“No.” He was not certain if he said it, but he thought he did. The chamber spun about him once more. And then he could no longer stand.
He dropped to his knees.
The room faded to black.
The Duke of Carlisle was seriously ill.
Bridget knew it before the doctor had even been sent for. She knew it as she waited in the drawing room with the lovely blonde duchess who had been at his side when he had collapsed. A lovely blonde duchess she very much wanted to ask to leave. Or forcibly shove out the front door.
The revelers had disbanded in the wake of Carlisle’s illness. A man passing out rather seemed to have a dampening effect even upon the truly licentious. And there was no other way to describe the men and women who had gathered at Blayton House that night. Bridget had wandered in and out of chambers, witnessing all manner of shocking acts, before she had finally found the cipher of a man she had married.
Union in name only or no, the Duke of Carlisle was her husband.
Not the interloper duchess’s husband.
Even if she acted far too familiarly toward him, clutching his sleeve as he fell, weeping prettily over his slumped form, referring to him by his Christian name. Entwining her fingers lovingly through his.
In the upheaval following the moment Carlisle had fallen to the floor as if he had been shot, Bridget’s first instinct had been to remain by his side. She ought to have fled as she had originally intended, until she’d caught a glimpse of him in the ballroom as she’d passed. One look, and she had known something was amiss. It was rather troubling now when she revisited it in her mind. She had fallen to her knees at his side, frantically searching for some sign he had been attacked, convinced he had been stabbed or poisoned, for no shots had been fired.
Why had she been concerned for his wellbeing? Why had she not escaped when she’d had her chance?
With Carlisle passed out, Wilton locked in her chamber, and a crowded ballroom of drunken revelers, her disappearance would have gone unnoticed long enough for her to have escaped.
And yet, her only thoughts had been for him.
Now, seated in the sitting room adjoining the ducal apartments awaiting word from the physician, Bridget frowned at the duchess as much as she frowned at herself. It was far easier, however, to inflict her displeasure upon the other woman, who was wan and golden and infallibly beautiful, like a Venus come to life.
Bridget did not like the woman. Not one bit. “You may go, Your Grace. I shall tend to my husband from this moment forward.”
The duchess’s lips pinched. “I was not aware Leo had married.”
There it was again. Leo.
It occurred to Bridget she had never referred to Carlisle in such intimate terms. His given name was Leopold. She had not known he preferred a sobriquet. Had certainly never wrapped her tongue around it.
But apparently, this woman had. An insidious voice inside Bridget wondered just what else of Carlisle’s the duchess had wrapped her tongue around. A sour bolt of something she refused to believe was jealousy hit her. Ruthlessly, she tamped it down.
“And why are you a person who ought to receive the announcement?” she asked, not caring if she was rude. The woman was intruding, and Bridget did not like the notion Carlisle had once been on intimate terms with her.
“We are old acquaintances,” the duchess said quietly. “I care for Leo very much.”
Bridget forgot she was not Carlisle’s wife in truth in that moment. Forgot she had no claim upon him, forgot their union had not been—and never would be—consummated. All she could think about, all she could summon, was the righteous outrage that had sparked to life inside her from the moment she had seen another woman interacting so intimately with the duke.
“I care for him as well,” she snapped, only to realize what nonsense she had just said in an effort to match the duchess, verbal thrust for verbal thrust.
Her union to Carlisle was in name only.
It was a marriage of convenience.
She had no right to be jealous. To want to keep him for herself.
And yet everything within her was flaming, territorial. The Duke of Carlisle, right or wrong, belonged to Bridget more than to this pallid waif.
What fire had she to offer him? What stubborn resistance? What daring?
A man like Carlisle deserved a woman who was his match.
A woman very much like herself.
Lord have mercy on her.
She was not meant to think such things.
And with the ashen pallor to Carlisle’s skin, along with the ferocious fever terrorizing his body, she could not even be certain he would survive whatever ailment had seized him. To see a large, strong man felled with such ease, his body trembling and skin on fire, had been worrisome indeed.
Nay, she could not care for him. He was her enemy.
The duchess offered her a small smile, but it did not reach her chocolate-brown eyes. “I am certain you do care for him. How can you not? He is your husband, and he is a noble and honorable man.”
Noble?
Yes.
Honorable?
Bridget was not so certain.
Before she could respond, the door to Carlisle’s bedchamber opened, revealing His Grace’s personal physician. Bridget shot to her feet and went to him, not liking the grim cast to the man’s features. “How is His Grace, Dr. Cabot?”
The doctor clutched his black bag of medical instruments, looking grim. “Unwell, I am afraid. I have done what I can to make him comfortable. If this is a fever that will pass, he should improve in the next two days. However, if it is something worse, he will not.”
Bridget’s stomach knotted. “Something worse, Doctor?”
“Has His Grace been coughing?” he asked.
Surely he did not think Carlisle had consumption, did he?
Bridget swayed on her feet before collecting herself. “No.”
He had not, had he? Not on the day they had wed, anyway. But how was she to admit before this stranger and the woman who most certainly still harbored tender feelings for Carlisle that she had not seen her own husband in days? That he had been keeping her locked in her chamber because she was not, in fact, his true wife but a prisoner?
