Page 21 of The Wayward Duke
“You were magnificent today,” Julian said into the quiet space between them.
“So were you,” Caroline returned softly.
I don’t want you to leave again.
The words echoed unspoken inside her as the carriage rattled along the lamplit streets.
8
London, 1865
Nine years ago
The room was dim, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the morning light. Shadows cloaked the opulent furnishings, leaching all vibrancy from the space.
Caroline perched on a chair near the large canopied bed. Beside her sat Julian, elbows braced on his knees. Neither could tear their eyes from the still figure beneath the silken coverlet.
Grace.
Her charm and vitality had filled any room she occupied. Now, sickness had reduced their friend to a pale wraith, her lustrous curls damp with sweat. Grace’s breath emerged in laboured rasps, a chilling percussion beneath the mournful tick of the bedside clock. Every exhale was wet with fluid and ended with a choked gurgle that made Caroline flinch.
Grace’s eyes fluttered open, fogged with fever. They wandered listlessly before settling on Caroline and Julian. When recognition sparked, her cracked lips twisted into a ravaged imitation of her once radiant smile.
“You’re both still here,” Grace rasped. “Have you nothing better to do than watch me die?”
Despite everything, Caroline managed a wisp of laughter. “All society left after the Season,” Caroline replied. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”
Grace’s mouth twitched again, wry and resigned. “Morbid creatures.” Her gaze shifted to Julian, softening. “You’ve been so quiet, Hastings. Not a word of gloomy philosophy to share?”
He stared down at his clasped hands. “I find my well of wisdom has rather run dry just now,” he admitted hoarsely.
A violent fit of coughing wracked Grace. She curled onto her side, her thin frame heaving beneath the bedclothes. When the spasms passed, her shift was dotted with vivid red. Blood speckled her wan lips.
“Here.” Julian offered a handkerchief, averting his eyes from the grisly evidence. “Let us make you comfortable.”
Between the two of them, they shifted Grace onto her back once more and wiped the blood from her mouth. Caroline’s hands shook as she smoothed Grace’s damp curls from her brow.
A gentle knock on the bedchamber door preceded Viscountess Harcourt’s entrance, ragged grief etched in her features. She perched on the bed and took one of Grace’s frail hands between her own.
“Mother,” Grace breathed. “You’re here.”
Viscountess Harcourt blinked away her tears and brought Grace’s fingers to her lips. “Of course, my darling. Where else would I be?”
The viscountess leaned forward and whispered something for her daughter’s ears alone, pressing a kiss on her brow. When she straightened, resignation lined her ravaged features.
“It’s time we let her rest.” Viscountess Harcourt rose on unsteady legs and looked at Caroline and Julian. “Come with me to the hall?”
“Of course,” Caroline said. “We’ll return shortly, Grace.”
In the sitting room across the hall, Viscountess Harcourt sank onto an embroidered settee. Her composure fractured at last, tears spilling down her cheeks. Caroline sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her eyes burned, but she dared not loosen the ruthless hold over her emotions. Not yet.
After endless moments, the viscountess scrubbed at her face with a handkerchief. “I need to make the arrangements.”
Caroline swallowed hard. “She might still pull through—”
“The doctor warned me she likely wouldn’t last the night.” Viscountess Harcourt twisted the handkerchief in her lap. “My husband is with Victoria in America, but I’m uncertain where,” she said, referring to her eldest daughter. “New York, I think. But I can’t let them find out about Grace by letter. That would be unthinkably cruel.”
Julian took a slow breath. “I’ll take a steamer and give them the news,” he said after a long silence. “So you don’t have to worry about anything but funeral arrangements. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.” He glanced at Caroline. “May I speak with you?”
