Page 67 of From Unwanted to Duchess
“I will come with you.” James followed him. Before he got to the door, he turned back. “Franklin, if she is not back within half anhour, organize a search party. This weather is treacherous, and she does not know the area. How foolish of her to have gone outside. How utterly reckless!”
“In fairness to Her Grace,” Franklin said, “the weather was perfectly fine when she set off. You know how quickly these storms come upon us. No one could have anticipated such a turn in the weather.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” James relented. “But she does not. In fact, do not bother waiting. Organize a search party now. I want the estate searched. The woods, every inch of the grounds.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Franklin said and hastened away.
James and Morrison mounted their horses and rode through the weather. Thunder ripped overhead. Lightning struck somewhere nearby, and a big tree split apart and fell. They would have to tend to that in the morning.
“I daresay, Your Grace, the weather is terrible in these parts.”
“It is,” he said. “It always has been. Positively hellish when storms come upon us.”
James had never been fond of storms such as this. Especially not since his brother had died on a night very similar to this one.
That night haunted him still, would haunt him until his dying day. Of course, Marcus’s death was not related to the weather, but still, this atmosphere always reminded James of that night.
His stomach was in knots. He wasn’t going to lose somebody else like this.
This was all his fault. He had kept his distance from Frances. He had pushed her away. With his determination to keep her at arm’s length, he had pushed her into walking these parts alone.
Of course, she was going to get lost. She didn’t know her way around. How foolish he had been. What a blackguard. What a complete and utter fool.
“Sweeting!” Morrison called as they arrived at the Sweeting farm.
Mr. Sweeting was already outside, holding a towel over his head to keep dry. Of course, it was a futile effort.
“The Duchess is missing,” James shouted. “She went for a walk and did not return. We are starting a search party. Every able-bodied man will be called upon. Have you seen her?”
“I saw her three hours ago, walking,” Mr. Sweeting replied, pointing to the paddocks and the woods beyond. “But not since. Let me fetch my horse, and I will join the search. I will also alert the other farmers. We were just discussing an incident like this one, where we might alert one another to come help.”
“Good,” James said, pleased that Frances’s idea could help save her life.
The three men debated on who would go search where, and then they split up. Sweeting and Morrison were going to organize a search party of farmers, while Franklin was going to organize one of servants.
Leaving them all behind, James rode hard through the storm and toward the last location she had been seen.
“Frances!” he shouted into the rain. He knew the words would not carry, but it made him feel better to at least try. “Frances! I am here. Call out!”
But there was no answer. The only sounds were those of the storm. The wind whipping, thunder and lightning filling the air with their horrific concert. Nature’s fury unleashed in full force.
“Frances!” he roared into the wind, his voice raw. “For God’s sake, answer me!”
Still, there was nothing.
He called again, and then he realized something. He was crying. The fear of losing her in such horrendous weather had brought him to tears. He, who prided himself on control, was undone.
He was losing her. He hadn’t ever truly had her, to begin with. But now he was losing her, and there would never be a chance… There would never be a chance for them to be anything.
Why hadn’t he allowed them to become something? He had known that he cared for her ever since that night at the theatre. But no, he had been so determined to keep his heart closed so that it would not stoke his temper. He had wished to protect her and himself, and now what had he done? And in doing so, he had driven her away. Driven her tothis.
“James?” a voice called from somewhere to his right.
He could barely see through the rain, but there was a figure stumbling.
“Frances!” he shouted and leaped off the horse.
He ran toward her and leaped forward just in time, as she collapsed into his arms.
“Thank God. Thank merciful God,” he breathed. “Frances…”
He stroked her face, but she was unconscious. Pale as death, cold to the touch. Her hair clung to her face, and her dress stuck to her curves. He placed an arm under her knees and one arm behind her back, before lifting her.
She was here. She was real. She was in his arms. But would she live? Would she open her eyes and speak to him again? Or hadhis coldness, his damned pride, cost him the one person who had broken through his walls?
He lowered her into the saddle and climbed behind her, then steered his horse around and dashed back to the house, hoping that it wasn’t too late.
Please, God, let her be well. Do not take her from me.
