Page 65 of The Wayward Duke
After an eternity, the carriage arrived in a splash of mud. Julian slid inside, clutching Caroline tight in his lap. He cradled her against his chest, willing her to take just one more laboured breath.
The alternative was a yawning void threatening to swallow him whole.
Unthinkable.
As the carriage jolted forward, Julian grasped her limp hand between his. Her delicate fingers remained slack and cool within his hold. He chafed the chilled skin, trying to rub warmth back into her.
“You’ll be all right, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Just stay with me.”
Only the creak of leather and rattle of wheels answered him. No hitched breath or twitch of her fingers. Caroline remained motionless in his arms, blood dripping onto the carriage floor.
Julian couldn’t tear his eyes from her face – kept tracing the pale curves and elegant lines over and over, searing them into memory. Desperate to catch any faint flutter of her lashes, any hitched breath.
When the coach rolled to a halt before Stafford House, Julian gathered her into his arms and staggered up the front steps through the downpour. The staff stood waiting in the marble hall, features pale and stricken at the sight of their mistress.
Without a word, Julian carried Caroline down the shadowed corridor to her bedchamber – their bedchamber. The one they had only just begun sharing again after so many years apart.
He laid her on the pristine bedding. Arranged the pillows beneath her head as though she were sleeping. As though she might open her eyes at any moment.
Only then, in the quiet stillness of the room, did the stark reality crash down with crushing force.
Caroline was dying.
Julian’s chest constricted, ragged breaths too loud in the quiet room. His vision wavered as he stared down at her, eyes burning.
He’d just held her in his arms an hour ago as they danced. Playful. Vibrant. Whispering things that left him aching with wanting.
Now she was still. Fading by the second.
When footsteps sounded in the hall, Julian’s head jerked up.
The surgeon entered, leather satchel in hand. “Your Grace. Let me see what I can do for her.”
He assessed Caroline briskly, easing her blood-soaked gown aside to study the wound. Julian observed from the corner, tension threading through every rigid line of his frame.
After long minutes, the surgeon stepped back. “The ball passed clean through her side. She’s lost a significant amount of blood.”
Julian dragged a shaking hand over his face. Forced himself to rasp the question that might shatter him. “What are her chances?”
“She wasn’t hit anywhere vital, but she’ll need to fight off infection.” He shook his head. “We must worry about the fever more than the damage the bullet did. I’ll give you what you need to keep her comfortable.”
Julian nodded, incapable of speaking around the jagged shards lodged in his throat. He resumed his vigil at Caroline’s bedside. The surgeon took his leave with murmured condolences. Alone again amid the swelling silence and shadows. Nothing left to do but wait. And pray.
Soft footsteps in the doorway roused him from his grim thoughts. Caroline’s maid bobbed a quick curtsy, face wan.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. But Mr Wentworth is asking for you downstairs.”
Leaving Caroline’s side tore something vital from Julian’s chest. But he forced himself to follow the maid to the ground floor drawing room.
Wentworth paced before the fire, features etched with grim lines.
“Tell me you have him,” Julian said as he strode in. “Tell me you caught the bastard.”
Wentworth’s jaw clenched. “He had a bomb waiting outside the palace. My men had to choose between pursuing him or saving innocent lives.”
Blinding rage roared through Julian’s veins. His hands flexed with the urge to wrap around Kellerman’s throat and squeeze. “So you let him get away. He’s out there somewhere while my wife –my fucking wife, Wentworth – is upstairs dying from a bullet meant for me.”
Wentworth’s expression wavered. “Her prognosis?”
