Page 19 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
With assistance from his valet, he discarded his trousers.
“Whatever happened, sir?” As a rule, Speight never pried, but then never before had Thorne shown up in such a state.
“I was set upon by thugs.” He made his way to his bed and crawled beneath the covers. “Bring the physician here as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.” Speight gathered up Thorne’s clothes and headed for the door.
“Where are you taking those?”
“To the rubbish heap.”
Which was where they belonged. They were no longer serviceable. Still, he couldn’t help but think that his rescuer’s stitching deserved a better end. “Place them in the wardrobe for now as a reminder of my stupidity.”
“As you wish.” He’d taken two steps before stopping and looking back at Thorne. “We were supremely disheartened to hear the marriage did not occur.”
He suspected they were more discouraged there was not yet a new duchess of Coventry House.
“We are all praying for Lady Lavinia’s hasty recovery from whatever illness befell her.”
Thorne slammed his eyes closed. Ah, yes, everyone believed she was ill. He had to find her, discover why she had felt a need to run, and determine if they could still make a go of it, lest he be made to look a fool. Although that result might have already occurred. “Send in the physician when he arrives,” he repeated, not feeling a need to confide in his valet.
He must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing he knew someone was gently nudging his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he was disappointed to find himself staring into the bearded face of his physician and not the perfect oval of the woman who’d cared for him. “Anderson.”
“Your Grace. I understand you’re in need of my services.”
He gave a brief accounting of his injuries, avoiding the specifics of what had led to him being attacked. Then he endured the discomfort of the doctor examining each wound.
“Graves is quite skilled, Your Grace. You’re fortunate he was called for. I see no sign of putrefaction or infection. I daresay he cleaned each wound thoroughly before stitching it up as they all seem to be healing quite nicely. How do you feel overall?”
“Tired. Weak. Frustrated by my limitations.”
“You no doubt lost a considerable amount of blood. I’d stay abed a few days if I were you. You’re on the mend, but you don’t want to push it.”
After Anderson left, Thorne told Speight, “When the duchess makes an appearance, inform her I have returned but am not quite myself, and will see her when I am. Send a missive to the Earl of Collinsworth and alert him I shall call on him Sunday afternoon.” The wedding was to have taken place on Wednesday. Lavinia had chosen that particular day because according to an old wives’ tale, it was the luckiest of all days. Perhaps that was the reason he was still alive. Another day might have brought him death.
No, he was alive because of a tavern owner’s determination to make it so.
By the time Sunday morning rolled around—after hours of sleeping or sitting in a chair staring at a fire and wondering how things had gone so horribly wrong—he was still experiencing considerable discomfort and weariness, but was determined to get on with his life and set matters to rights. Following a bath and a shave, dressed in proper attire for the day, he felt more himself, even if it was a slightly ghostly version of himself, the bruises on his face fading but still visible.
Slower than he would have liked, he made his way to the breakfast dining room. From her place at the table, his mother sniffed, her nose in the air. “It is unseemly for you to go off on benders and get into brawls as though you were a commoner with no pride about you at all.”
Unlike most married women who took their breakfast in bed, she had always come down for hers as though she felt a need to serve up an argument with the meal. Her husband had accommodated her. Thorne was not so inclined. “My health is much improved. Thank you for asking.”
He had a footman assist him with his plate before joining her at the table.
“That girl made laughingstocks of us,” she said tartly. “I don’t care how ill she was—”
“She wasn’t ill, Mother. She ran off.”
Staring at him, she slowly blinked. “Then why in God’s name did you announce she was ill?”
“To save my pride.” He shoved his plate aside. “To give myself a chance to determine how best to handle this situation.”
“You handle the matter by finding the girl and marrying her. Otherwise, we shall be made to look even greater fools.”
He very much doubted he could look any more foolish, but he did need to find Lavinia. Whether he could go through with the marriage was another matter entirely. Although he’d promisedhisfather on his deathbed that he’d honor the contract made withherfather. Her dowry included a large estate, Wood’s End—an estate every Duke of Thornley before him had coveted—that edged up against the Thornley ancestral estate, land that would expand Thornley Castle from four thousand acres to six. But the previous earls had proved somewhat lacking when it came to producing girls. Until Lavinia. Their fathers had signed the contract. Her fate and his had been sealed. Perhaps when faced with the moment of exchanging vows, she’d realized she needed more. In hindsight, he couldn’t claim to be unhappy that he was not yet wed. “I don’t know that marriage to her is the answer.”
“Make it the answer.”
