Read When a Duke Says I Do Online
Authors: Jane Goodger
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical
When a Duke Says I Do (18 page)
Lethargy hit him, and he hardly summoned the energy to take the soiled sheet and toss it on the floor, before gathering Elsie to him and falling asleep, where his thoughts could no longer torment him. He awoke when she kissed him, slipping silently from the room like a ghost. He stared at the closed door for a long moment, his thoughts warring with his heart. Fear washed over him in such a wave he became nauseous with it. Sweat bathed his body as if he were physically ill. And, truth be told, he was. Desperately, terribly ill.
Because he knew, lying there, his hand on her pillow still feeling the lingering warmth of her body, that he could not let her go. And the only way to keep her was to claim his rights as Kingston’s heir.
Elsie made her way to her room just as dawn was touching the sky. Like every other night since she and Alexander had become lovers, she climbed into her bed, slipped beneath the covers and fell asleep for another two hours. The novelty of finding Miss Elizabeth in her bed asleep had begun to wear off on Missy.
But this morning, Elsie felt rather ill. She’d kissed Alexander good-bye, her face feeling strangely numb, as if she’d been out in the cold. Her stomach roiled uncomfortably, making her reconsider before getting under the covers. She’d woken up feeling vaguely nauseous, but hadn’t given the feeling much thought. But now, just the sight of her pretty chamber pot made her stomach ache, and she barely made it to the porcelain pot in time. The room swirled around her as she felt her stomach convulse again.
“Missy,” she called, realizing that she’d actually called out “mishy.” Her tongue felt strange, she thought, just as another wave of nausea hit.
“Oh, my word, Miss Elsie, are you all right?” Missy’s hand was on her back, stroking as she again felt her stomach heave.
“I feel sick,” she said, realizing to her horror that her tongue and mouth were no longer working properly. “Wash hap’nin’” she asked, the room spinning crazily around her.
“Are you done castin’ up yer stomach?” Missy asked, her eyes filled with concern.
“I thin’ so,” she managed. Never in her life had she gotten so sick so quickly. She’d been fine just a few hours ago, and now was perhaps sicker than she’d ever been in her life.
She clutched her stomach as another cramp assailed her, and swallowed heavily. It felt as if someone had stuck a large cotton ball down her throat. So strange. It was almost impossible for her to walk to her bed, and the thought of climbing in was almost like climbing the tallest tree in the garden. Missy heaved her onto the bed, pulling up the covers.
“I’m going to wake your father,” she said.
Elsie nodded, even her neck feeling strange, as if she couldn’t really control her movements. “Thirshy,” she said, trying to swallow past the growing cottony lump in her throat. But Missy had hurried from the room just as another cramp had her crying out in pain.
Elsie tried to look at the door, but saw two entries, two doors, moving about each other. It was as if she’d been spinning about for a minute and was now trying to focus. She closed her eyes against the wave of dizziness and nausea that followed. Her father, still wearing his nightcap, rushed into the room.
“Elsie, Missy says you’re not feeling well. I’ve sent Carl to get Dr. Peters.”
“I’m thirshy,” Elsie said, feeling frightened by her own slurred speech. Her father’s face swam before her, two foggy images swirling in front of her. It was almost as if someone had given her a powerful drug, one that was slowly paralyzing her. “I’m frightened, Father,” she said, and saw that he was, too. “I wan’—” She tried to say Alexander’s name but it was too much effort. “I wan’ ’im.”
“The doctor’s coming, Elsie. He’s coming.”
An hour later, Dr. Peters emerged from her room, his face grim. Lord Huntington was frantic with worry. Now dressed, he’d paced in front of Elsie’s room growing more and more agitated every moment, stopping his frenetic movements only when the doctor came out of his daughter’s room. Dr. Peters looked uncertain and worried, and he thought he might scream in frustration.
“I’m not certain what is wrong, Michael,” the doctor said. “It may be a brain fever of some sort. Is anyone else in the house ill?”
Michael shook his head. “No one,” he said, his voice raw. “She’ll get better. She’ll be fine.”
Dr. Peters looked to the floor, and Michael’s heart nearly stopped. The last time the doctor had looked at him that way it was to tell him his wife was dying, that there was nothing he could do, that he should go and pray. They had become friends in those terrible two weeks and yet had not spoken since his wife’s funeral. He remembered praying so hard his head had hurt, and nothing had come of it. If the doctor told him to pray this time, he’d likely strike the man, friend or not.