It was a miracle the servants had not already seized her and attempted to seal her back up within the duchess’s apartments.
“Excellent,” the doctor said, nodding. “His lungs sound healthy, but that could change. I am concerned by the fever, Your Grace. He will require someone to attend him, bathing his brow with cool compresses, or submerging him in a cold bath if he awakens, to keep his temperature from remaining too high.”
If he awakens.
Bridget did not like the sound of that. “What else must be done for him?” she asked.
“I have left some quinine, which may also help to reduce the fever and make him more comfortable, along with instructions. I have administered an initial dose, which will enable him to rest and has already lowered the fever.”
Bridget swallowed down a sudden wave of fear he would not get well, brought on by past experiences. In her world, when someone took ill, help for them was rare if not impossible.
She had tended to many invalids in her life. She had nursed her mother before her death. She knew what to do. No servant would be relied upon for this task. She trusted no one better than she trusted herself. Perhaps for the Duke of Carlisle, that would be a frightening thought indeed, but though he remained her enemy in this war they fought, the need to tend him beset her.
“Thank you, Dr. Cabot.”
The physician nodded. “Send for me, Your Grace, at the slightest change for the worst, should it happen.”
She swallowed again at the notion of Carlisle growing more ill than he had already appeared. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Doctor.”
If the servants attempted to wrest her back to her chamber and lock her within now, they would have a fight on their hands. She would blacken the eye of any man—or woman for that mat
ter—who tried to take her from Carlisle’s side. Later, perhaps, she would investigate the reason for her need to take care of him. For her reluctance to leave his side when fleeing him would be in her best interest.
Dr. Cabot took his leave, then a presence appeared at her side, unwanted and unwelcome.
How had she forgotten the duchess remained within the chamber, a trespasser? Moreover, why was the woman still here, and what was her connection to Carlisle?
“May I see him before I leave, Your Grace?” the duchess asked. “Forgive me this intrusion, but I am worried for him.”
Bridget searched her gaze, torn. She could deny the woman with ease. Certainly, she ought to. “Why did you come to Blayton House this evening?” she could not resist asking.
She wanted answers. She wanted the Duke of Carlisle’s secrets.
A sad smile flitted over the other woman’s lips before disappearing. A shadow clouded her gaze, a glimmer of something undistinguishable.
Regret, perhaps? Longing?
“Leo and I were betrothed once. I do not suppose he told you, as it is old news indeed.” The smile returned, just as sad. “In the end, I chose another over him. I thought I chose wisely, but I was wrong. You need not fear me, Your Grace. I have no designs upon your husband, being wed myself, but I did want to tell Leo how sorry I was for the hurt I caused him. I still wish to do so, even if he cannot hear me.”
This ethereal beauty had once been Carlisle’s fiancée.
It made horrible sense.
And she had jilted him. Had hurt him. It was knowledge Bridget could use in her favor, though the knowledge felt intrusive. One more small sin against her soul. Strangely, the notion of the powerful, omnipotent Duke of Carlisle having been in love with the delicate creature before her, only to have his heart dashed, did not give her a drop of pleasure. Instead, it filled her with bitterness.
And jealousy.
And a strange, territorial urge to refuse the woman entrance.
But who was she to deny the duchess?
Bridget was Carlisle’s opponent, someone he dared not trust. Someone he reviled. She was the woman he had only married out of necessity, because the Duke of Trent had forced his hand. Because he had wanted to save his own skin.
“Very well,” she allowed grudgingly.
Rather than offer the woman any obligatory words of reassurance that she was not intruding or trampling upon Bridget’s good graces, she turned on her heel and led the way into Carlisle’s bedchamber.
The gas lamps were turned low, but the chamber was so indicative of the man, it almost stopped her on the threshold. The carpet was rich, thick, and dark. The wall covering was gray damask, interrupted by shelves lined with books and paintings. The pictures on the wall were striking, desolate landscapes. And there, in the midst of the immense solid oak bed dominating an entire wall, lay an unusually still and helpless Duke of Carlisle.
Her heart clenched.
Her feet moved, flying over the carpet, closing the distance between them, until she was at his bedside. There he was, pale and slumbering beneath the bedclothes. A sheen of perspiration slicked his brow. His breathing seemed normal. She planted her hand upon his forehead, testing the heat of it.
Still scalding.
She ought to be celebrating her good fortune and slipping out the door, into the night. Disappearing from his life forever. And she would, if only the mere thought of leaving him did not fill her with a hollow ache she did not dare comprehend.
He needed her. She would not leave him now. She should. Her every instinct for self-preservation told her to go. To run. To hire a hack. Take a train. Flee! Be gone!
Yet, there he lay, at the mercy of whatever sickness had chosen to menace him. Just a man, after all.
Her man.
No!
Not her man, and who better to remind her of it than his spritely goddess? As if on cue, the duchess appeared on the opposite side of his bed like an apparition. It nettled Bridget to face someone who had known him for longer. Who had shared a past with him. Who had once—and perhaps still—owned his heart.
