“I am not an idiot. I am—”
“In love, which means you are an idiot when it comes to her,” Nick cut in with a look, daring Drake to deny it. “Now come along. I shall walk you to your room and pour you a drink. I suggest you drink it before old sawbones begins sewing you back together.”
Drake paused, his frustration dislodged by Nick’s words. His mind repeated them, echoing them over and over. In love. Then it wasn’t simply passion that had him believing himself in love with her. Nick had noticed it, too.
He waited for the panic to set in, for his chest to constrict painfully, but nothing happened. Perhaps because he was already as panicked as he could be, considering Sarah was lying there unconscious. Or perhaps because being in love truly did make one idiotic, and an idiot wouldn’t realize how much danger he was in, would he?
But he knew it was true. He knew he loved her with every fiber of his being. And he was keeping her from being treated by acting like an overbearing, autocratic bully to the one man within a twenty-mile radius who could save her.
“Bloody hell!” Drake snarled as he moved, grabbing the door to the bedchamber and slamming it shut. He moved through the adjoined sitting room and into the hall. Then he and Nick walked the short distance to Drake’s apartments.
Immediately, Nick went to the sideboard and silently poured two glasses, holding one out to Drake.
“I do not drink, Nick,” he slurred. He focused on the chair in the middle of the room, making sure to get his rear in it before his legs could fail him. Perhaps he had lost an overly generous amount of blood, not that he was about to admit he was wrong. Certainly not to Nick, of all people.
“Have you ever been stitched back together?”
He shook his head. And he was not especially looking forward to the experience.
“I have.” He nudged Drake’s hand with the snifter, prompting him to take it. “Trust me, friend; you will need this.”
He didn’t want it. He felt lightheaded, ill. The last thing he wanted was for those sensations to be enhanced, yet Nick knew what he was about when it came to injuries, so he nodded and took a sip.
The fire slipping down his throat was almost enough to make him cast up his accounts. He willed himself to keep it down, managing two more sips before he set the snifter on the occasional table beside him.
Nick was pacing, still blessedly silent, as though he knew Drake needed his support while Sarah was being treated, and that there were no words to make it any easier. Again, he felt overwhelming gratitude and humility at Nick’s show of friendship, a gift Drake had denied himself for so long, too afraid of loss to even consider.
Then he had met Sarah, and his entire world had been turned upside down. He had fallen irreversibly in love with her, visited with his mother after a decade of avoidance, and gained a friend in Nick, all in the space of a few weeks. Beyond doubt, loss of either of them would devastate him, but instead of dread, he felt gratitude. Instead of being burdened, he felt lighter, freer.
Sarah was right. Even if he were to lose them now, he could never regret having these relationships. Having her. Loving her.
Dear God, if he were to lose her now…
Fear, thick as molasses, crawled up his throat, yet he had to face the possibility. She was unconscious, and she might never wake. She might be joining his father and brother in the ground tomorrow.
He clenched his teeth, the pressure causing his jaw to ache. If he lost her today, he would be… Hell, there weren’t words to describe how broken he would be, but he would never regret loving her. Never.
He barely registered a knocking at the door and Nick’s call for whomever was there to enter, but when Dr. Hensley’s voice broke through his thoughts, his head jerked up, causing his vision to swim.
He slammed his eyes shut. “How is she?” he forced out, afraid to ask, afraid to hear the answer.
“She suffered nothing too serious,” Dr. Hensley replied edgily. “You, on the other hand, I have grave worries about.”
Hope flared. “Is she awake?”
Dr. Hensley nodded grimly. “She is confused and exhausted, but conscious. I have barred anyone, save her maid, from entering her apartments until tomorrow. She needs to rest. As will you.”
“I suppose I should relay this encouraging news to your mother and Lady Umberton,” Nick said, setting his snifter on the sideboard and flicking the doctor a warning glance. “Easy with him, Hensley. If you let him die, no one can save you.”
After Nick stepped out, Drake gritted his teeth and allowed Hensley to help him out of his clothes. Then he was cleaned up, stitched back together, and finally bandaged. The pain, as Nick had warned him, was tremendous, and when Hensley offered him another swallow of death, Drake wasted no time accepting, thankful for the fire burning his throat and numbing his body.
An hour later, Hensley spouted some instructions to a maid and left.
Drake was instantly back out of bed and attempting to dress. He needed to see his mother, to explain himself. Then he would see Sarah, and no maid on earth was going to keep him from doing just that. However, Hensley was waiting for him in the hall, apparently no stranger to stubborn patients, and was asking only that he drink a glass of water.
What he failed to mention was what was in the water. While a servant would be decidedly useless in keeping Drake abed—they do, after all, all work for him—laudanum was quite effective at it.
Drake woke up cross and with an excruciating headache. He squeezed his eyes closed against the pain.
“By thunder!” he ground out, clasping his head in hopes that keeping it from moving would stop the little pickaxes beating against his skull.
“Would you like some water?”
“No!” he barked and winced. Then he forced out through clenched teeth, “No more laudanum.”
