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Stanford could not—would not—countenance it.

Ophelia would get well.

He’d talked to her these past days. Telling her things he’d never revealed to another. Encouraging her to wake up and suggesting alphabetical names for their five children.

Anastasia and Aleric. Bernadette and Bentley. Chesney and Chandler. Delphine and Demetrius. Estelle and Emerson.

How he wanted to see her grow heavy with his children. To raise them together.

“Wake up, my love. Please wake up. I swear you’ll not regret marrying me. I’ll see you happy. I vow it with my life, my precious darling.”

Ophelia lay corpse-like, waxen and beautiful, her hair plaited in a long rope. If only she’d move. Her lashes flutter. Moan in her sleep. Something. Anything.

The crazed fiend who’d shot her hadn’t escaped the well-trained runners. Only the culprit hadn’t been one of the men whose debts he’d collected but Colton DeBroux, the fourteen-year-old son of an aristocrat. He’d seen his mother take his sisters and leave his drunkard father and him behind. A father who raved incessantly about The Duke of Asherford as the man who’d ruined him.

And then Colton DeBroux’s inebriated father had been set upon by thieves as he stumbled home late one night. He’d not recovered, leaving DeBroux and his sisters fatherless.

The boy was the same age Stan had been when he’d been forced to take on a man’s responsibilities. After meeting with the Colton DeBroux and determining that he was a decent lad whose fear and anger had led him astray, Stan hadn’t pressed charges against him.

Instead, Stan had directed his man of affairs to arrange for the boy to go to school. He’d also sent monies to Colton’s mother, along with a letter asking her to return to her son. She had done so, and the family had been reunited.

Shoulders hunched, his wife’s delicate hand resting between his own, Stan prayed. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but if there was a God and he heard and answered prayers, Stan would pray.

Ophelia stirred, and he jerked his head up.

“Ophelia?”

Her eyelashes trembled, and a soft moan passed her lips.

“Darling. You’re safe. You’re at Kenclere Hall in your bed.”

Once more, her eyelashes fluttered, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, she opened her eyes.

Hot tears stung behind Stan’s eyelids, but he blinked them away and gave her a tender smile. “Hello, darling.”

Brow puckered, she gazed at him. “I was shot?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Dr. Plack removed the lead ball, and you’ve slept for over two days.”

She was awake.

My love is awake, his soul sang over and over.

“Why?”

“Why were you shot?” Stan cupped her soft cheek. “We’ll talk about that later. Are you hungry?”

She thought about that for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “I think I am ravenous.”

“Excellent.”

He rose and rang the bell. Almost instantly, a scratching sounded at the chamber door. Stan opened the door a couple of inches and asked for a tray to be sent up.

“Her Grace has awoken.”

“Praise be!” exclaimed the housemaid, grinning so widely that her chin nearly disappeared into her dimpled cheeks. “I’ll be back with everything you asked for before two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Your Grace.”

Returning to Ophelia’s bedside, Stan asked, “Are you in pain?”