Page 65 of To Steal a Duchess

Her eyes didn’t leave his except to worryingly observe his bandage, which, over time, reddened with more blood seeping.

“It should not keep doing that,” she worried some time later. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she knew the red patch on Pickle’s bandage was worsening. “He needs a clean one, but the doctor—he will… he will not come back until tomorrow and⁠—”

“Duchess.” His voice was gentle as he stood up. “Stay here, all right? Do not leave his side.”

Without looking away from her puppy, Eloise whispered, “I would not dare.”

A short while later, Dorian returned with a jug of water, fresh bandages, and another blanket.

“What…?” Eloise asked.

“As the veterinarian said, I have helped him,” Dorian said, bending down at the bedside. “I know a thing or two about caring for animals.”

Eloise didn’t have the strength to ask, so she filed that information away for a better time. Instead, she watched as Dorian first angled the jug’s spout carefully into Pickle’s mouth, letting him drink slowly and carefully. Lying on his side, Pickle lapped it, his whines audible.

“It is all right, puppy,” Eloise soothed him, stroking his head, for she had no idea what else to do for him.

“Such a brave hound,” Dorian joined in as he unwrapped the stained bandage. Pickle gave a small noise of protest, but Dorian soothed him with gentle fingers higher up his leg. “See? We will have you back up and chasing more birds and seeking scrap meat in no time.” He chuckled quietly. “Yes, I have noticed that the cook gives you sausages and bacon. I do not mind, though, not if it means you will grow big and strong, and allows your mistress to teach you.”

Eloise couldn’t look away from the show of care, her heart sinking.

“Are you certain?” she whispered. “That he will be all right? That he truly will get better?”

“Of course he will.” After Dorian cleaned the wound again, he stroked along Pickle’s side. “He is strong, just like you. You have overcome every pain, have you not?”

He didn’t look at her in the low light of her chamber, but she knew what he meant. She had experienced enough emotional pain from her parents, even if he did not know the whole story. She nodded, even if he could not see her.

Meticulously, Dorian rewrapped the bandage. This time, it stayed clean for some time.

The small clock on the writing desk against her window ticked on. Eloise wanted to hurl it at the wall. She did not need to know how much time was passing while her dog lay in pain.

Silence kept them company through those ticks. Soon, she found her voice.

“I was inattentive,” she told Dorian, anguish cracking her words. “My parents… they…”

Whether it was from her own guilt, or the reminder of the pain her parents had put her through, that made her speak up, she didn’t know.

“They always told me that am I careless, clumsy. That is what they would have told me had they been there today. They do not even know about Pickle, and yet he has become such a big part of my world.”

Alongside you, she didn’t say.

“Careless,” Dorian echoed. “Eloise, you are nothing of the sort. You are excitable, and you have some flight of fancy at times, but you are not careless. You follow your heart and passions.”

“And today,” Eloise said, “I was not following either of those. I was distracted.”

“And that is not a reason to beat yourself up. He is here, and he is alive, and he will be fine.” His eyes finally flicked up to her. They darkened in the light. “Trust me.”

And Eloise realized that, despite her self-doubt, she did trust him. She trusted him perhaps more than she trusted herself.

“I do,” she whispered, needing to speak it beyond her own thoughts. “Thank you.”

“You are thanking me far too much as of late.” His tone was only slightly teasing, as if testing the waters of trying to uplift her spirits, and she allowed him a gracious smile. She knew it didn’t meet her eyes, but she appreciated his attempt.

She then kept her eyes on Pickle until they closed against her will. No matter how much she fought it, they did close, and she kept her fingers on her puppy’s head, feeling his body breathing beneath her palm. It was enough; it had to be enough.

The sunlight in the morning woke her up. She had no idea how long she had been awake, but Dorian was still there, the armchair pulled up on her side, right next to Pickle. His eyes found hers. They said nothing, but Pickle was breathing, and the bandage had held.

Dorian looked exhausted but still stroked her—maybe even their—dog.