“She’s having difficulty breathing. It’s a kind of paralysis, perhaps from Kerner’s disease. But if no one else is suffering the effects, I just don’t know.”
“Kerner’s?”
“It’s caused by eating tainted food. But if no one else is suffering from the same symptoms, I doubt very much that this is the cause. Let’s pray it is not.”
Michael sat down heavily. “She’s dying.”
“It is not always fatal. People survive, but the recovery can be long. I wish I could do more. If her breathing improves, then she’ll be out of the woods. That’s the danger, you see. It’s a sort of paralysis that moves throughout the body and can attack the lungs. If her breathing improves, she will live and fully recover.”
Michael looked up at the doctor, his eyes bleak. “And if it doesn’t?”
“Let’s just pray it does.”
Michael clenched his fist, but struck his thigh instead of the doctor’s concerned face. Pray. He could not pray again for the life of someone he loved. He stood and went to his daughter’s room, shocked at how she looked, and let out a small sound of despair. How could this be the same girl he’d dined with the night before? Her eyes were drooping, her features slack.
“Oh, my lord, she’s been asking for someone, all frantic like,” Missy said, her face brightening when he entered the room. “But I can’t make it out. She seems glad to see you, though. Perhaps she was asking for you.”
Elsie seemed almost completely devoid of expression. She mumbled something, moving her arm awkwardly, and Michael bent and pressed a kiss on her cheek. “The doctor says you’ll be fine,” he said.
“What’s wrong, my lord?” Missy asked, her eyes filled with tears.
“He doesn’t know.”
Dr. Peters entered the room, bending over Elsie to listen to her breathing. The doctor saw his questioning look and shook his head. Just then, his daughter made another sound that tore at his heart.
“See? It sounds like gander or dander. But that can’t be right, can it, sir?” Missy asked miserably.
A sob escaped Elsie’s throat, and Michael bent and gathered her into his arms. “It will be all right, Elsie, darling. Don’t you worry. You’re going to be fine.” But Elsie continued to cry until Michael thought he’d go mad from hearing her. Hugging her once more, he left the room, frantic to do something, anything to help his daughter.
“She’s dying, damn it,” he said, pulling the doctor down the hall. “Do something, John. Bleed her, anything. You can’t just sit around and let her die as you did my wife.” Michael let out a harsh breath when he saw the doctor’s stricken look. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I cannot lose Elsie. She is my heart.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the tears that threatened.
Dr. Peters laid a strong hand on his shoulder. “It is times like these that I wish I had chosen a different profession. Your daughter is young and strong and if it is some sort of food poisoning, she should recover. I have seen this sort of thing before and cannot say with certainty the outcome. I should not like to give you hope where there is none, nor tell you there is no hope when there is some. The truth is, sir, I just do not know.”
Michael nodded his head. “I understand.”
“Send for me if there is any change.”
Michael swallowed, and glanced down the hall toward his daughter’s door. “I will.”
After the physician left, he wandered about the house aimlessly, wishing he could do more. The smell of paint made him smile faintly. Elsie was so excited about the mural, if not about the ball that would mark her engagement. With a sense of deep weariness he realized that it was likely he would have to postpone the ball, unless Elsie had a miraculous recovery. His heart aching, he thought of the mural that she might never see. If she should die, he would have it painted over. He did not care. He would not want the mural there to remind him of his daughter and of how she’d never gotten a chance to see it.
Michael walked to the ballroom and opened the door, ignoring the stifled gasp of outrage from Monsieur Desmarais. Michael sank down onto the couch and stared at the mural, his heart swelling painfully in his chest. It was stunning, magical. It was just as his Elsie had asked for, and she might never see it. The beautiful image blurred before him as tears flooded his eyes.
“My lord, what is wrong?” Monsieur Desmarais asked, moving toward him.
“My daughter is dying,” he said, his throat raw. Dimly, he was aware of something crashing to the ground. “And I thought I would come see the mural so I might describe it to her. But, my God, no words can capture this. Elsie should see it. Before she dies.”
Michael buried his face in his hands and began to sob, not caring that he was humiliating himself in front of the artist. A commotion at the door made him raise his head, only to see Elsie’s little maid rushing to him.
