Page 41 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Kenclere Hall

Duchess’s bedchamber

17 July 1810

Nearly midnight

Stan awoke with a start, icy fear tunneling through his veins.

Blast and damn.

He’d fallen asleep. Keeping a vigil at Ophelia’s bedside, he’d not slept since she’d been shot, and his exhaustion had simply overtaken him.

He’d dreamed that she was slumped in his arms again, her blood soaking his trousers. He’d been chanting, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Would he ever have the chance to say those words to her and see her reaction?

The fire burned low in the hearth. Stan would need to stoke it soon, though no chill penetrated the bedchamber this July evening. On the bedside tables, only nubs remained of the tapers that had flickered happily a few hours ago.

Awash in a cold sweat and with dread choking him, he lifted his head from the ivory and lavender coverlet his insensate wife lay beneath. Nerves strung tight enough to snap, he stared at her chest, willing it to rise and fall as he’d done these past two interminable days.

Her face as pale as the prim white nightgown buttoned to her neck, Ophelia continued to breathe.

“Thank you, God,” Stan whispered, lifting her hand and then placing a tender kiss on her cool palm.

Cool palm?

Exhilaration engulfed him, and the relief was so heady that dizziness overcame him for a moment.

Had Ophelia’s fever finally broken?

Yes, yes! Stan could see that now in the weak firelight. Sweat no longer beaded her face or saturated her night rail.

“Please get better, my love. I want to tell you I love you too. I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how much I adore you.” Stan pressed his mouth to Ophelia’s hand again before threading his fingers through hers.

He hadn’t left her side except to use the necessary. In truth, even then, he was afraid she’d die while he was away. The way Filson had eyed him this morning, and his valet, Pringlehurst’s, nose had twitched this afternoon, suggested Stan was very much in need of a bath.

To satisfy his servants’ offended sensibilities, Stan had stripped, washed with the cold water in the basin in his chamber, and then donned clean clothing—all in under five minutes. After cleansing his teeth and declining a shave, much to Pringlehurst’s chagrin, he’d returned to Ophelia’s chamber.

Stan wasn’t leaving his wife again until she woke up, and he knew beyond a doubt that she would recover.

Doctor Plack said Ophelia had either been incredibly lucky, or the Almighty had protected her. The ball hadn’t struck any major organs.

After the physician had removed the lead, he’d announced with a somber nod of his bald head, “The duchess lost a great deal of blood, Your Grace. Still, the greatest risk for her now is infection.”

“She must survive, Doctor Plack.” Stan had heard the desperation in his voice, yet hang his pride. Pride didn’t giggle and smile. Pride didn’t get excited over a pair of lovebirds laying eggs. Pride didn’t make him eager to get out of bed in the morning. Pride hadn’t turned him from an unsmiling curmudgeon into a lovesick fool.

As the doctor snapped his well-used leather bag shut, he said, “I shall call every morning and evening to monitor her progress and change her bandage. Let her sleep. It’s the body’s way of healing itself. If you can persuade her to accept either, I recommend strong chicken stock and water. Naturally, I left laudanum for her pain as well.”

Once he’d taken himself off and Stanford had cleared the fussing maids from the room, he’d pulled a chair beside Ophelia’s bed. She was lying at death’s door because of him. Because he’d used a controversial means to initially fill the duchy’s coffers.

Never mind that he’d given up acquiring the debts of others years ago, although several men still owed him considerable sums. Prudent investments of those tainted funds had further deepened the dukedom’s reserves. Still, he’d do it over again. A lad of fourteen had few resources available to him, and sheer ingenuity had motivated Stan.

However, he should’ve been more compassionate. Should’ve shown grace and mercy where appropriate instead of lumping all of the insolvents into one offensive pile deserving of his scorn.

Now the most precious of women, the person he cared most about in this world and the one to come perhaps as well, might be taken from him.

No. No. By damn.