Page 77 of The Duke of Ice
He was loath to lay her back down but was glad she’d grown calm. Even her shaking had stopped. Once they had her tucked back into the bed, the maids left to work on washing the linens and tidying themselves.
Why hadn’t she awakened? It seemed that something like that—her body had reacted quite violently—would force her into consciousness.
But she’d gone back to the way she’d been before. Still. Practically lifeless.
He paced the room, suddenly anxious to be anywhere but here.
When Chalke returned, he went for a turn in the garden. He wasn’t sure how long he was gone, but he stopped in the sitting room downstairs for another glass of whiskey before going back up.
He was met with a familiar stench. “She was ill again?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Chalke said worriedly. “I’ve sent for the physician.”
They cleaned her up in the same fashion, but this time when Nick held her, she opened her eyes for a brief moment. They looked shiny, like glass, and they couldn’t seem to focus on him. One pupil was black and huge while the other was a tiny pinpoint.
“Violet?” When she didn’t respond or react, he tried again. “Violet, can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered before closing once more. She went limp in his arms, and his frustration erupted in a loud growl he simply couldn’t contain.
He set her back in the now-clean bed and let Chalke cover her up.
“Try not to fret, Your Grace,” Chalke said, rather ridiculously.
How could he not fret?
They physician returned but again had nothing of value to say or contribute. Nick wanted to throw him from the window. The vomiting could be a good sign as her body worked to rid itself of whatever poison might be occurring. That theory sounded ridiculous to Nick. How in the hell did one suffer a poisoning by hitting one’s head? The physician had calmly—and rather condescendingly—explained that there was perhaps fluid in the lump and that could be poisoning her. Nick had simply stared at the man and imagined him sailing through the air as Nick tossed him to the ground.
After the sun set, Chalke attempted to get Nick to eat, but he refused, as he had all the other times she’d suggested it.
Late in the night, he fell asleep on the other side of Violet’s bed, waking at the slightest noise. She roused a few times, thankfully not to be sick anymore, but wasn’t able to focus or respond or otherwise demonstrate that she was aware.
By morning, Nick’s hope was all but lost.
Then she finally woke.
Except it was for a very short time, and she only asked for water. Chalke supplied the liquid with tears streaming down her face. Violet fell right back to sleep, and Chalke turned to Nick with hope in her eyes. “That has to be a good sign.”
“Or it could mean nothing,” Nick said coldly.
Chalke’s face fell, but she nodded. “You should go home and sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.” He’d tried.
“Change your clothes, then.”
He should probably do that.
Chalke seemed to sense his hesitancy. “You won’t be far away. We’ll send for you if she wakes. But you’ve seen her—there isn’t much happening.”
No, there wasn’t.
Dejected and exhausted, Nick left. He’d sent a note late yesterday explaining that he wouldn’t be home. Since the staff came with the house, he didn’t know them and they didn’t ask him any questions. Rand, however, was quite distraught over Nick’s appearance.
The valet took in Nick’s disheveled clothing. “Are you all right, Your Grace?”
“I need a bath. And something to eat.” He wasn’t particularly hungry, but knew his body needed nourishment.
“Right away.” He called for the footmen to fill the bath and helped Nick to undress. “I’ve packed for London. Do you still wish to leave tomorrow morning?”
