Page 33 of The Duke's Impetuous Darling
Del chose another piece, a country song, and who should join her but Lady Eliza. Whatever that young woman sang, Alastair did not know it.
Another young woman was called upon to pluck at the harp. She did not do it justice—and rightly bowed away after one song.
A man, whose name Alastair could not hear, rose to play the violin. His talent, if one could call it that, was greatly lacking. The screech of his bow on the strings was like metal to metal.
Pain slashed through his head.
"Alastair?" Bee whispered. "Do you still wish to play for us?"
"No, no."I dare not."Don't let that man near you," he pleaded with her and gave her hand to Griff with a silent entreaty. "I must go. Forgive me."
He rushed from the room. His head heavy. His eyes burning with the lights and the hideous sound of the abused violin.
He took the stairs two at a time, blind with light and deaf with the clanging in his head. Shaking, he thrust open his bedroom door, left it banging on its hinges. Tearing at his cravat, his frock coat, he was afire.
"Alastair, Alastair," Bee called to him, her hands cool on his cheeks, her body supple to his own. "Darling, what's wrong?"
He curled her close. Confused, he tried to speak. But he babbled and he was ashamed and angry at himself.
"Oh, Alastair. Come." She led him to sit in an overstuffed chair and knelt before him. Her hands ran over his cheeks, his forehead. She felt his pulse at his wrists and pushed him backward to the cushions.
She was so lovely, always had been. His, always, too. "Bee. Bee." He used her name as an anchor in the void he traveled. "Bee."
"You've got a fever," he thought she said as she rose to cross the room, then yank at the bell pull. "Your heartbeat is too rapid."
"Anger," he got out. "Too much."
"Yes. I see that. Rest now. I will take care of you."
He sank back once more to the comfort of the chair and Bee Craymore's ministrations.
Someone banged at the door.
He tried to rise.
She held him back.
"Stop, make them stop," he said, knuckles digging at his eyes.
"I will." She ran to open it for a man.
Simms? How’d he get here?
"What does he need?" the butler asked her.
She listed items, her tone as brisk and demanding as any commands he'd once issued to his men.
Bee returned to him to remove his coat, then knelt once more before him, stroked his hands and talked of summer and flowers, days when they were young.
* * *
Within spare minutes, Simms and her own maid Mary returned with the items she'd requested.
"Put the tea tray here on this table, Simms. Bowl, towels and hot water bucket, over by the fire. Thank you. I knew I could count on you."
The butler's steady gaze locked on hers. "My duty. My honor, Miss Belinda." He left with the quick precision he was known for.
"Mary," she summoned her maid and cast a glance at the blanket the girl had thrown over her arm, "what dress did you bring me?"
