Page 28 of Good Duke Gone Rogue

Reggie pressed his thumb to his father’s wrist. The pulse was stronger than he would have predicted. Thank God, the man was not giving up.

“He’s strong.” The words were at odds with the shakiness in his voice. “He’s strong. He’ll make it.”

“Reggie—” his mother’s plea would not deter him.

“Don’t.” He raised his hand. “The Duke of Wellingford went through this. I’ll send him a missive immediately to find out what treatment saved Mary. It was some herbal remedy, if I recall.”

“Willowbark?” The physician in the room had been quiet until then.

“Yes. That’s the one. You know of it?”

“I do. But it’s not—”

“I don’t care what it is or isn’t. We will feed it to my father until the fever breaks.”

“But—”

Though not yet the earl, and hopefully not to be soon, Reggie’s look was as stern as his father’s ever had been.

“Give it to him. Starting immediately.” He pointed to the heavy drapes. “And crack a window to let some air in here. It’s a bloody mausoleum in here. We shall take shifts administering cold clothes. More than anything right now, he needs his family. Mother,” he turned, “you need sleep. You’ll be no good to him if you get yourself sick as well.”

She could only nod slowly, the fatigue showing.

“I’ll help,” Bernadette spoke up. “If that’s all right.”

“Of course.” He dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Charlotte, can you take the first shift? Then Bernadette? I’ll take the middle of the night. That should give Mother some time to rest before she wakes early in the morning.”

Everyone knew their role. Everyone understood exactly what was required of them. Everyone had placed all of their trust in Reggie.

He only hoped it was enough.

Chapter 13

IT WAS TURNING INTO the longest night of Reggie’s life. He sat with his father, changing the cool cloth every quarter of an hour.

His father hadn’t moved much in the hours Reggie had been there. A few twitches and soft moans were all the evidence Reggie had of his father’s level of consciousness. He wasn’t sure his father could hear or understand the words he was saying. In fact, Reggie wasn’t even sure he understood the words he was saying himself. There was excessive mumbling, innocent confessing, some not-so-innocent confessing, and—he was defeated to admit—desperate begging. Some negotiating, even.

He told his father about the brandy he had snuck with friends. On more than one occasion. He told him about taking the carriage out in the middle of the night with those same friends.He even told his father about foolishly eating too many tarts from the kitchen well past midnight. His father probably knew about all those silly things already. But they weren’t the real events Reggie wanted to confess. There was an urge inside of him to have his father know more. Everything. If possible. Most importantly though, he needed his father to know about Detta. But he had had to work his way up to sharing about her. Maybe if his father knew, Reggie would find some peace when, ultimately, her rejection would come. With his confession known, he could imagine his father reassuring him.

Sitting in a chair beside the bed, Reggie clasped his father’s hand, and his forehead rested on the backs of his hands.

“I’ve…kissed Bernadette.” A rough exhalation racked through him. Apparently there was a limit to what he could say. And truth be told, if he was speaking with his father, he was sure that even the old man would be able to read between the lines, or read Reggie’s face more likely, to see the extent of the truth behind what he was saying. Reggie squeezed his father’s hand, hoping for some kind of reaction, unlikely as it was. “I should offer to marry her. But…” he trailed off. He couldn’t explain himself. The combination of guilt and fear were confining him.

“I think…I think I’m falling for her.” he mumbled. “I’ve always liked her. Perhaps more than that. But,” he sighed, “you must agree I’m too young for her. She needs a man. More than me. Better than me. Someone to take care of her.” He rubbed his forehead side to side against his hand. “I’m not that man.” It was a choked whisper, “But I fear I’m growing to need her.” The confession relieved him of a small weight on his shoulders. His father would understand. He was a kind man who had married for love. If he was awake, he would have seen the signs and encouraged Reggie to follow his heart before Reggie even confessed it. As it was, Reggie had to imagine the words his father might say.

“She might be the one,” he whispered the last fear in his heart.

His fingers tingled when the hand he was holding squeezed his ever so gently. It was little more than a twitch, may have even been only a twitch, but Reggie clung to it all the same. And he was still clinging to it when his mother came into the room to relieve him.

Finally, he lay under his cool counterpane staring at the ceiling, he thought back over the day. His father. His confessions to him. Of course that led him to think of the object of his confession, Bernadette. The excitement he had felt with her; her claim that he excited her. And then at the table, her familiar presence comforting him, a buttress of support he hadn’t known existed. And one he surely never thought he would need.

His appreciation of her made him maudlin. To have her helping his father in such a weak state made his eyes sting with emotion he didn’t want to release. Not yet. He knew she had taken care of her former husband during his illness. She had probably changed enough clothes and spoonfed a man enough broth to never want to do it again, yet she was here, helping his family in a time when she was still reeling from her future prospects.

He felt wrung out of all emotions. The coolness of his bed left a chill ringing through his bones. He wanted warmth. Not just any warmth though. He wanted the warmth of the hand that had covered his earlier in the evening.

If he went to her now, he didn’t know what she would expect. Hell, he didn’t know what he expected to have happen. And if she refused him, well, he didn’t see her doing that. If out of guilt, empathy, or even a promise from earlier to help in any way she could, she wouldn’t refuse him. And he could accept that, he thought. Pitying as it might be.

Throwing on his breeches and a light shirt, he made his way to Bernadette’s room.

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