Even so, Mrs. Barclay was already there, bustling around the shop and setting everything to order for the day. Jenny did not always leave things the most tidy when it was her turn to close up for the day.
“How is the duke? Is he well?” Mrs. Barclay asked anxiously, stepping forward as Poppy entered the shop.
Poppy reached for one of the fresh pinafores hanging from a hook in the back room. “I haven’t seen him since early last evening. I stayed as you suggested—”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mrs. Barclay waved her hand anxiously, encouraging her to keep talking, clearly not concerned over Poppy’s absence. “He is awake, then?”
“When I left him, no, he was not awake.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “The physician said the longer he slept, the less likely it is that he shall ever wake.”
Mrs. Barclay shook her head sadly. “How dreadful. Well, take these.” She reached for a bouquet of fresh tulips sitting near the counter. “Deliver these personally this morning and see how the duke fares. Offer our sympathies and see if there is anything else that we can do.”
Poppy hesitated. While she appreciated the sentiment, she hated to intrude on the family. And what precisely did Mrs. Barclay think they could do? He was surrounded by loved ones and receiving the best of care.
She had nursed her father in the last couple weeks of his life and it was terribly awkward whenever someone called upon them. She knew they meant well, but being forced to attend them in the parlor whilst she could be looking after her father or the household or shepherding her sister (who was in chronic need of shepherding) was the height of discomfort.
“You want me to leave? Right now?” She glanced around. “What about the shop—”
“It will be fine. Jenny will be here in a little while. Lord Autenberry is our most loyal patron. I won’t be remiss in our respects. You must go and represent Barclay’s so that when—” she paused and winced slightly “—if he recovers, he shall hold our shop only in greater esteem.”
“Of course, Mrs. Barclay.” Poppy inclined her head and avoided pointing out the self-serving nature of her employer’s motivation. She knew Mrs. Barclay was not an unfeeling woman. However, she was also a businesswoman with an infirm husband to look after. Poppy could not fault her.
She deposited a coin in Poppy’s hand for fare and shooed at her with her hands. “Go now. Off with you.”
In a matter of minutes, Poppy was in a hack and on her way to the Duke of Autenberry’s home. Again.
She clasped the fragrant bouquet between her fingers and inhaled its delicate scent. She tried not to let where she was going fill her with panic. A difficult feat knowing everyone in that house believed her to be someone she was not. She was perpetuating a lie. Living a lie. She wasn’t certain how severe the offense ranked in the grand scheme of offenses. Surely she couldn’t go to Newgate for such a thing? Sudden fear pumped hard in her veins. What, then, would become of Bryony?
She reined in her racing thoughts. She needed to compose herself before she succumbed to a fit of apoplexy. She’d never succumbed to such fits before but there was a first time for everything. She gazed out the window.
It was still early and the streets weren’t too crowded. An icy gray draped the air. The hack made excellent time to the duke’s residence, and she was soon standing before the grand double doors of his town house, gripping the bouquet in suddenly sweating palms, her breath fogging in front of her. Yesterday seemed almost a dream, when the Autenberry clan had welcomed her so warmly. Surely today they would see the error of their ways and adopt Struan Mackenzie’s attitude toward her and expel her from their orbit.
Deliveries always went around back, as with most aristocratic residences. It was tempting to drop off the flowers at the back door with a note and beat a hasty retreat, but she knew Mrs. Barclay expected a status update on the duke. In addition, the household believed she was his fiancée. It would be ludicrous to walk around to the back like any ordinary delivery person, deposit the bouquet and leave.
Still, standing there in the morning cold, waiting for the doors to open, it was hard to pretend she was anything other than ordinary. Woefully ordinary Poppy Fairchurch.
Pushing the sobering thought away, she knocked one more time on the door and risked a glance over her shoulder. A nanny was pushing a pram, passing the front of the duke’s residence.
Poppy felt conspicuous and out of place—as though a giant sign were painted on her back that read FRAUD.
