Page 75 of His Haunted Duchess
“Up, woman—on your feet. Fetch a cool cloth and smelling salts, immediately!”
Cook blinked, straightened her cap, and hurtled out of the room. Caroline ran her hands over Frederic’s fingers.
“What happened?” she whispered. “Why?—”
Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, but they would not be contained and especially not by will—not now. They splattered onto Frederic’s back.
Carlyle rushed into the room. A slightly balding man with round, gold glasses hurried in behind him, carrying a dark bag. Caroline moved aside mechanically, making room for them to examine her husband.
Her husband. The words her heart had sung not an hour before cried through her soul like the wail of an orphan near a corpse.
The physician gently pulled Frederic off the table and examined his face.
“He is still breathing. To the couch, quickly!”
Cook entered the room like a ball from a cannon, waving a hefty bottle of smelling salts in one hand.
“Here they are, Your Grace! I’ve brought the entire carafe! This will do the wisps away!”
Esther said nothing but took the bottle from Cook and handed it to the man with round glasses. He passed it under Frederic’s nose.
Frederic took a long, deep breath. Esther put a hand to her heart.
“Oh, thank heavens!”
Carlyle wiped his brow with a heavy handkerchief. The cook wiped her eyes with her apron.
Caroline stepped slowly away. She had wanted so much to help—to love him as he ought to be loved. And now—thanks to her—thanks to her curse, he might— The shutters of Caroline’s eyes snapped shut but not before the screams—the horrible, piercing screams—of her family members squealed in her mind.
The physician loosened Frederic’s cravat and unbuttoned his shirt.
“He’s in a terrible condition. His pulse isn’t regular. We must?—”
The words struck her like a hammer from a smith. It was her fault—her curse that had brought about this great calamity, this strike from fate. Caroline stumbled toward the door. She had to go. Near him, she would bring only grief, only?—
Carlyle stepped in front of her. She stared at him, vaguely and numbly surprised. He had never done so before—she had never thought he would.
“Excuse me, Your Grace—-” His licked his lips nervously. “Please, excuse my boldness, but Frederic—the duke—he would not want you to leave. He would want you by his side.”
Her sad, swollen heart heaved a heavy sigh. Frederic would want her near him. She knew he would. He would wish to pull her close, to kiss and caress her with the new love they both had so recently experienced. And she—her stomach clenched with the brutal truth of it. She would love to be with him.
But now, she knew again what she had so conveniently forgotten, what she had buried in the strength of passion and the blindness of affection: she was cursed. Irrevocably, unavoidably scarred, broken, and blighted.
She turned her steps to Aunt Olivia’s estate. She would go home, go where they would both be apart but safe.
“It’s all right, Carlyle. It’s the only way to keep him safe.”
“He’s coming round.”
Frederic blinked blearily. His entire body felt like he had been slapped with willow switches then drained of liquid. He tried to sit up. A headache pierced his temples like a nail. The blazes!
A pair of golden lights glinted above him. The lights took more solid form in a pair of round glasses. The man behind him eyed him critically.
“Well, Your Grace? Do you know me?”
Smithton, the physician,he tried to answer, but all that escaped his throat was a moan.
Caroline? Where was Caroline? What had?—
