Rescued by the Duke: Delicate Hearts Book 2

by Catherine Mayfair

  The door opened, and he felt a small rush of joy as his hopes raised at the possibility of seeing Abigail return. However, it was not Abigail but rather the young boy. Patrick? Was that the name Abigail said belonged to the boy? In the boy’s hands were a hunk of bread and some other food wrapped in cloth.

  “Hello,” the boy said, walking around and coming to the side of the bed. “My name’s Patrick.”

  Richard smiled. “I know.” He glanced at the door. “My wife?”

  “Miss Abigail?” He pointed toward the door. “She’s resting.”

  Anger and hurt rose in Richard and before he could stop himself, he snorted. She had promised to be by his side, and yet she was not. Well, if she wished to speak falsehoods, then so be it. “You can set the food there,” he told the boy, nodding at the side table.

  “You should eat, Mister.”

  Richard narrowed his eyes at the boy. Who did this upstart child believe he was to speak to a duke in such a manner? Richard felt as if he could burst, his anger was so high. “Set it down,” he shouted. “And never argue with me again!” he added for good measure. “Leave me!”

  “Yes, Mister,” Patrick mumbled and ran off, the door slamming behind him.

  Closing his eyes, Richard bit off the harsh words he wanted to shout after the boy. He did not even have the respect to bow before leaving! Yet, within moments, Richard regretted his outburst. It was not the fault of the boy Richard lay in bed unable to do tasks as simple as relieving himself without aid. He shut his eyes tighter in an attempt to block out the images of himself screaming at a child bringing him food. What decent man did such a thing?

  “Richard?”

  He opened his eyes to find Abigail standing in the doorway.

  “Do you need help with your food?” she asked. “I would be happy to help if you would like.”

  “My hands are fine,” he spat. “I am not a child, and I do not need your help!”

  Abigail took a deep breath. “If you do need anything…”

  “I will ask the nurse,” he interrupted. “Now, good evening to you.” He turned his head away from her and closed his eyes, for he could not bear the look of anguish on her features. The door closed, and he winced as a shot of pain went through him. Not in his legs, of course, but he still ached everywhere else on his body.

  When the pain subsided, he clenched his jaw as he thought of what life held for him for the future, a life filled with pain and the curse of not being able to walk again. It was a burden he did not want to share with anyone, even Abigail. It would be unfair of him to place such a burden on the woman he loved.

  What kind of husband was he to be? It was enough that she was now tied to a man she did not love, that alone was cruel enough. However, to have a husband who was crippled would only add to her misery. Therefore, he forced his thoughts to a future alone, for he would free her of the bond in which he had placed her, and in that new life, he hoped Abigail would find happiness, with someone worthy of her love.

  ***

  Mrs. Donovan came by twice a day, once in the morning and again in the evening, for five days, and on the sixth, Doctor Harding returned from his trip. The man entered the room with Abigail, pushing a contraption Richard had only seen used with the elderly and the lame. It was a large chair that rested on two wheels, much like those found on a carriage only smaller. Abigail offered him a smile, but Richard ignored her, his attention focused on the dreadful chair. It was strange that he would now have to see himself as an invalid.

  “Your Grace,” the doctor said, “my apologies for the delay in my return. My travels took longer than I expected.”

  Richard waved a dismissive hand at the man. “I had nowhere else to go,” he said with a wry smile.

  The doctor laughed as if Richard had told a wonderful joke, though Richard had not meant to be humorous in his choice of words. He said nothing, however.

  “Are you familiar with this device?” Doctor Harding asked.

  “An invalid’s chair,” Richard answered with a snort. “Though I’ve not had the pleasure of being intimately familiar with one.”

  Again, the doctor laughed, and Richard wanted to shout at the man and demand he show some respect for a duke who was now crippled. Yet, he said nothing once again. The man only wished to help.

  “Well, I brought this one back from my trip to Kent. As it is, the friend I visited there is a specialist in the area of spinal injuries. The chair is meant to be used as a way to get you out of bed.”

  Richard found breathing difficult as his heart thumped so hard he thought it might strangle him. “For those who never walk,” he croaked. When he looked at Abagail, the pity and sadness on her face was bad enough, but was that also disgust he saw? Well, he could not blame her; he was disgusted enough with himself for the two of them.

  “It is intended to help you,” Doctor Harding said. “Much like a crutch helps those who need aid in walking, this chair will allow you to get fresh air and go about your day as you would any other day.”

  “I will not use it,” Richard said stubbornly. “I am a duke, not a poor street urchin or a one-legged man to be mocked while in public!”

  “Richard!” Abigail said. “No one will mock you.”

  “Your wife is correct,” Doctor Harding said. “It is a recognized support for those who need it.”

  “Yes, the elderly and the infirmed.” Did they not see he was neither? He looked at the end of the bed, at the lump where he should have felt his toes, and glared. No, he was far worse.