“Miss Elizabeth’s been askin’ for someone an’ I couldn’t understand what she was sayin’. But sir, it’s Alexander. She said it real slow-like, clear as day, and it just about wore her out,” Missy said, filled with excitement. “The only thing is, sir, no one knows an Alexander or Alexandra if that’s what it is. Do you have any idea who she could be askin’ for? Sir?”
Michael stood and stared at Missy, feeling helpless. He’d didn’t know of any Alexander of note, and shook his head as the muralist’s mute assistant stepped in front of him.
“Sir,” the young man said, his voice strong, clear, and cultured. “My name is Alexander Wilkinson. I am the eldest son of the Duke of Kingston. And, sir, I am desperately in love with your daughter. May I go to her? Please.”
Michael’s stunned gaze went from the young man to the artist, who shook his head helplessly, raising his hands in supplication. “Kingston, you say?” he asked, even as his eyes took in the incredible likeness the boy had to the duke. It took only a few moments for him to realize that it was possible this boy spoke the truth. Memories assailed him of another son, one who had supposedly died not long after the first. He remembered thinking how tragic it was that a duke would lose two sons the same year. He looked into the young man’s anguished expression, knowing even if he were not Kingston’s heir, this young man loved his daughter.
“Go, then.” He watched the man run from the room, listened as his footsteps pounded up the stairs.
“My lord, I assure you I had no idea he could speak. Nor any knowledge of his parentage. If he is telling the truth ...” The artist broke off, an expression of pure puzzled amazement on his features.
“If he is telling the truth,” Michael said, “then he has every right to be with my daughter.”
Chapter 16
Alexander ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, his heart pounding in his chest. It was not true. How could Elsie be dying when not more than a dozen hours ago they had been making love? How could she be dying when he’d just realized that he could never lose her?
He was dimly aware of reaching the top of the stairs, of looking down two halls, of the frustration of not knowing which door was hers, when the tap-tapping of steps came up behind him.
“This way, my lord,” a maid said, rushing by him and leading him to the right. She opened the door and he stopped at the entrance, suddenly afraid of what he might see. What did a dying person look like?
He walked silently over to Elsie, painfully aware of her labored breathing, the sharp, short intakes of a person who cannot get enough air. He knelt on the floor and grabbed her limp hand, pressing it to his mouth. “Elsie, I’m here.”
She turned her head, her eyelids drooping, her face slack, but he could see that she was glad to see him. Tears filled her eyes and fell down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” he said, even as his own tears filled his eyes. She uttered a sound and he pressed her hand against his cheek, closing his eyes. “I have some wonderful news. I’ve decided to claim the title, to claim you.”
“No,” she said, quite clearly.
“Are you saying you don’t love me?” he teased.
Her eyes softened. “No,” she said. “I do.” Her words were muffled, as if her mouth was full of cotton and she was attempting to talk around it.
“It’s actually quite inconsiderate of you to become so ill when I was planning to propose.” She laughed, her eyes filling again with tears. “I’m not entirely certain I can do it, but I will try, Elsie. I cannot live without you and I cannot allow another to have you, so it seems I have no choice but to marry you myself.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Miss Elizabeth Stanhope, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“I will,” she managed. “Sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. But, I daresay, you must get a bit better before the wedding. I do wish you’d hurry up with that.”
Elsie, her breath coming in short little gasps, stared at him as bleakness filled her eyes, and he felt her slip away from him.
“Elsie. You must get better,” he said, squeezing her hand tightly even as he watched her struggle to breathe become more difficult.
Her father entered the room, his eyes only on his daughter. “Her breathing is worse,” Lord Huntington said.
“No,” Alexander said, even though in the short time he’d been in the room he’d noticed a marked deterioration. He stared at her chest, willing her breathing to become more normal.
“Elsie, the doctor thinks this might be from something you ate,” the baron said. Elsie turned her head to her father. “Did you eat anything unusual yesterday? Perhaps something no one else ate?”
She let out a small sob. “What, darling?” Alexander asked.
“Salad. Mary almost ate. Didn’t. Tried to get her to.”
“Mary didn’t eat it?” Lord Huntington asked, frantic.
“No.”
“Thank God.” The baron called for Missy and directed her to go to the kitchen and tell the cook about the salad. “Tell her to discard any remains.”
“Yes, my lord,” Missy said, bobbing a quick curtsy.
“Did the salad taste off?”
“No. Tired.”
Lord Huntington let out a shaky breath and patted his daughter’s free hand. He noted with a bit of annoyance that Desmarais’s assistant had a strong grip on the other.