“It’s just water, I promise.”
He nodded and slowly opened his eyes. “Thank you, Mother.”
“I ought to douse you with it,” she said, waiting until he sat up before handing him the glass.
“I know.”
“You are a blackguard,” she added coolly.
“I know.”
“You deserve a black eye. Two black eyes. And a—”
“Mother,” he interrupted, “I know. I’m sorry.” The pounding in his head was slowly diminishing to something manageable, but the guilt was as strong as ever.
“You eloped,” she bit out, the hurt in her voice striking him like a blow to the chest.
“I did, but I would never have done so if I didn’t think it necessary. It was too dangerous for you here. I couldn’t risk losing you.”
She pursed her lips disapprovingly, but the anger in her gaze lessened a fraction. “And what of me? I almost lost you and Sarah both.”
“How is she?”
“Fully recovered.”
Drake blinked. “Heaven above, how long have I been out of my mind on laudanum?”
“Almost a week,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Long enough for you to heal so as not to tear open your stitches.”
“A week?” he repeated dumbly. He dragged his hands through his hair, reminding himself killing Hensley would be murder and murder is bad.
It didn’t sound too terribly bad at the moment.
“You have been acting like a coward, my dear.”
Drake lifted a brow. “What brought about this unexpected expression of motherly affection?”
“Don’t be peevish. You know I love you. I love Sarah, too. She is a wonderful girl.”
“Yes, she is. And yes, I know,” he admitted, a small smile pulling up one side of his mouth. “I know a great many things.”
She studied him a moment before her face twisted into a frown, and she folded her hands in her lap. “Then I suppose you know she is leaving today. I, for one, shall miss her immensely.”
Drake’s stomach dropped. “Leaving?”
She nodded. “She may be gone already, and I shall not be far behind her. Mo
st of our belongings have been packed for days.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no.
He ground his teeth and pushed his legs to the side of the bed, grunting when sharp pain shot through his belly.
“Drake, be mindful of your injury!” she insisted, her eyes wide.
“I need to speak with her.” He grabbed the robe laid out for him at the foot of the bed and pulled it over his shoulders.
“To say what, exactly?” she spat curtly, propping her hands on her hips. “Is this not what you wanted? To be left alone? To lock yourself away in that box you call an office and never speak to another living soul?”
He shook his head, anxiety swirling in his gut. He had to stop her. He couldn’t let her leave without knowing everything had changed, that he had changed.
He dragged his hand through his hair, but it failed to clear his head.
“Do you even know what you want?” his mother asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
The answer never before rang so clearly, so simply. “I want to get married.”
“Oh? Making marriage a hobby, are we?” she asked. “Who do you want to marry you now?”
“Sarah.”
Her eyes narrowed on a short stretch of silence. “Your wife.”
“Who else?” He stood and began shuffling toward the door, his hand pressed tightly over his bandaged side.
“This awful business with the knife was it, wasn’t it? The straw that broke the camel’s back,” she muttered, nodding. “You have gone demented.”
“Yes, I have,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain lancing his side. “I am in love. So desperately, hopelessly in love.”
“Idiot. I know at least three people who could have told you that ages ago. I hope that epiphany came with some sort of plan to woo her, or do you still pine for your solitude?”
“To hell with my solitude,” he grunted before her words penetrated his skull. He stopped himself short and turned back to her. “Did you say woo?”
“Yes, Drake,” she returned. “That thing men do to convince women to fall in love with them, or admit they already have. Poems, flowers, and declarations of adoration. You know, the drivel Keats and Byron go on and on about.”
Whether he spent the rest of his days with the love of his life or miserably alone was hinging on him wooing her? He didn’t know a blessed thing about wooing!
She sighed, taking a moment to glance hopelessly at the ceiling. “On second thought, forget Keats and Byron. Just go after her and tell her the truth. Tell her you love her. Tell her you cannot fathom a life without her. And for heaven’s sake, apologize for being such an imbecile!”
Chapter 21
Sarah stared out across the moors past the mullioned window in her bedchamber. She could imagine the feel of the wind whipping at her clothes, pulling her hair from its pins, pushing her onwards, over the heather and rock and frigid streams. There her tears would be from the biting wind and would have nothing to do with the lord of the gothic castle she left in the distance.
She would miss this place, the dowagers… him. It seemed so impossible to let it all go, but she must. She had signed an agreement. This was what she wanted, after all.
Her freedom to travel the world.
Less than an hour ago, she had made her farewells to the dowagers, explaining the arrangement she had made with Drake. She hadn’t been strong enough to hold back her tears, even while she had assured them travel was what she had always wanted more than anything.
She hadn’t mentioned how it would break her heart.
Damn her for falling in love with a man who didn’t think love was worth suffering for. That she wasn’t worth suffering for.
She let out a growl of frustration at the futility of her own thoughts. There was no point in lamenting what she could not change. She ought to look toward the future, which promised to be exciting and adventurous. She would finally go to all those places she so desperately longed to see.
