Page 43 of Good Duke Gone Cold

“That did not come out right.” Margaret bit her bottom lip again. “I’ve said too much. Or not enough. Or perhaps the wrong things altogether.”

“Lyle was here?” Mary focused her inquisition.

“Yes, he was just here today. He came to see me briefly after he saw you.”

“That’s—”

“Nice. The word you’re looking for is nice. Think nothing more of it.”

“Mayhap your advice rings true, so I will consider taking it.”

“Now, and more importantly, do I truly look that bad?”

Margaret made a face and Mary burst into laughter. “Oh dear. Please, fix me, you one-handed wonder.”

Margaret giggled.

After a short while, Margaret popped up, as poppable as one could be with one strong leg. “I must speak with Gregory. Though I forgot to ring for him, surely he’ll know by now that you’re conscious, what with all the servants coming and going. I’m sure he’ll want to see you now.”

Something about the way Margaret’s tone changed on the wordnowcaused Mary’s stomach to turn queasy.

Instead of investigating Margaret’s meaning, Mary placed her hand on her friend’s forearm, but she couldn’t bring herself to give voice to her vanity.

“You are alive and beautiful, my dear friend.” Margaret plopped a kiss on her temple.

After Margaret left with footmen in tow, Mary couldn’t help ironing, folding, and repressing the four inches of coverlet closest to her. She had now regained a minutiae of strength and was sitting up in bed. She knew Gregory would come to see her soon. She could feel his foreboding presence just biding its time.

She didn’t know what to expect when she saw him. What would he say? Would he apologize? Would he kiss her? She couldn’t imagine what to expect.

Gregory couldn’t have imagined what to expect when he walked into Mary’s room. He knew to expect a sick room. He knew she had been weak, and he knew she was finally conscious.

When he walked into the room, he breathed out the heavy polluted air that had been weighing down his lungs for the past few days, and then he breathed in the sick stale air that had been surrounding Mary. Despite his instructions to have the windows opened, they were closed, and the drapes were darkening the room.

He stalked over to the windows to do what he had wanted in the first place, and with those two actions, he felt like he could breathe again. When he turned to face her, he choked on his breath. If only he could calm himself and regain a semblance of normal breathing. But to look at her, he could see how fragile she was, even with her chin jutted out, the only show of the goddess warrior he had glimpsed before.

His chest clenched around his heart. How had this happened? Had she been as close to death as she now appeared?

He walked over to the chair near her bedside and used it to give himself some leverage.

“You’re awake.”

“Yes.” She peered directly into his soul. Did she know he hadn’t, couldn’t, visit her?

“You look–”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“Just… don’t.”

Gregory studied her face. He saw pain and fatigue vying for prominence.

“Mary. I couldn’t.”

Her eyes dropped to the coverlet and much as she tried to conceal the tears, he saw her blink a few away.

How could he explain? How could he make her see that he was distancing himself from her for her own protection? Why couldn’t she just be like every other woman who cared more for gowns and prestige than for him? Why did she have to care? Who was she to make him feel this way, weak, powerless, and defeated? He would not tolerate this anymore.

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