a pause, she added, “Or is he a beast of a different sort?”
Pruitt allowed a chuckle. “I can assure you, my lady, His Grace is neither disfigured nor a beast,” he replied. “However, I fear the stories of his appearance have only worsened in town because so few have actually seen him,” he explained.
