Page 29 of A Marriage of Convenience with a Rake
His father stumbled backward, then sat down heavily on the step. He had his hand on his chest, and he was gasping.
“I can’t...” he whispered. “I can’t...”
“He can’t breathe,” Sebastian yelled, wishing someone could hear him. His father was red-faced and gasping, a hand on his chest as he struggled to draw in air. Sebastian stood rooted to the spot, horror holding him in place. He was a child again, a small, frightened child terrified of losing the one strong presence that held his world together. His father was his only parent, the only person he could talk to and trust in the big, dark world. “Someone!” Sebastian called, running to the front door, torn between staying with his father or going inside to fetch the butler, the cook—anyone who could help. “Someone, please! Papa cannot breathe.”
As he raced indoors, Eleanor came down the stairs into the hallway.
“What is the matter?” she asked gently. She was in a pale-yellow gown, her long hair arranged elaborately as if she had dressed for luncheon, which, he realized distantly, she must have. She had been speaking coolly to him, but when he gestured to the door helplessly, her expression was compassionate. “What is it?” she asked, hurrying over.
“It’s Papa,” he said, trying to get the words out. “He cannot breathe.”
Chapter 11
Eleanor ran down the steps. She felt a moment’s fear, but as she reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the Marquess seated there, his face white, his hand at his side, his body limp, some other part of her took over.
“Sebastian,” she addressed Lord Glenfield directly. “You stay there. Sit with your Papa. Has he choked on something?”
“No!” Sebastian said desperately. “No. He just...he just collapsed.”
Eleanor frowned, her thoughts of choking replaced with thoughts of apoplexy or asthma. Her gaze fixed on the groom, who had wandered over, drawn to the noise. His name was Thomas—she knew that because Miss Whitford, whose name was Amy, had told her that. “Thomas!” she addressed him, making him blink. “Ride to the town and fetch the physician, please. His lordship needs urgent help.” As she heard a step on the stairs, she turned to find the butler. “Please help his lordship carry his father upstairs?” she asked him.
“At once, my lady.”
Eleanor watched as the butler went to where Sebastian was crouched, holding the prone form of his father against his chest. She felt her heart ache, seeing the lost, frightened look in Sebastian’s gaze as he sat with his father, rocking him against his chest as though he were a child.
“My lord?” the butler inquired, tapping Sebastian lightly on the shoulder. Sebastian looked up blankly.
The butler explained to him gently what they needed to do, and Sebastian lifted his father, then they carried him together, his body prone between their two arms.
Eleanor stood back in the doorway, letting the men carry theMarquess up the stairs. They carried him to his chamber and Eleanor followed behind. As she walked along, Amy came out of her room and gasped.
“Amy?” Eleanor instructed her gently. “The marquess has been taken ill. Could you go down to the kitchens and fetch some water for him?”
“Of course, my lady!” Amy hurried off, round-eyed, to do as Eleanor instructed. She went to where Sebastian and the butler were opening the door to the Marquess’ room and settling him on the bed.
“The physician is on his way,” she assured gently. Sebastian stood by his father’s bedside; his face drawn.
“My lord. My lady?” The butler turned to both of them. “What shall I do?”
“Please go down to wait for the physician to arrive,” Eleanor instructed him swiftly. He inclined his head politely and went out to wait.
Eleanor turned to Sebastian.
“He is still breathing,” she told Sebastian gently. The Marquess was certainly breathing, if in a labored way, gasping quite audibly.
“Yes. Yes,” Sebastian murmured. He sat down in the chair by his father’s bedside, his gaze glued on the man.
“He will be all right,” Eleanor assured him. She was not sure how she knew, but she had a strong sensation that the Marquess would live. If he was still living—if he was still trying to breathe, if his heart was still beating—then he would recover from whatever it was that had ailed him.
“You don’t know,” Sebastian whispered.
“I am fairly sure,” Eleanor said firmly. She looked into his eyes, seeing the pain and fear there. He could have been just a few years older than Johnny—the fear and confusion were the same.
“I can’t lose him,” Sebastian said softly. His voice was that of a child, lost in the dark.
“It’s all well,” Eleanor answered quietly. She took his hand, squeezing it gently. Her other hand rested on his shoulder. “It’s all well. He’s still alive, and I believe he will recover.”
As Sebastian drew a breath to reply, a noise in the hallway made Eleanor turn to the door.