At last the door opened. The footman from yesterday stood there. Before she even had a chance to introduce herself, he ushered her inside, tsking over the dastardly cold.
Out of the chill and standing in the warm foyer, the footman did not move before the housekeeper appeared.
“I thought I heard the door. Hello there, Miss Fairchurch. How good to see you again. So sorry you had to brave this bitter cold. I hope you were able to sleep last night.”
In truth, she had slept poorly and, for a change, it had little to do with Bryony’s kicking. She’d slept fitfully, half awake, half conscious. Images of the duke and a speeding carriage with wild-eyed horses and lethal hooves chased her. And then there was Struan Mackenzie. His glowering face intruded, too, hovering at the edges, threatening to take over completely and shove everything else out.
“I managed to sleep,” she lied. “Thank you.” She nodded to the flowers. “I brought these. My employer, Mrs. Barclay, made the arrangement herself.”
Mrs. Wakefield accepted the flowers. “Oh, lovely, and how thoughtful of her. I shall put them in a vase and set them in His Grace’s room so that he may see them when he wakes.”
Her heart sank. “He’s not awake, then?”
On the way over she had been hoping, praying, for a miracle. Why not? Miracles happened every day. Why could they not happen for the duke?
The housekeeper’s face settled into grim lines. “Sadly, no. No change.” She nodded with sudden cheer. “Come. This way. Perhaps now that you’re here he’ll respond.”
And that only made Poppy feel all the more wretched. There was nothing about her arrival that would bring about his swift recovery.
The duke’s bedchamber door was slightly ajar. Mrs. Wakefield pushed it fully open and motioned her inside. “Have a seat and spend some time with him. The others are still abed. Not early risers as you are, Miss Fairchurch.” She hesitated and took a breath. “If you forgive me for being so forward, I must say it’s refreshing that the duke chose you. Speaks to the depth of his character that he can see beyond rank to the heart that lies within a woman. Trust me, there has been a great deal of pressure over the years for him to marry one lady or another. And yet he chose you.”
And yet he did not choose me.
It was a rather ridiculous prospect. Something told her that if the duchess had been anyone else, anyone other than the eccentric she clearly was, she would have laughed Poppy straight out of the house yesterday.
A clatter in the distance drew Mrs. Wakefield’s attention away. “The new girl has clumsy fingers,” she muttered. “Best go see what she destroyed now. I vow I should never have taken her on, but she’s my niece. S’pose I can’t give her the sack. I’d never hear the end of it from my sister.” She shook her head ruefully. “Make yourself comfortable. I will give you some time with him.” She patted Poppy’s shoulder. “It’s right . . . for both of you.”
Then she was gone, leaving Poppy standing in the doorway and staring at the great big bed in the center of the room. It could sleep an army but only one man reclined in the center of it, as still as stone . . . much as he had been when she last saw him. He didn’t look as though he had moved, but she knew he had been tended to and must have been moved at least a fraction.
Taking a breath, she crept toward the bed, her steps a hushed whisper on the carpet.
The chair she had occupied yesterday was still there, an indentation left upon its cushion from previous occupants. She sank down onto it.
“Hello,”
she greeted into the vacuum of the room. Silence greeted her back.
“It’s me again.” She winced, knowing he didn’t know her. Not truly. Weekly visits to a flower shop where he purchased flowers from her hardly constituted knowing—never mind however much she felt that she knew him from those occasions. “Not certain you remember me. I’m Poppy Fairchurch.”
Leaning forward, she started to touch his hand, but then pulled back. No one was here. It wasn’t necessary for her to perpetuate this farce. It seemed somehow presumptive to do so.
“I know you don’t know me outside of Barclay’s Flowers, and this will seem wildly, well . . . mad, but there was some confusion the day you were hurt. As it turns out . . . well. I’m your fiancée. At least that’s what your family believes.”
Continued silence.
She sucked in a breath. If that wasn’t enough to spring him from his false sleep nothing would.