She squared her shoulders, dashing the moisture from her cheeks as she turned back toward the bed. The closed valise sitting on the counterpane was the last one. Everything else she shouldn’t own had already been loaded onto the carriage, every last stitch of her wildly expensive wardrobe. Wherever she chose to go, she would be dressed like a lady, with jewels and brooches and fancy hats. She would even have a maid and footman traveling with her, and pin money whenever she needed.
She ought to feel as though she were living a dream, better than any she had ever dared to contemplate.
Yet, all she wanted to do was weep.
She turned back toward the window, placing her hand against the cold glass. She wanted to soak it all in one last time, to make sure it stayed etched in her memory, especially as it was now.
Over the last week since the storm, spring had begun to breathe life into the land. Specs of white and yellow were dotting the hills, which were covered in shoots of bright green. She knew were she to take tea on the terrace at that moment, she would hear lambs bleating and the sound of birds echoing throughout the crisp air.
She breathed in, imagining the scent of early spring filling her nostrils. Instead, all she could smell was the dark, masculine scent of the man who held her heart and haunted her dreams. And not only the forbidden dreams that always seemed to settle upon her as she slept, but also waking dreams that tormented her while she ate, walked the garden, read a novel, or attempted a tune on the piano, teasing her with impossible fates.
“You are still here.” Drake’s low, rich voice floated from behind her, firm and steady, and so very awake. Something he shouldn’t be.
When she turned to find him leaning on the bedpost with a pained expression, his hand clutching his side, her stomach clenched. The sight reminded her of when she had seen him in his blood-soaked clothes, almost unable to stand. She saw the pain he tried to hide while he fought to control the situation, to fix it.
She quickly collected herself, folding her arms across her waist. “I shall be leaving directly, I assure you.”
She had hoped to slip away before the last treatment of laudanum wore off, avoiding the possibility she might fall even deeper in love with him.
His brows knit under a mop of tousled curls, and though his face sported several days’ worth of growth, she knew lines were formed around his mouth.
“Without saying goodbye?”
“I said goodbye to your mother and Lady Umberton—”
“Without saying goodbye to me,” he stressed, his emerald eyes boring into her.
She wanted so desperately to believe the flicker of pain in his eyes was because it hurt him to think she might leave without saying goodbye, but she was never one to willingly indulge in fantasy or projection. His pain was purely physical and would soon be a distant memory. Hers, on the other hand, was far deeper, far more permanent.
“I did not intend to be rude and leave without a word. I wrote a letter.” She took up her reticule from where it lay atop her valise and pulled out the envelope. She stood as far away from him as she could, holding it out for him to take, wishing with everything she had in her that she could disappear into herself before she lost her resolve… and dignity.
His frown deepened as he drew out the letter and read it. After what she would consider barely enough time to read the first half, he balled it up in his hand and chucked it into the fire.
“That isn’t a goodbye,” he said, his jaw set stubbornly.
She blinked. She rather thought it was a lovely letter, detailing how grateful she was for his protection and king’s ransom in clothes. Not to mention, the generous settlement that would keep her well provided for. She had managed the entire thing without trailing off into some emotional nonsense about falling in love and regretting her decision to sign the bedamned contract that insisted she have complete freedom to leave forever. She didn’t mention once how desperately she wanted to stay.
“It was perfectly written, logical, and concise, and you threw it in the fire!” Sh
e could feel her chin tremble, and her hands tighten into fists.
It had taken her all morning to write. Several attempts laid balled up in the wastebasket by the writing desk, dotted with tears and scored with large blots covering sections where she had begun to spout emotional drivel.
He remained unmoved. “It was detached. A formality. Insincere.”
“What do you expect?” she shot back. “You and I agreed to be detached. We signed a contract.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Are you detached?”
His green eyes pinned her with an intensity that was so uniquely him, so penetrating and focused, unearthly. For the first time, she wondered if he wasn’t as distant as she had always thought him. Before, she hadn’t known how to recognize the signs, but at some point, she had come to understand them. The lines that formed around his eyes and mouth when he was in pain, the slight narrowing of his eyes when he was suspicious, the tightening of his jaw when he was distressed. The way they all disappear when he slept.
And when he made love…
Her heart ached at the memory, as though a poorly mended wound had ripped back open; one she doubted would ever truly heal, but rather fester and inflame.
How was she to survive this?
“Oh,” he muttered, bringing her out of her thoughts, reminding her she still hadn’t answered his question. “You are not,” he answered for her accusingly, an enigmatic curl pulling up one side of his mouth.
She couldn’t decipher what flickered in his eyes now, and that made her nervous.
“We signed a contract,” she repeated weakly.
“The contract will have to be renegotiated. If not…” He paused, tilting his head as he studied her. “Do you remember what the penalty was for a breach of contract?”
She shook her head. She had foolishly read over the document speedily, only making sure her demands were outlined and his were as he had said before she had signed.
“‘A reasonable penance to be determined by the wronged party,’” he supplied, an almost wicked light coming to his eyes.
Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 27
