I wanted to be like her, bringing light to my son, to my duke.
“Repington can’t ignore me in this gown.”
My friend nodded and laid the dress on the bed to prepare it for pressing.
This traditional fancy dress of Demerara would do the talking for me if words failed.
* * *
Holding my breath, I opened the door between our connecting bedchambers.
The duke stirred. “I don’t want to be disturbed. Please leave.”
I crossed around to the footboard and peered through the sheers. “No. I’ve let you stew too long.”
His eyes opened, fluttered closed, then opened again. “Do you need to force another physician on me? Is this a warning?”
“That was for your safety. I needed to know how badly you were injured.”
“I already knew. It’s my body. My shrapnel-laden spine. I knew what he’d say, and that he’d force laudanum down my gullet. I hate laudanum.”
“Do you feel better? The rest—”
“I can’t get up. I have to wait this out. I’d rather do that with some sense of control.”
Swishing my airy skirt and adjusting the bright madras scarf of orange and rust about my shoulders, I prepared for the duke to see me. I knew my appearance was the farthest from full- or even half-mourning as it could be. I was a walking English scandal.
“Repington, I must speak to you.”
It seemed like an eternity times three, before I heard him stir again.
“Patience, you may speak.”
Speak, run to him, fly forward, I rounded the bed and stood in the very position where his boots lined up, the spot I fell upon him on that day long ago. “I needed to see you.”
Eyes closed, nightshirt parted, exposing bits of his chest, he lay under bedsheets with hands flat on the mattress.
His face held three days of shadow. So different from his tidy appearance, but I didn’t mind rugged.
“You’ve seen me. Regrettably, I’m in the same position as when we arrived from Town.”
He released a long sigh, his blank expression not changing. “You’re going to tell me that I’d be up and around if we stayed with Lady Bodonel.”
“No.”
“You’re going to tell me I should’ve had my crutch if I was going to make a point of carrying Lionel about Town?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell me that all my foolish drills, trying to prepare to return to the fight is now wasted?”
“Never. This is my fault. You’re hurt because of me. My risk-taking has done this.”
He opened his eyes. “What?”
“You came after me. If I hadn’t gone chasing after Colin—”
“Colin is dead. There’s nothing to chase, unless you believe in ghosts.”
