A Vixen For The Devilish Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance)

by Olivia Bennet

  She knew the butler and all the servants had a hard time in deciding what to call her. They could not have missed the resemblance with Lady Dorothea but she had been introduced to them as Miss Raby. So they tended to just skip over addressing her by any title—a circumstance for which she did not blame them one bit. If she were in their shoes, she would not know what to call her, either.

  She got to her feet, fixing a smile on her face as her probable family entered the room. “Lady Cornhill, Lady Dorothea. It is good to see you.”

  Lady Cornhill made a beeline for her, clasping Adelia’s hands in her own, her eyes shining with unshed tears. It was always the same when she came by. She was always brimming with unexpressed emotion. Adelia could sense her impatience in getting to the bottom of her identity—but she did not share it one bit.

  Lady Cornhill bussed her cheek. “It is good to see you too, my dear. How are you holding up?” She peered with concern into Adelia’s eyes and she felt a lump form in her throat. Could she really have developed such strong feelings for a mere nurse in so short a time? How could she be so sure the resemblance between her and Lady Dorothea was nothing but fate playing a cruel trick?

  “I am fine, Lady Cornhill. Thank you for asking.” She remembered all her lessons on manners. Lady Harriet had been quite thorough.

  She indicated that they should sit and Lady Dorothea did so with an irritable sigh. She did not bother to hide her annoyance at being there, and Adelia knew that her moth— Lady Cornhill, must have insisted that she come.

  Adelia studied Lady Dorothea surreptitiously. Her hair was done up in a loose coiffure atop her head, with little tendrils framing her face. She would have looked quite becoming if not for her eternal moue of distaste. She smoothed over her copper-colored gown, which brought out her eyes to best advantage. Adelia wondered if she would be seeing Harry today. She did not seem to have dressed for a visit to a lowly sister. Perhaps she had thought Harry would be here too.

  Adelia pursed her lips and turned her attention to Lady Cornhill.

  Chapter 15

  Grief and Pain

  It took three months before the surgeon finally made his appearance at Rosemond. Three long, tortuous months, where every second was like an hour and where every soft, pained sound the Dowager Duchess made was like a red-hot poker being shoved between Harry’s ribs.

  The only relief he had from the constant worry and aggravation of his mother’s illness was Adelia’s visits. She came almost every day and they sat together, his mother a silent chaperone between them.

  “There’s color in her cheeks today,” Adelia observed. Harry nodded.

  “Yes, she seems to at least be stable if not getting better.”

  “I think she’ll be fine. The surgeon will heal her.”

  “Will he? Sometimes I feel as if I’m chasing rainbows.”

  She watched him with bright eyes, glimmering with sympathy and unshed tears. “I cannot imagine what you are going through. If it was my mother lying here, I—” she choked, shaking her head and he found that he wanted to stand up and go to her, perhaps squeeze her hand. After a moment’s hesitation he shrugged inwardly and got to his feet.

  He and Adelia existed in a strange place. She had been his mother’s nurse for a while. But more than that, they had forged a connection, a friendship. He felt at ease with her in a way that he did not feel with many people. She cared nothing for his title. When she looked at him, she simply saw ‘Harry’ and not ‘the Duke of Rosemond’.

  It was remarkably freeing.

  On the other hand, she was possibly, very likely, the daughter of an Earl and therefore subject to societal proprieties…perhaps. It was a confusing space for them to be in.

  He reached her side, reached out, and squeezed her hand. She held on to him, lifting those eyes to his. He felt as if she had encompassed him, covering him with comfort without saying so much as a word or doing more than squeezing his hand.

  “Thank you.” His words were so quiet he was not sure she had heard him.

  Her other hand came up to cover his. “You don’t need to thank me, Harry. I am happy to be here. I am happy to give whatever solace I can.”

  “I know you are. And I want you to know I appreciate your company, your presence, your comfort. I don’t know how I would get through the days without it.”

  She squeezed his hand again. “You’ll never have to find out, Harry.”

  The Dowager Duchess had fallen into a sleep from which she did not awaken. Not even after Harry carried her to the master bedchamber and built up the fire, forcing nourishing broth and herbal teas down her throat. He had not found a replacement nurse for her but chose to do everything he could himself with the help of her lady’s maid.

  Harry had tried not to neglect his responsibilities, at first, but as time went by and she did not get better, he found that he couldn’t focus. He spent the time waiting in a state of anxiety so profound he felt as if he might die from it. His mother had not recovered in any noticeable way. Her pale face looked ghoulish against the white sheets.

  The breathing disease wasn’t always fatal. It was more often not fatal. Harry had read the reports from the Medical and Chirurgical Society and tormented himself with the knowledge that his last remaining parent could die as much from chance as anything else.

  If they had only known what to look for sooner, she might not be so badly off. He could not help feeling as if this was somehow his fault.

