Page 77 of The Duke's Inconvenient Bride
“Why?” she asked, clutching the bedspread.
He drew in a deep breath. “I have business there.”
She nodded, appearing to take this at face value.
“For how long?” The hopeful gleam in her eyes was like a kick in his gut.
“At least a month. Maybe longer.”
A horrid understanding lit her eyes. “Until you know whether I’m pregnant. If I am, you’d have no reason to return.”
“Emma, I—”
“I don’t suppose you planned to invite me to join you?” she cut in.
He hesitated, and when she noticed, she made a bitter noise that was something between a scoff and a laugh.
“Of course not.” She didn’t sound surprised. “But why? What have I done to drive you away and cause you to avoid me as you have?”
His chest constricted. He hated that she blamed herself for his own cowardice.
“This isn’t your fault,” he said. “I have—”
“Business,” she finished for him. “So you’ve said. I realize that you’re a busy man, but I also know that it isn’t only business that’s been causing you to keep me at a distance for the past while.”
He couldn’t deny that.
She gestured toward the door. “Please leave. I need to think.”
His stomach twisted. He didn’t want to leave this argument unresolved. Especially not when her eyes were glimmering with unshed tears.
“Let’s talk this through.” He started moving toward the chair nearest her bed, but she held up her hand to stop him.
“Please, Vaughan.” Weariness made her voice heavy. “Not now. If you intend to stay until I’m healed, we can discuss this later.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “If you need anything, call for me.”
She agreed, but something in her demeanor made him suspect she’d summon Daisy or another of the servants before asking him for help.
“I mean it,” he said. “I don’t wish to see you hurt.”
Then he passed through the connecting door into his own bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. Why must everything go to hell?
When Emma didn’t turnup for breakfast the next morning—or lunch—Vaughan went to her bedchamber to check on her. He’d known she’d been upset, but she’d shown how much she enjoyed her meals. It was unusual of her to not at least request a plate be sent up.
The moment he stepped foot in her bedchamber, he knew something was wrong. The room was too still. A cold breeze swept through, rustling the drawn curtains. Had the window been open all night?
He walked to the bed, where Emma was curled on her side, the bedclothes tossed aside. Sweat beaded her face and her cheeks were flushed deep pink. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and she whimpered in her sleep.
“Emma?” he asked.
She didn’t respond. Tentatively, he touched her forehead. It was burning hot.
Oh, no.
He shook her shoulder gently. “Emma, wake up.”
She still didn’t react.