“I have never seen him ill,” the duchess whispered, reaching out as if to touch him, then apparently thinking better of it and withdrawing.
“Nor have I.” But then, she scarcely knew him, though he was her husband.
Her gaze roamed back over his handsome face. How different he looked in repose. How vulnerable. All the starch had fled him, all the rigidity, and she could not quite stay the accompanying pang in her heart.
“You love him,” the duchess said, startling her from her reverie.
Bridget nearly swooned. She blinked. Cleared her throat. Skewered the woman with a glare. Of course she did not love the Duke of Carlisle. She did not even like the man. He was fine of face and form. He was strong. He knew how to kiss. How to bring her pleasure, much to her shame.
But he was the Duke of Carlisle.
Bridget did not love him.
She had never loved anyone other than her brother Cullen, and yes, even her sister Daisy. Reluctantly at first, it was true, but Daisy had more than proven herself to Bridget. She was loyal, trustworthy, caring. Yes, Bridget loved her family.
Not Carlisle. Never him.
She began to deny it. Opened her mouth to form the word no.
Her mind suddenly traveled back to Harlton Hall. Their connection there had been undeniable, intense, and instant. Her attempt to meet John’s demands at the expense of Carlisle’s nephew had failed.
Yet instead of sending her directly to prison, he had taken her to his home. He had tended to her himself when she had been weak. Though he could be cruel and cutting, he was also a man who had the capacity for kindness.
Perhaps that was part of the reason why she was still here at Blayton House, ensnared in her conflicting emotions, facing a ghost from Carlisle’s past and the specter of his illness, all at once. That and the guilt which threatened to consume her whenever she thought of the fright she had caused the young Duke of Burghly. The need to do penance burned inside her, undeniable.
“You need not answer me,” the duchess interrupted her thoughts. “I can see it plainly on your face. I am sorry for my intrusion. Pray believe me when I say had I known Leo had married, I would never have… I had assumed, given the nature of the party… But it matters not. I merely wish him well, and I wanted him to know I am sorry. So very, very sorry for what I did to him. Will you convey that to him for me, please?”
Her dislike for the woman did not decrease after such an odd apology, half insinuation, half regret. One sentence more than all the others she had uttered combined struck Bridget like a blow.
I can see it plainly on your face.
She thought Bridget looked like a woman in love. A woman in love with the Duke of Carlisle.
How ridiculously, utterly foolish. He was her jailer, her enemy, the man who thought her despicable. The man who kissed with more passion than she had ever known possible in the mere fusing of two mouths together.
No, she must not think such errant thoughts now.
She found her voice at last. “I will most assuredly convey your apology to the duke, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” The duchess’s voice was brittle. So too, her expression, as if the slightest movement would fracture her. As if she took great care to keep her emotion from betraying her. “Take care of him. He is not as heartless as he would have the world believe.”
Heartless was precisely what the Duke of Carlisle was. John had warned her. His reputation preceded him, and Bridget had been the recipient of his wintry gaze and biting scorn more times than she cared to count. But then she thought once more of the man she had seen at Harlton Hall, teasing his nephew, a man who loved his brother and Mrs. Ludlow very much.
“I bid you good evening, Duchess,” she said, confused by the jumble of feelings within her.
The duchess swallowed. “Good evening, madam.” For a moment, she extended her hand, as if to trace it lovingly over
Carlisle’s brow before apparently thinking better of it. Without another word, she left.
Bridget turned her full attention to Carlisle, who had begun mumbling something incoherent and thrashing about on the bed. She rang the bell pull without hesitation. Though she had no inkling of what her reception would be from the domestics, particularly those who knew she had been essentially a prisoner locked in her chamber, she had no time to spare.
The Duke of Carlisle needed her, and like it or not, she was all he had at the moment. She brushed a sweaty hank of dark hair from his forehead. He shifted again, muttering something.
“Hush now, Duke,” she whispered, “I shall see you through this.”
This time, one word emerged with perfect, concise clarity.
“Bridget.”
Her name.
“I am here, mo chroí.” The endearment left her without thought. Too late to call it back. It hovered in the air like a beam of sun, radiant. Illuminating. Warming.
My heart, she had called him, and the most frightening thing of all was it sounded just as it felt.
Right.
Chapter Twelve
Leo woke to late-afternoon light filtering over his bed and the soft curves of a woman pressed against his side. Lemon and bergamot teased his senses because he had been stupid enough to see that a servant procured her favorite fragrance. Slow, even breaths interrupted the silence of the chamber, accompanied by the distant din of the street below and the rhythmic ticking of a mantle clock.
Either the illness which had gripped him had sent him to hell, where he likely so richly belonged, or the foggy memories of Bridget O’Malley at his bedside and the sweet traces of her perfume in the air meant she had been tending to him. And not only had she been tending to him, but she was still in his bed, sleeping alongside him as if it were where she belonged.
It most assuredly was not where she belonged.
But that did not mean he didn’t enjoy having her there. It also didn’t mean he did not turn his head slowly to the side, all the better to bury his nose in the silken skeins of her midnight hair. Christ, even her hair smelled delicious.
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