Page 4 of Taming a Beastly Duke
“Charlotte, wake up,” he says, the shrill urgency of his voice piercing the quiet stillness of the night. “Charlotte, can you hear me?”
He is aware of what he shall discover, as he reacts as though he no longer resides within his own corporeal form. Nevertheless, he inclines his head to press his ear against her breast, whilst gently placing two fingers upon the delicate skin within her wrist. Her skin is cold, so cold that it burns his own frozen hands. He holds his breath as he listens for hers and feels for any signs of a heartbeat. There is none, of course, and he begins panting.
“No,” he screams, looking around for any evidence as to what could have caused the young lady’s death. There is nothing that indicated an animal attack, a struggle or even some mysterious accident to which Charlotte could have succumbed. There is nothing, in fact, save for his own footprints marring the snow and the blood around her, which is now sticking to his breeches. “Charlotte, no.”
The servants come running, no doubt hearing his anguished cries. They approach slowly, exchanging worried glances as they study the scene. A gasp of horror floats from the cluster of servants and Marcus sees a maid pointing at him with accusing eyes. He wants to try to explain his discovery of Charlotte’s body. But no words will come, and he stares helplessly as the servants scatter and begin shouting for help.
The following morning is no less forgiving. News of Charlotte’s mysterious death has been declared a murder, and according to the gossip column of London’s newspaper, he has been dubbed the main suspect. His infamous temper precedes him within the rumors of the ton, and since people believe that he made advances toward Charlotte which she rejected, they also believe that to be motive for him to kill her. He had never made any advances toward Charlotte; she was as much a sister to him as Edith was, as far as he was concerned. He loved her dearly, but only as a sibling and his ward. But as he was discovered suspiciously alone with her, without clear evidence that anyone or anything else had ever been there, his own peers now believe him to be a murderer. He stopped reading the newspaper and tossed it aside just as the words “The Murderous Beast,” caught his eye…
***
Marcus shook his head firmly, causing the world to spin more fiercely around him. He closed his eyes, relying on the feel of the corridor walls to guide him to his study. He had just reached the cabinet where he kept his spirits when there was a soft knock on the door.
“Marcus?” Viscount Thomas Radcliffe, Marcus’s dearest friend and trusted business partner, called softly from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
Marcus fetched a decanter of brandy from the cabinet and two glasses, turning back to his desk and placing the items unsteadily onto its polished black surface. He said nothing, noting the concern on his friend’s face as he watched the trembling of Marcus’s hands and, undoubtedly, the snow-whiteness of his complexion.
“You may go, Thomas,” he snarled, pouring two drinks despite his fierce order.
Thomas ignored Marcus, knowing perfectly well that Marcus’s harshness stemmed from guilt and pain, not from anger with his friend.
“Of course, I may,” he said, reaching for one of the glasses with a gentle smile. “But I choose to stay.”
Edith Lockhart paused in the doorway of her brother’s study, holding her breath as she observed Thomas Radcliffe tending to her brother, whose imposing figure was silhouetted against the storm-darkened windows.
“Are you feeling unwell again?” Lord Radcliffe asked as he sat in the chair across from Marcus.
Her brother uttered a low, deep growl, glaring weakly at his friend. “I am fine, Thomas,” he said as he lifted his drink to his lips. The glass trembled so violently in his hand that the liquid began to splash out.
Lord Radcliffe leapt immediately from his chair, hurrying to Marcus’s side to steady the drink and help him sip it.
“I can see just how well you are,” he said with a sad smile. “However, it would make me feel a great deal better if you let me sit with you for a while.”
Marcus cursed under his breath and shook his head, but he did not persist in trying to send his friend away. Edith remained unnoticed in the doorway until the viscount stepped aside to place Marcus’s drink beside him, clearing her brother’s view of the door.
“Edith, please,” Marcus began, waving weakly with a shaky hand. “You need not worry yourself about me. I will be fine after a drink and a little rest.”
Edith bit her lip, paying no more heed to her brother’s effort to force her to leave than the viscount had.
“I came to see if you need me to send for something,” she said softly. She tried to hide her concern for her brother, just as he tried to hide the severity of his condition. However, from the scowl on the duke’s face, she was equally as unsuccessful.
“I detest people fawning over me,” he snapped, glancing sharply at where both she and Lord Radcliffe stood, watching him as though he might collapse at any moment. “I shall relax much faster if the two of you are not hovering over me as though I am an infant. I can send for something myself if I need anything, Sister.”
Edith glanced at the viscount just as he looked toward her. His light brown eyes, filled with the same worry and fear that filled her own heart, met hers and held her gaze for a breathtaking moment. Her heart fluttered at the sight of the pure, genuine love Lord Radcliffe clearly felt for her brother.
Marcus was the most important man in the world to Edith, and seeing the kindness of the viscount as he continued trying to help Marcus gave her a glimpse into the sincerity of his heart. He was handsome, she had thought so for years. But seeing how well he treated Marcus and how concerned he was for his friend’s health; it was as though she was seeing him for the first time.
“Pray, cease this hovering,” Marcus snarled again, his voice carrying less conviction than the first time.
Edith slowly reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, giving him the best smile, she could muster. She was not afraid of her brother’s temper, as she knew it was all merely a ruse. Behind that false anger was genuine fear, and that was what frightened her. It was clear that Marcus was growing worried about his illness, which fed her own concern. She could not admit it to herself, but as she watched her brother grow sicker and weaker, she could not help wondering if he would survive whatever malady was stripping him of his health and strength.
She knew that it was serious; the gravity of her brother’s situation growing more apparent with each episode he succumbed to. If this affliction continued to sap his strength as it had thus far, it would not be long before he was confined to his bedchamber. And how long after that would it be before it claimed his life?
Chapter Three
Marcus gripped his teacup with whitened knuckles at the breakfast table with his grandmother, sister, and Thomas as the morning light streamed in through the windows. It had been more than a month since his illness started and about a fortnight since the episode through which Thomas had had to help in his study. The mysterious ailment had arisen with great suddenness, and although the episodes subsided, each one appeared to endure longer and grow increasingly severe.
He had been certain that the sickness would soon come to an end. But with each day that it worsened, he became increasingly frightened. He would never admit as much, but he began to wonder whether it would end at all. And as he fought another wave of dizziness and nausea by holding on too tightly to his cup, he wondered if it would be his last.
