Page 91 of Duke of Destruction
A footman came bursting out the back door, followed shortly thereafter by Xander Lightholder, who looked at Percy as though the only thing stopping him from landing a blow was the way Percy still held Catherine cradled in his lap.
The Duke of Godwin dropped to his knees beside them, reaching out and taking Catherine’s hand in his. Percy was absurdly grateful that Godwin didn’t try to take Catherine from his arms. He wasn’t sure he could have physically made himself let go, even if he wanted to.
“What happened?” the man croaked, and Percy heard his own mixture of anger and devastation reflected in the other duke’s tone.
“Crompton,” Percy said again. “I don’t know exactly what—she called for me, and he was grabbing her—and he knocked her down?—”
He no longer sounded like the steady, sure man who had earned a name in politics for never getting his feathers ruffled. He sounded like a man on the verge of panic.
Godwin swore in a frankly impressive way, then dispatched more staff to summon constables and detain the prone earl. Percy was perversely satisfied to note that none of the footmen was particularly gentle with the downed nobleman as they hastened to obey their lord’s orders.
Things kept happening, and Percy kept holding on to Catherine, as if he could keep her on this side of the veil just through the strength of his arms. He had insisted on carrying her inside to be laid on her bed—Godwin had the good sense to not even bat an eye at the impropriety.
Percy only let her go when the physician arrived and told him, in a tone that brooked no argument, that he needed space to examine the lady. With great dint of effort, Percy had forced himself to release her, then staggered back a few paces to sit in the armchair near her bed.
Which was where he had stayed.
He had stayed as the physician examined the wound on her skull, turning Catherine’s head to the side to inspect it in a way that made Percy want to scream that she wasn’t a doll, they couldn’t just push and prod at her, they should just wait until she woke up—because shehad towake up.
He had stayed as the physician had pulled away, a grim set to his mouth, and pronounced that the head wound was severe, and that there was nothing for them all to do but wait.
He had stayed as a succession of staff came in to try to coax water and then broth down their lady’s throat. He had stayed as the different members of the Lightholder family had come to join his vigil.
He had stayed as day turned to night and then back again.
At some point in the darkest hours before the dawn, his waiting had taken on a sort of religious fervor. If he waited and watched, she would keep breathing. She would wake. She would break the surface of the sleep that held her.
If he left, she would die.
And now Godwin wanted him togo?
“Seaton,” the other duke sighed.
Percy reached out a hand and laid it next to Catherine’s—not quite holding it, because what if he hurt her more, but touching with the lightest, barest contact—so he could look up at Godwin. Touching her hand could stand in for watching, at least for a little bit.
“I cannot leave her, Godwin,” he said. If Lightholder punched him… Well, Percy would accept that. But the other duke would have to kill him before he left Catherine’s side. “I cannot.”
Godwin held Percy’s gaze for a long moment. And then, to Percy’s surprise, he didn’t hit him or even threaten to do so.
Instead, he nodded.
“I see,” he said. He crossed to the armchair on the other side of Catherine’s bed. When he spoke to Percy again, it was over his sister’s unconscious form. “If I stay with her until you return, can you at least go clean yourself up? There is a vacant room across the hall—my brother has married and keeps his own household—and the staff can draw you a bath and bring you clean clothes. You have… you still have?—”
He couldn’t seem to make himself reference the blood that still stained Percy’s clothes. Percy had accepted towels and hot water from a kindly maid to wash his hands and face, but he hadn’t left Catherine’s side long enough to clean off properly.
Godwin, who fought dirty, arched an eyebrow.
“She won’t like you see you like this when she wakes,” he commented, his voice light, though the effort seemed to cost him.
Damn him. Percy closed his eyes. He hated that this worked.
“You won’t leave her until I return?” he asked, not daring to look at Godwin.
“I will not.”
Decades of loathing the Dukes of Godwin and everything they stood for—and still, Percy trusted him.
He made certain to be quick about it. He crossed to the room that Godwin had indicated and washed himself so speedily and roughly that the water was hot enough to turn his skin pink. He shoved on the borrowed clothes that had been left for him—shoulders too narrow, sleeves somewhat too long, the colors horrid and all clashing—without a second thought.