She grimaced at the misplaced thought. He would wake. He must.
“I know I should have corrected the misapprehension by now, and I will. I promise. Just as soon as everyone wakes today.” She moistened her lips.
More silence.
“It’s just . . . well, this is rather mortifying to admit, but I’ve never been betrothed before.” She glanced down at herself in her plain pinafore that hid only a plainer dress. Her gaze caught on the toes of her scuffed boots. “Not such a surprise.” She released a pained laugh that she felt to the depths of her.
“There was a time when I came close,” she admitted. “It’s strange to think about that now. To consider how, if my life had taken a different turn, I could be a married woman now. Perhaps even a mother. But that’s neither here nor there.” She took another deep breath. Talking about this, saying the words that needed to be said even to an unconscious man, was more difficult than she expected, but now that she had started it was as though a dam had been opened. She couldn’t stop. The words surged forth in a torrent. “The fact is . . . I’ve never been truly betrothed to anyone. Almost doesn’t count, does it? But when I imagined myself married . . . when I imagined myself with the man of my dreams . . . he was always you.” She felt the heat of her blush score her cheeks. “At least ever since I met you.”
She was wringing her hands so tightly now she hardly felt them anymore. The blood had ceased to flow, but she couldn’t help herself from squeezing. It was a strange echo of another time when she had sat vigil at the bedside of her father. When she wasn’t holding Papa’s hands or wiping his brow or forcing sips of broth or water past his lips, she had squeezed her hands to the point of numbness. As though the force of her own grip could imbue fresh life once again into her sire and bring him back to her.
Shaking off the memory, she reached for the cup of water near the bed, glad for something to do. A cloth sat beside it. She picked it up and dipped it inside. Without wringing out the fabric, she brought the wet end to his mouth and dribbled water between his lips. He wouldn’t last long if he didn’t have water and sustenance. Mrs. Wakefield seemed sensible and attentive, but Poppy didn’t know how experienced she was with nursing the sick. She would ask if he had taken any broth. She might as well impart what knowledge she possessed. Her father had been beyond saving, but the verdict was not yet decided for the duke. Despite what the physician said, he could yet wake. As long as he didn’t starve in the interim. She wasn’t giving up on him.
“There you are now,” she crooned approvingly. “You must think me daft. Infatuated with you when you’ve given me no encouragement other than treating me with kindness and respect each time you came into the shop. That can’t be common for a nobleman of your rank though.” She hesitated. “You always made my heart a little lighter . . . brought a little happiness into my day. For that, I’m grateful. I won’t abuse your kindness. I promise to straighten this mess out soon.”
After several minutes of feeding him slow sips of water, she put the cup and cloth down.
She swallowed against the sudden dryness of her throat.
The full impact of her admission sank in like a slow-sinking rock in her stomach. Even unconscious, she had just confessed her infatuation to the object of her . . . infatuation. She had never imagined such a mortifying thing occurring.
Her hands resumed their death grip. “I know it’s impossible. Naturally, I understand that. Someone like you could never love someone like me. You’re a duke. I’m a shopgirl. But I want you to know that I don’t admire you for your rank. I would have admired you even if you were naught but a man.” She gave her head a small shake. “A baker. A blacksmith. From the moment you entered Barclay’s, everything about you charmed me.”
More humming silence, and that only seemed to compel her to talk more, to fill the awkward quiet.
“Of course, you’re handsome, but you’re kind, too. The way you thoughtfully consider all of the flowers, ask questions and listen to my suggestions. I know you purchase flowers for different ladies and that you’re not devoted to any one of them. Some might say you’re a rake.” She shrugged. “But you care enough to send flowers and you put thought into the cards you write. You extend courtesy to everyone . . . from a lowly shopgirl to the boy with barely enough coin in his pocket. Do you remember that? I do. The boy came into the shop to purchase flowers for his ailing grandmother. You told me to put the flowers on your account.”
Again. Silence.