“I would like to speak to you. Alexander is it?”
A small, clear voice came from the bed. “Lord Hathwaite.”
“Yes, well, I need to borrow this man for a moment, whatever his name is.”
“Lord Hathwaite,” she whispered.
“I’d like to stay here, if you don’t mind, sir,” Alexander said.
“I do mind, as a matter of fact,” the baron said, then softened his voice. “Certainly you would agree your announcement is a bit of a surprise to me.”
Alexander let his gaze linger on Elsie for a moment before standing and following Lord Huntington out the door and to a private study down another hall. He hated leaving Elsie, but knew he could not put off this confrontation with her father.
Lord Huntington entered and sat behind a desk, motioning for Alexander to sit. For a moment, he was a child being summoned by his father. The baron’s small study was far different from his father’s imposing room, but he still remembered vividly the feeling of fear that overcame him when he’d been summoned by His Grace. Perhaps it was the smell of beeswax or the leather upholstery, or the way the sun cast milky white rectangles on the dark wood floor. Whatever the reason, he felt his throat thicken.
“Now,” the baron said, his tone hard. “Who the hell are you?”
Alexander swallowed down the hard knot in his throat and lifted his chin, refusing to be beaten by his fear. He should have known that Elsie’s father would not take his word for it. Why should he? It was a rather fantastical story, even if it was the truth.
“I am who I claim to be. My father is the Duke of Kingston.”
“Are you a byblow, then, conspiring to obtain the title through illicit means? And bringing an innocent girl into your schemes?”
“No, sir,” Alexander said, trying to cool his anger. “I am the duke’s second son. Henry, the eldest, died in a drowning accident when he was twelve years old. Soon after, my father sent me to an idiot asylum, where he no doubt believes me still. Or not. I do not know. I do know that he has told everyone I died, though I don’t know the cause of my supposed death.”
“This is information anyone could have. Do you have any proof?”
Alexander shook his head. “No, sir. And I’m not fool enough to believe anyone, including Kingston, will believe who I am without it.”
Lord Huntington let out a heavy breath. “If memory serves, the duke’s second son was sent away to school soon after the death of his brother. He died there in some sort of an accident.”
“I did not die,” Alexander said levelly.
“For me to believe you are Kingston’s son, I would have to believe that he lied to everyone, including his own wife. I attended that funeral and I can tell you Her Grace was not pretending grief. She was inconsolable. To lie in such a way to one’s wife would require the coldest of hearts. And, frankly, I don’t believe even Kingston could be that cruel. Your claim also begs the question of why Kingston would go to such lengths.”
“He hated me. He thought I was flawed, weak, and unfit for the title. Perhaps he is right. But I also believe he blamed me for Henry’s death. After Henry died, he put me in an idiot asylum, and he had no intention of ever letting me out. Rather than suffer the shame of having an idiot child, he killed me.”
Lord Huntington shook his head. “What you are saying is diabolical.”
“Yes, it is.”
The baron shook his head, clearly trying to comprehend how such evil could exist. “You have put me in an untenable situation. If you are, indeed, who you say you are, I am quite certain Kingston will fight you and you will lose. He is a powerful man with resources neither of us can imagine. If Elsie does not marry Lord Hathwaite, the consequences will be devastating.”
“Your daughter has apprised me of the situation, which is partly why I was so reluctant to come forward. But I love your daughter and am willing to do anything to be with her.”
“Even put her very future in jeopardy?”
“I shall be successful,” he said with more assurance than he felt.
Lord Huntington stood and began pacing the room. “And if you are not successful...? Do you realize what will happen should you fail? Elsie shall be ruined, we all shall be. We shall lose everything, our homes, our lands. Is that what you want?”
“If I cannot prove that I am heir, Elsie will be free to marry Lord Hathwaite,” Alexander said softly. “It is a chance I am willing to take.”
“Are you telling me you would be willing to put Elsie aside if you cannot prove your claim? Is she so integral to your plans? Kingston will not put any credence in her support of your claim, none at all, if that is your belief.”