  “And those who are unable to walk,” the doctor added calmly. “You can push yourself by moving the wheels, or if you prefer, someone can push you from behind using these handles.”

  “Just until you are able to walk again,” Abigail added, her voice cheerful, much to Richard’s ire.

  The doctor went to speak, but Richard spoke first. “Tell her the truth, Doctor. The chances of me walking again are slim, are they not?”

  The doctor paused and then sighed. “I’m afraid so, Your Grace. There is always hope…”

  “Enough,” Richard said as he held up a hand. “I grow weary of this conversation. When may I return home to Stockbridge?”

  “Your leg must remain bound for at least several more weeks,” the doctor replied. “Mrs. Donovan will continue to do her daily check-ins, though I do not recommend traveling far so soon.”

  “There is no need to worry,” Richard replied. “I have a cottage not far from here. Someone will need to go ready it if I am to use that,” he pointed to the wheelchair as if it was an offense to his senses, “properly.”

  “You are welcome to remain here if you’d like,” Doctor Harding said, “until the cottage is ready. I’m sure your wife can see to all that.”

  “Of course,” Abigail replied.

  “Good,” the doctor said, standing. “Now, I have several patients on whom I must call, but you are welcome to take all the time you need. This spare room rarely sees many guests, so there is no need to rush.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Richard said.

  “Not at all. I will return tonight.” And with that, he was gone.

  Richard looked up at Abigail. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had not slept for some time. “You need rest,” he said.

  She walked over to the side of the bed as she had done over the past few days. They had exchanged few words, but now he wanted her near him.

  “I will rest later,” she replied. “I did not know you had a residence here.”

  “My father bought it many years ago,” he said, the memories returning. “It is a cottage with no servants, just a small house that faces the ocean. It was to be my gift to you.”

  “I am so sorry,” she said, but when she went to reach for his hand, he pulled it back. “Will you forgive me?”

  He snorted. “For what? For this?” He pointed to the legs he assumed were beneath the covers only because the blankets were raised
.

  “I did not mean to hurt you.”

  “And yet you did.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I do not fault you, for you spoke what was on your heart.” His head began to ache, and he rubbed his eyes. “I do not wish to speak of it ever again.”

  “But I think…”

  His anger flared. “Enough!” he shouted. Abigail winced, but he could not stop the onslaught of words that followed. “You will not be forced to hold me or love me, for I have no control over what your heart feels. However, you will listen to what I ask of you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “I do.” The words came out as a whisper.

  “Good. We will leave tonight under the cloak of darkness.” He glanced toward the door. “Patrick,” he shouted toward the sitting room, “come here, boy.”

  Hurried footsteps greeted his ear as the boy came in and stood beside Abigail. “Yes, Mister?”

  “Along the main road heading east a mile out, the road splits. Do you know of where I speak?”

  The boy nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Follow the road to the right until you come upon a cottage with three trees out front.”

  Patrick tilted his head as if in thought and then smiled. “I know what house you mean!” he said. “I know right how to get there.”

  “Very good. You will lead Abigail to the house and help prepare it for our arrival. I trust you can guide her there?”

  “Yes, Mister Richard, I won’t fail ya.”

  Richard turned to Abigail. “You will inform Charles, my driver, of our plans. Collect our things from the hotel and then purchase supplies for the duration of our time there.”

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Maybe forever,” Richard grumbled. “Do not let the driver or anyone else know of my condition. Tonight, Patrick will push me to the cottage.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if…”

  Richard glared at her and she cut off her words.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “We will return soon.” She placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and Richard closed his eyes.

  Soon, he heard the front door close. All he needed was help getting to the house. Once he was situated, he would send them both on their way. What right did he have to harness two others for the result of his foolishness? If this wheelchair was meant to help him get around as the doctor said, then he could do what needed to be done on his own. And without the pity of others.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The cottage was larger than Abigail had expected with four bedrooms, a library, and a small office. Most families would have lived in luxury in such a place, for she knew of families who worked for her father with homes a quarter the size of this one, and they felt themselves lucky to have separate sleeping areas for themselves and their children, typically the youngsters sharing one room between them. Abigail would not argue wording with Richard, however, nor anything else, for that matter.

  His words earlier had pained her, and she knew that she must never argue with him again. She had brought the man enough pain to last him a lifetime, and it would if he never gained his ability to walk as the doctor suspected. ‘Only time will tell,’ the man had told her before leaving the house earlier, and she had been riddled with guilt even more so after.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Patrick came into the sitting room, three logs in his arms. “I thought we might want to get warm,” he said as he placed the logs in a box beside the fireplace. When he stood, he beamed with pride as he glanced over the room. “This is a really nice place Mister Richard has here.”

  Abigail could not agree with him more. Although the furniture was covered with drop cloths, there was not a speck of dust in the place. “He must have someone come in to clean,” she murmured as she pulled a cloth off a couch with red flower print and no dust lifted into the air. Even the kitchen was sparkling clean, as if it had been cleaned time and time again without any use in between.

