Page 77 of Duke of Fyre

"Father?" Peter's voice, soft and filled with fresh worry, reached him from the doorway. "Is Lydia… is she going to be alright?"

Elias crossed back to him, pulling Peter into a quick, fierce embrace. "She'll be fine, Peter," he said firmly, hoping his certainty would be enough for both of them. "I'll bring her home."

With those words, he left, his mind a whirl of fear and urgency as he made his way to the stables. The grooms were already preparing his horse, alerted by Miss Nancy's instructions, and he swung into the saddle, his focus fixed entirely on reaching Lydia.

"Your Grace!" his steward called out as he passed. "Shall I send word ahead? Prepare a carriage?"

"Yes," Elias replied sharply, urging his mount forward. "And quickly."

The night air sliced across his face, stinging his skin, but Elias barely felt it. The cold bit deep, but his focus was entirely on the road stretching out in the darkness, each shadowed tree and twisting path a blur as he pushed his horse to the brink. Beneath him, he could feel the powerful, rhythmic surge of muscles as his mount strained forward, steam rising in thick clouds from the horse's nostrils. Elias leaned closer, urging him faster still, as if sheer speed could shorten the endless distance that lay between him and Lydia.

Images of her flickered through his mind, hauntingly vivid, each one twisting his gut tighter. Her face, pale and still, as hemight find her; her eyes closed, or worse, her gaze dimmed and unfocused. The thought made his stomach clench, a sharp pain that radiated outward, and he gritted his teeth, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat. His hands clenched around the reins until his knuckles ached, but he couldn't release them; if he loosened his grip even slightly, it felt as if he might fall apart entirely.

Each beat of the horse's hooves against the ground echoed the thundering of his heart, relentless and punishing. What if he was already too late? The question tore through him, leaving an emptiness in its wake that he couldn't bear to face. His chest tightened, breaths coming faster and more shallow as the cold night air scraped his throat, but he pressed on, refusing to let himself falter. He could see Lydia's face as he had seen it last—hurt, disappointed, but still so alive, still so… hers. The image seared his mind, feeding the terrible urgency that drove him forward.

"Please," he whispered, barely audible over the wind. His jaw was clenched, and he could feel the muscles in his neck straining as if they, too, were pushing him onward. "Please, Lydia, be alright."

CHAPTER 31

The Brandon manor stood still and dark in the gathering dusk as Elias arrived, the thundering of his horse's hooves echoing off the cobblestone drive. He barely waited for the animal to stop before dismounting, his strides swift and determined as he took the front steps two at a time. All thoughts of proper dignity were forgotten, replaced by a raw, desperate need to reach Lydia.

When he reached the door, he didn't pause to wait for it to open. He pounded on it, each knock resounding through the quiet evening, his heart racing with a mixture of fear and urgency. A footman finally appeared, his eyes widening at the sight of the disheveled duke.

"Your Grace!" The young man's voice wavered, his surprise evident. "We weren't expecting?—"

"Where is she?" Elias demanded, already stepping past him into the foyer. His tone was urgent, edged with a barely restrained fury. "Where is my wife?"

The footman stammered, glancing uncertainly over his shoulder. "Upstairs, Your Grace, but…"

Elias didn't wait for further explanation. He was already moving, his boots echoing against the polished floors as he took the stairs, each step fueled by the single-minded need to see her. He barely registered the whispers in the hall—the hushed tones of Lydia's sisters, who were hovering near the door to the bedroom where she lay. Their voices, low and tense, did nothing to calm the torrent of emotions within him. He could hear a stranger's voice as well—the doctor, he presumed, and the sound only heightened his urgency.

Just as he reached the landing, Viscountess Prudence appeared, her expression pinched and full of concern. "Your Grace," she began, her voice apologetic despite the hint of coldness he could detect in it. "we did not expect you to arrive so soon. I must apologize for Lydia's behavior…"

"Where?" The single word came out as a growl, each syllable sharp with barely restrained fury.

Prudence faltered, casting a hesitant glance over her shoulder. "The blue bedroom, but Your Grace, please… perhaps we should discuss…"

Elias brushed past her without a word, his attention focused entirely on the door down the hall. His heart pounded as he neared it, and when he reached the doorway, he had to grip the frame to steady himself. The door was slightly ajar, and through the narrow opening, he caught his first glimpse of Lydia.

She lay motionless on the bed, her face pale against the pillows. A bandage wrapped around her temple, stark against her skin, and even in the dim lamplight, he could see the dark bruise that marred her cheekbone. She looked so small, so fragile—nothing like the vibrant, resilient woman who had brought light back into his life and his home. The sight of her so still, so vulnerable, stirred something deep and fierce within him, a need to protect her that burned through him like fire.

"Your Grace." The doctor straightened, offering a respectful bow as he acknowledged Elias's presence. "I've just finished examining her, and I…"

"Leave us," Elias interrupted, his voice rough. His gaze remained fixed on Lydia, his hand tightening on the doorframe. "Everyone out. Now."

The doctor hesitated, his eyes darting to the viscount and viscountess, who had followed Elias into the room. "Your Grace, I should explain her condition…"

"Later." Elias's tone left no room for argument, each word cold and unyielding. The doctor, recognizing the finality in his voice, inclined his head and withdrew, gathering his medical bag as he left the room.

Elias barely noticed as the door closed behind them. For a moment, he stood frozen, his gaze fixed on Lydia's still form. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, he moved forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed. His hands trembled as hereached out, taking her cold fingers in his own and pressing them to his lips.

"Lydia," he whispered against her skin, his voice raw with guilt and regret. "My love… what have I done?"

The door creaked softly behind him, and he looked up, his eyes narrowing as Viscount Silas and his wife, Prudence, entered the room. They hovered near the doorway, their postures stiff and uncomfortable, though neither seemed inclined to leave without speaking to him.

"What happened?" Elias demanded, his voice deadly quiet, each word edged with a barely restrained fury. He did not look away from Lydia's face as he spoke, his gaze lingering on the bruise that marred her delicate skin. "Tell me everything."

Prudence took a hesitant step forward, her hands wringing as she glanced nervously at her husband. "Your Grace," she began, her tone carefully contrite, "I assure you, we are as mortified as you must be by Lydia's behavior. To strike a gentleman in public, in full view of the entire street. It was most improper."

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