Alexander flinched at his words. “You misunderstand. I would
not
be willing to let her go, not at all. But I will do whatever is necessary to make her happy and make the people she loves safe. And if that means letting Elsie marry another, I shall do it. She would not be happy knowing that she had ruined you and put Mary’s future in jeopardy. If Kingston cannot be convinced, if my petition fails, I will let her go.”
not
be willing to let her go, not at all. But I will do whatever is necessary to make her happy and make the people she loves safe. And if that means letting Elsie marry another, I shall do it. She would not be happy knowing that she had ruined you and put Mary’s future in jeopardy. If Kingston cannot be convinced, if my petition fails, I will let her go.”
Lord Huntington stared at the floor for a long moment. “Does my daughter love you?”
“I believe she does. I know she does.”
The baron closed his eyes as if bracing for some pain, and then he asked, “Did you compromise her?” He opened his eyes and stared at Alexander the way only a father can stare at the man who has ruined his daughter.
Alexander thought, briefly, that he should lie. What good, after all, would telling this man the truth do?
“To my great shame, yes.”
Lord Huntington sat down as if pushed, his eyes closed, as if this was just too, too much to bear. “I should have you shot,” he said wearily and without conviction.
“I would gladly take a bullet if I thought it would be better to do so.”
“Under my roof. I allowed this to happen under my very roof,” the baron said with disgust.
“We’re in love,” Alexander said. “And we knew the situation was desperate. We knew.”
“Yes, I’m certain you did,” Lord Huntington said softly. “I suppose you thought each other star-crossed lovers and convinced yourselves that all would be fine, all would work out, like a fairy tale.” He let out a bitter laugh.
“I am sorry to have caused you further distress,” Alexander said sincerely.
“God help me for a fool, but I’m inclined to believe you—in that alone.” The baron sighed and shook his head. “But I cannot help you. I cannot give you one ounce of support publicly. Now, before I have you removed from my home, convince me of who you are. Tell me your story, Alexander Wilkinson, if that is your true name.”
When Alexander left the study, Lord Huntington remained sitting behind his desk looking weary and unconvinced. Alexander realized that his story proved nothing. He could be an imposter who’d gleaned this information from the true heir at school. He could have schemed and planned and seduced the intended wife of Lord Hathwaite. He tried to see the situation from Huntington’s point of view. How utterly fantastical that the true heir to Kingston would show up as a painter’s mute assistant, fall in love with Hathwaite’s fiancée, and then claim the title. It sounded like a melodramatic play, a bit of nonsense conjured up by an imaginative mind. That it was true gave Alexander little comfort. He needed to prove who he was, not only to his father, but to the authorities. If he wanted to claim the title, he would need indisputable proof, and he was beginning to doubt he would find it.
His head ached and he was completely exhausted when he finally went back to Elsie’s room, his spirits lifting only when he realized she hadn’t worsened in the hour he was apart from her.
“Hello.”
She smiled weakly, her eyes still drooping as if she were too tired to open them. “Does my father believe you?”
“No. Not entirely. I shall need proof and that will not be easily obtained.” He had no funds to hire a solicitor or private investigator, and would have to try to find out whatever he could alone.
“You will triumph,” she said.
Alexander took up her hand and pressed it against his mouth. “If I do not, you must marry Hathwaite.”
Elsie shook her head and let out a sound of anguish.
“You must, Elsie. You know you must.”
“You will succeed. Don’t talk so.”
Alexander leaned over and kissed her soft cheek, flushed and dry from her illness. “As soon as you are better, I will go.”
“Where?”
“To the asylum. I can only hope they have records that will prove Alexander Wilkinson was placed there, that he ran away, that the Duke of Kingston paid for my internment. Without that, I’m afraid all hope will be lost.”
“Mother...”
Alexander shook his head. “My mother believes I am dead. And her belief in my story would do nothing but make Kingston angry with her. He would ridicule her, call her insane. I need proof.”
“Monsieur?” Elsie asked. Each time she spoke, it was as if she was at the limit of her endurance. She took short breaths before and after each slurred word.
“He does not know who I am. He knew only that I was the son of a peer, and was told my name was Alexander. He changed it to Andre to protect me and himself. He knows nothing of my past, of my family. He didn’t know I could speak, even.”
Other books
Her Only Desire by Gaelen Foley
Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) by Prior, D.P.
Facelift by Leanna Ellis
Sailing Deep by Noah Harris
Hansel and Gretel With the Sexual Hunter by Liz Adams
April Evil by John D. MacDonald
Snareville by David Youngquist
Yarn by Jon Armstrong
Last Snow by Lustbader, Eric Van
Zombies Don't Forgive by Rusty Fischer