  “Well, at least we have little to do to get the house ready,” she said, trying to sound heartened. Yet, as she looked around the room, she realized there was much to do. “Here, help me move this chair,” she told the boy, who was by her side immediately. Together they moved the furniture to be certain there was enough room for the wheelchair to move through the room. She then set up in the office one of the beds she had Patrick help her bring from upstairs, pushing the desk into the library. Richard would not be able to traverse the stairs.

  After some time, she looked at the room and smiled. “There, what do you think?”

  Patrick stood beside her, hands on his hips as he assessed the new room. “It’s ready,” he said. They had hung two paintings of wildlife on two of the walls, and the large windows looked outside to the back of the house.

  “It’s so close you can almost touch the water,” Patrick said as he stared out the window.

  Abigail walked up beside him. The boy was right; a short path led to a private beach, and for a moment, she stood and watched the waves crest and fall until they rolled onto the sand and then back out to the sea once again. When she closed her eyes, she could hear the crashing of the waves; the sound was extremely relaxing.

  “Miss Abigail?” Patrick asked, his voice filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

  She smiled and opened her eyes. “Yes, I am fine.”

  “Will I be able to help you still?” he asked. He appeared earnest in his question. “I mean, do I have to go back to the stables tonight?”

  She brushed back his hair. “No, you can stay here for now. I will need your help, as will Richard, that is His Grace.”

  Patrick smiled and put his cap on his head. “I’ve never met a duke before,” he said. “That means you’re a duchess, right?”

  Abigail laughed. “Yes, that is true. It is my title.”

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t call you Miss Abigail anymore. Should I call you Duchess? Or Duchess Abigail?”

  Abigail felt her spirits lift at the boy’s words. “Well, the typical address for a duchess is ‘Your Grace’, but that seems a bit stuffy for me. You may continue to call me Miss Abigail if you would like. Would you prefer to do so?”

  “Yes, I’d prefer it,” he replied in that matter-of-fact manner he seemed to enjoy using. “What about the Duke? Do I call him ‘Mister’?”

  “Again, the typical address would be ‘Your Grace’, but I am certain he will not mind if you address him as Sir. Now come. We had better leave now.” She took hold of his hand, and the two left through the front door. Once outside, she stopped and breathed in the fresh air, and was amused when Patrick did the same.

  When they reached the road, she stopped once again and turned to look at the house. The three large trees stood at attention in the front garden, the one nearest the house with wide branches that provided a large patch of shade. However, it was not the trees that caught her attention, nor the shade they provided. On either side of the house she could see the expanse of lulling water sparkling in the sunlight. If that was not a sign of good things to come, nothing was!

  Smiling, they began the short walk back to the house of Doctor Harding.

  “Miss Abigail,” Patrick said, “I have a question.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Does your animals have titles, too?”

  Abigail laughed. “No, only the Duke and I have titles,” she replied. “Why? Do you think they should?”

  He considered this for a moment and then said, “I don’t know. I’d like a title, though, one day, something people will know me by.”

  When they reached the fork in the road, Abigail stopped and turned toward the boy. “Only the Queen may provide a boy with a title,” she explained, “Do you know the Queen perchance?”

  He shook his head sadly and kicked at a rock in the dirt. “No. I’ve never even seen the Queen before.”

  “Well, perhaps a duchess can take care of such a task since the Queen is not here to do so.” She tapped her lips with a finger for a moment. “Yes, I believe
I can place a title on you here and now.”

  “Oh, thank you!” he said, his hands clasped together at his chest.

  “Your official title is ‘Patrick the Brave’,” she stated in a regal tone. Then she glanced around and leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. “However, you cannot let people know, for they may become jealous of you and demand that they, too, should receive a title. Can you imagine? Everyone with a title? That would make it less wonderful, wouldn’t you say?”

  Patrick nodded emphatically. “I won’t tell a single soul!” he said in a loud whisper.

  “Good. Now, come, Patrick the Brave, we must hurry. The hour grows late, and the Duke awaits us.”

  ***

  Abigail rolled the wheelchair to the side of the bed. Richard had set to grumbling since she and Patrick had returned from readying the cottage, but she could only catch a few words. None of them were complimentary.

  “I can do this on my own!” he shouted, as well as a few choice words that made her blush, when Abigail moved to take his arm. Poor Patrick plastered himself against the wall, his eyes wide at the language Richard spouted.

  “Allow me to give you some sort of aid,” she said. “At least for this first time. I fear your leg will be hurt again.”

  He let out a bitter laugh. “I would not feel it if it did become worse.” Then just under his breath, Abigail heard, “As if it could become worse.”

  Sweat poured from his forehead as he used his arms to hoist his upper body, but he dropped back onto the bed in a huff. Then he moved one hand to the arm on the far side of the wheelchair. Abigail rushed to hold the chair to keep it from pitching over as he lowered his weight, while at the same time he caught his hand on the closer arm of the chair.