“Forgive me for blathering on. It’s nice to actually talk to someone for a change . . . even if you can’t talk back. You’ll wake up. I don’t know how I know it, but I just do. You’re strong and young and your time on this earth isn’t over yet.”
She sat in her chair, wrapped up in the silence of the room, gazing at the beautiful duke with a yearning in her heart that was twofold. Yes, obviously she wanted him to recover and wake up. But there was still the old selfish longing, too. For love and acceptance and companionship—somehow in her mind he had come to represent all of that to her. Despite her avowal to let go of that longing and focus on rearing her sister, that indomitable craving crept in again.
Lifting one hand, she brushed a lock of chestnut hair off his brow, unable not to touch him. Just this once. Just to see. To feel. The lock rebelliously bounced back into place. Oddly, she felt nothing at the contact and she frowned. No ripple of awareness. No zing along her nerves as she always imagined she would feel at first contact with him. His hair merely felt like . . . hair. Likely it would be different if he was awake and hale and inviting her touch. A sigh welled up and escaped her lips.
Suddenly a deep voice spoke. “I don’t know if he’s quite as admirable as all you claim, but regardless, he’s fortunate to have you.”
Poppy yanked her hand back from the unconscious duke with a stifled shriek, nearly losing her balance and falling from her chair. She hopped to her feet and positioned herself behind the chair, clenching her fingers along the back of it.
A man stood in the threshold, his shoulder propped against the doorjamb, arms crossed casually across his chest.
“Who are you?” she demanded. He was handsome and young and looked quite at ease in the duke’s home and not the least shame-faced to be eavesdropping.
He considered her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. After a moment, he stepped forward, his lean frame closing the distance between them with easy strides. “I’m Lord Strickland.” He nodded at the duke. “And I’ve known Marcus since we were lads in knickers.”
From the fine cut of his clothing—to say nothing of the fact that he happened to be in a duke’s bedchamber—she could have surmised he was a nobleman.
“O-oh,” she stammered, glancing from the duke and back to Lord Strickland, wondering how much he had overheard. “Have you been standing there very long?”
“Long enough.” His eyes glinted knowingly.
Oh, dear. Cold washed through her. She swallowed against her suddenly thickening throat. “I c-can explain.” She held up a hand in supplication.
“I think you did. When you were
talking to Autenberry. Quite the enlightening conversation even if very one-sided.” He frowned slightly and looked down at his friend, the concern he felt for him evident in his eyes.
She dragged in a heavy breath. There was no doubt now. He knew. He knew everything. “I’m going to tell everyone . . . the dowager, his sisters, just as soon as they—”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“What?” She blinked. “You don’t want me to tell the truth? Why not?”
Lord Strickland nodded slowly, still staring at Autenberry. “It will only upset them. Last night when I called upon them they spoke so highly of you. You were their one bright light in an otherwise dark day. Don’t take that from them. Not now.” He lifted his gaze to her again. “And I liked what you were saying. It was honest.”
Except she was lying to everyone else. She shook her head. “But that’s what I’m trying to be . . . honest.”
“Time enough for that later. When Marcus wakes.” His gaze crawled over her face, assessing. “The dowager already speaks of you with such affection.” He looked to the duke again, then back to her, his gaze turning speculative.
“I—I . . .” Would she never cease to stammer?
“I’m beginning to see why.” Nodding, he continued his scrutiny of her. “I think you might be just what this family needs. You’re very kind and guileless.”
She winced at that description. She did not feel very guileless.
“Why not?” he continued with a shrug.
“Why not what?”
“You and Marcus. Why not? He needs someone.” He scoffed a little. “Desperately. Even if he doesn’t realize it, he has needed someone with a good heart for a while now.”
Was he jesting with her? She stifled a snort and shook her head. He could not think she might be a legitimate match for the duke. He was a duke! She was merely . . . Poppy Fairchurch.
“I’m sorry, my lord. You’re not making any sense. I should go now.”
While the Duke Was Sleeping Page 7