  “Mr. Sturgis,” Harry got to his feet as the surgeon finally entered the bedchamber.

  The man, dressed all in black, his face severe, only nodded. He set his case on the nightstand and put on a pair of spectacles before bending over to examine the Dowager Duchess.

  Harry had just a little knowledge of medicine, and so watching the surgeon work yielded little. The surgeon checked her mottled eyelids, her hands, and her forehead. He pressed down on her belly and palpated her chest; she did not stir. He opened her mouth and shone a light down her throat.

  “Do you have any other family?”

  The surgeon did not meet Harry’s eyes as he asked this question, instead, he continued to prod at her neck with his fingers. He had tufts of grey hair growing over the knuckles of his long, bony fingers. Harry could not imagine what he meant by taking his mother’s pulse for so long.

  “An aunt,” Harry said, finally, when the surgeon did not to progress to any of the salient points. If The Dowager Duchess had any other relatives, Harry did not know of them. He decided to write to Aunt Harriet and find out for sure. Despite their tumultuous relationship, she was the only one who was likely to know. “Why?”

  “It is time for them to say their goodbyes and give you support at this time.” The surgeon sighed and tucked the blankets beneath his mother’s chin. “My utmost condolences, but she is not long for this world. I doubt she will live out the week.”

  “But you haven’t even tried anything,” Harry wailed. “There must be something you can do! She only collapsed a while ago. Before that she was fine.”

  But that was untrue, Harry realized, he hadn’t seen the Dowager Duchess for days before her collapse. She could well have been ill that entire time and concealing it.

  “This persistent sleep is the third stage of the disease. The average patient takes weeks to reach it, perhaps months if they are in the habit of taking the air every day. For her to have reached this point…” The surgeon shook his head.

  “There must be something that can be done for her.” Harry was not ready to give up on his mother. He doubted he ever would.

  “Keep her warm and comfortable. If she wakes, you can feed her broth and water. It may keep her alive longer.”

  “There must be something,” Harry croaked.

  “I’m sorry.” The surgeon laid one of his gnarled hands on Harry’s shoulders. “It must be a great blow to you, to lose her like this. But she is not in any pain. Spend what time you have left with her wisely.”

  * * *

  The
re was no one else to write to, no other business for Harry to manage on his mother’s account. However, everything else, the estate management, running the house, the investments, all of it piled up on Harry’s desk like a papery monster come to devour him.

  Harry did not attend to any of it. He had no time even to check on Miss Raby and how she fared although he did include a greeting in his letters to his aunt. His steward did what he could and left only what needed Harry’s personal attention.

  He focused on the only thing that mattered—keeping his mother alive for as long as possible.

  The primary treatment for the breathing disease was warmth, fresh air, and nourishment. So Harry made her chambers sweltering, the fire always built up high, so warm none of the servants would venture in for longer than a few moments without sweating rivulets.

  A bowl of water with a pile of fresh clothes was always on the nightstand, so as to sponge his mother’s brow and neck for her comfort. The cook had orders to make broth, fresh every day, from the best cuts of meat.

  When these treatments produced no positive effect, Harry turned to hearsay and village apothecaries. Every possible treatment, whether it be a promising suggestion by a respected physician or an herbal remedy sold by a quack, found its way to the Rosemond manor. He piled medical texts atop his desk, over the papers from his man of business and his banker, reading them cover to cover.

  Poultices of moldy bread and honey, cloudy oils shipped from town in paper-wrapped bottles, infusions of dandelions and lavender; plasters made fresh every day, on stretch leather dried on racks before the fire in the kitchen, but Harry drew the line at bleeding and leeches. Everything else was fair game.

  It occurred to Harry to write to Miss Raby but he could not see what she could possibly do that was not already being done. He could not ask her to keep him company in his despair. It was just not done. She was an Earl’s daughter in all but name and thus the proprieties must be observed. Besides, he doubted that Aunt Harriet would let her come.

  The nights were the worst.

  During the day, Harry had the appearance of business to attend to. He could sit at the desk he had hauled into the bedchamber, and pick at the ubiquitous dregs of broth and bread, play at attending to business. There was correspondence to sort through. There were tasks to complete. There were distractions from the sympathetic looks the physician gave Harry.

  But once the sun set, Harry was trapped. A wind charm drew the smoke from the ever-roaring fire up the chimney, but Harry didn’t dare risk his mother’s lungs on even the smoke a single candle gave off for longer than necessary. The windows must be kept shut to keep the heat in. In the hot, dark, room, sweat on every inch of his skin, with only his mother hovering at death’s door for company, Harry wondered if he would lose his mind.

  Even the nightmares were more pleasant than lying awake in this state, and yet, more often than not, Harry didn’t sleep a wink.

  He was surprised one day to receive a visit from his Aunt Harriet, Miss Raby trailing shyly behind. He stared at her, overcome with an inexplicable need to bury his head in her bosom and burst into tears.

  “Well…this is a surprise,” he said, then cleared his throat. He realized he hadn’t really conversed with anyone in a while.

  “Your ward here insisted on coming to see you when I passed on your greetings,” Aunt Harriet said dryly. Harry looked at Miss Raby who lowered her lashes so she did not have to look at him.

  “That was kind,” he murmured.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, golden eyes peeking at him through soot-smudged lashes.

  He shook his head, “There is not much anyone can do.”

  “I can pray,” she said softly.

  “Thank you. I would appreciate it.”

  She nodded, eyes sliding away from him. “May I see her?”

  He stepped aside, letting her pass and she went to the bedchamber to pay her respects, which left Harry alone with his aunt. They stood in silence for a while.

  “She’s really dying?” Aunt Harriet asked.

  Harry turned a glare at her. She lifted her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. Believe it or not, I do not like to see you suffer in this way.”

  Harry simply sighed deeply and let the statement go at that.

  “You should ask for her hand in marriage, you know. I suspect she’d be a big comfort to you.”

  Harry looked up, brow furrowed, wondering what his aunt could possibly be talking about. Propose to his mother? He found her looking toward the bedchamber from which Miss Raby was emerging. His brow cleared as he understood what his aunt was saying.

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Is it because of your mother or that you do not yet know if she is the daughter of an Earl?”

  Harry snorted. “I think I would ask her either way, for you are right. She would be a comfort to have and to hold. But…not yet.” His eyes became bleak.

  To his surprise, his aunt took a step toward him and patted him on his shoulder. “We will get through it together. I shall bring her more often so that you can at least be in her presence.”

  He sighed, not really knowing how to respond to that. “How is it going with the Cornhills? Do they visit her?”

  “The mother comes by a lot. The father sometimes. The daughter…never.”

  Harry huffed a laugh. “Yes, well…I did not get the impression she loved having a sister.”

  “You should watch out for that one. Her spirit is malevolent.”

  Harry turned, both eyebrows raised at his aunt. He thought it quite rich that she should speak that way about someone else, considering her own past. She caught his eye and must have divined what he was thinking. To his surprise, she laughed. “Aye, I know what I’m talking about.”

  Two months passed.

  His mother had lived weeks more than expected, but in her condition, Harry could barely call her alive.

  Would she ever begin to recover? Was Harry prolonging her agony with his constant barrage of treatments? Was this to be the totality of his life now—the crackle of the fire, the whistle of air from his mother’s throat, the pounding of Harry’s guilty heart.

  “I thought this would be different.”

  “Mother!”

  She almost sounded lucid—had the fever finally broken? Harry snatched up the washcloth lying in the bowl and managed the freezing spell with shaking fingers. He pressed the ice-studded cloth to his mother’s forehead.

  The skin still burned like all the fires of hell were beneath it. Candlelight was caught in her eyes as she turned her head and met Harry’s gaze.

  “I thought you would be different,” his mother whispered. She stared, and Harry could not bring himself to look away, or to speak, entrapped as he was in this terrible moment, with his mother’s faintly accusing tone.

  Then her eyelids fluttered shut. The room returned to sickbed silence.

  For one awful second, Harry was certain his mother had stopped breathing.

  “No! No, please.” His voice was hoarse from disuse. Harry flung himself onto her, fumbling at her throat for a pulse, pressing his ear against his mother’s mouth for the sound of her exhale.

  Her clothes were sweat-soaked, skin waxy in the candlelight. Weeks and weeks, she had been wasting away. The physician had told Harry to order his blacks and prepare for the worst, and Harry had refused to listen to him. He hadn’t given up. “Please.”

  His mother’s breath was hot against Harry’s face. Harry groaned and buried his face in the sheets beside his mother’s limp arm.

  “Thank God,” he croaked.

  When Miss Raby and Aunt Harriet came to visit that day, he told them that his mother spoke. Miss Raby reached out unthinkingly and squeezed his hand. It was of unbelievable comfort to him.

  “Bring me my correspondence!”

  The maidservant who brought his mother’s breakfast, Anastasia, stared at Harry for several seconds after he gave the command. Harry couldn
’t blame her. He had gone so far as to allow Michel to dress him, his clothes pressed, and cravat tied quite jauntily. Michel was nothing if not an artist. He was sitting at his desk eating an apple.

  It tasted like the manna of heaven.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Bring the rest of my correspondence from the study, please. All of it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And flowers!”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Bring some flowers—or cut some from a flowering tree and stick it in some water so it can bloom. Bring a vase. That blue one, in the dining room.” Harry recalled that his mother loved that one, always making sure it was filled with flowers.