The Duke of Ice

by Burke, Darcy

  Last night, they’d celebrated Gunpowder Treason Day with an excess of bonfire and illumination, as well as a fireworks display over Sydney Gardens. The Queen had been thoroughly delighted.

  They’d also visited Bailbrook House, where war widows and children learned to knit and sew buttons. Violet had watched Nick through the entire visit to see how it affected him. He’d been stoic and aloof. The Duke of Ice had returned.

  Except at night.

  At night, he came to her house, where they reveled in each other’s touch. However, they didn’t talk, not about anything substantive, and Violet wondered if there was any hope for them in the long term. She hoped so. She wanted there to be. But Nick had to find a way to let go of the past. He said he didn’t want to focus on it. What he didn’t realize was that it consumed him.

  She stood near the windows in the Pump Room, watching Nick as he spoke with another gentleman. A hush started at the other end of the room, and Violet saw people bending their heads toward each other.

  Strolling forward, she went to a table where two of her acquaintances were seated. Someone from the next table leaned over and said, “Princess Charlotte has died.”

  Violet immediately thought of the Queen, with whom she’d spent so much time in recent days, and her heart twisted. She turned and went to Nick as a member of the Queen’s entourage joined him.

  “The princess delivered a stillborn son and died shortly afterward,” the gentleman said quietly, his features creased with distress.

  Violet couldn’t help but touch Nick’s arm, knowing this had to affect him. He didn’t say anything, but some of the color left his face.

  “How tragic,” Violet murmured.

  “The Queen will be leaving posthaste to return to Windsor for the funeral.” He looked at Nick. “You must go.”

  Nick didn’t return the man’s stare but nodded slowly.

  The gentleman moved away to continue sharing the information.

  “Nick, are you all right?” Violet kept her voice low but wasn’t able to disguise the urgent concern she felt for him.

  He looked at her, but she had the sense he wasn’t seeing her. “I’ll see you later.”

  She stood, feeling helpless as she watched him stalk from the room. Later… Presumably, he’d come to see her tonight. She would hold him and hopefully break down some of the barriers he’d erected around his heart. If she didn’t, she wasn’t sure where they could go.

  She still loved him, and in the time they’d spent together, she’d fallen in love with him all over again. No, he wasn’t the same man she’d met, but neither was she the same woman. He was a man touched by tragedy who’d inherited a role he’d never expected and, from what she could discern, had done so masterfully. He deserved happiness—far more than anyone she’d ever known—and she wanted to be the one to share it with him. But she’d begun to think that might not be possible.

  And her heart threatened to break all over again.

  * * *

  “Much better, Your Grace.” Rand surveyed his handiwork as Nick wiped his hand over his mouth and felt the smooth skin of his face for the first time in two days. He hadn’t left his house—hell, he’d scarcely left his chamber. He’d been too wrapped in grief.

  The death of Princess Charlotte and her son had brought back every emotion he’d worked so hard to bury. It was as if Jacinda and Elias had died all over again.

  So Nick had crawled into bed and hidden from the world, just as he’d done after they’d died. He wished he could say he felt better after succumbing to his emotions, but he didn’t. Instead, he felt drained and a bit…empty.

  “It’s good to see you up and about,” Rand said, cleaning up his shaving implements. “Shall we finish your toilet?”

  Nick grunted in response and allowed his valet to finish dressing him. Once he was finished, Nick thanked Rand and departed his chamber.

  As soon as he reached the hall downstairs, the butler approached him. “You’ve received another missive, Your Grace.”

  It was likely from Violet. She’d sent two notes already, asking after him and, to her credit, filling the page with mindless chatter that took his mind off his sadness, at least for a little while.

  He took the letter from the butler and frowned at the unfamiliar handwriting. Opening it, he saw that it was a short missive, and judging from the writing and careless ink splatters, hastily drafted. Quickly scanning it, his heart fell into his feet.

  While it wasn’t from Violet, it was about her. She’d been in an accident.

  Nick dashed from the house without a word to the butler. He tore down the street, uncaring what people thought. He was never more glad that he’d leased a house so close to hers.

  Her butler admitted him immediately. “Your Grace, the physician is with her upstairs. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the sitting room?”

  No, he didn’t want to wait anywhere except at her bedside. He started toward the stairs, but stopped with his hand on the newel post. “What happened?” The note hadn’t said.

  “Lady Pendleton went for a walk—I believe to the Royal Crescent.” To see him, Nick thought. “There was some sort of commotion involving a runaway coach. She fell and struck her head. She has not regained consciousness, I’m afraid.” The butler’s tight, dark tone said more than his words ever could.

  Panic rose in Nick’s throat along with bile. One would think he would be numb to loss—he should be. He wanted to be. The alternative was excruciating. He didn’t know if he could go through it again.

  He slowly ascended the staircase as apprehension rioted through him. He felt cold and shaky, as if he had a fever.

  When he reached her room, he saw that the door was half-open. He heard voices from within but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Fear rooted him to the carpet.

  The door opened farther and her maid, Chalke, filled the gap. The woman’s round face was pale, her eyes red as if she’d been crying. Nick thought he might be sick.

  “Oh, Your Grace,” she said. “Come in, come in.” She stepped inward and gestured for him to follow her into Violet’s room.

  He was terrified of what he’d see and learn. It took him a moment, but he went inside. His gaze immediately fell on Violet lying in her bed—the bed in which they’d brought each other so much joy. She was so pale that she was actually a bit gray. A deathly pallor, someone would say. Icy sweat broke out along Nick’s neck, and his palms grew clammy.

  “Dr. Paulson, this is His Grace, the Duke of Kilve. He’s, ah, a friend of Lady Pendleton.”

  The physician was perhaps a few years older than Nick, with a sharp blue gaze and long face. He looked well equipped to deliver bad news. He bowed toward Nick. “Your Grace. Lady Pendleton has suffered a severe injury. There’s quite a knot on her skull, and she has yet to wake. There is, unfortunately, nothing I can do at present. We must pray that she regains consciousness soon.”

  Pray? That was what the physician had advised him to do when Elias had failed to take enough nourishment to grow bigger. He’d been small and frail at birth and had only diminished over the weeks of his life. Nick had long since given up on prayer.

  “There must be something you can do to help her.” It wasn’t a question. Nick wanted to grab the man by his lapel and shake him until he made her well again. But it wouldn’t help. This was Nick’s curse.

  “I’ve instructed Mrs. Chalke to brew some herbs and let them steep beside the bed here.”

  “Mrs. Spindle is working on that now,” the maid said earnestly.

  “The aroma may help rouse Lady Pendleton. Beyond that, we’ll need to wait and see what happens. Mrs. Chalke will send for me as soon as she wakes.”

  “You’re leaving?” Nick glared at the man.

  The physician startled, his frame jerking. “For now. But I’ll return the moment you have need of me.”

  Nick turned toward the bed, dismissing the man before he did something he would regret.

  Chalke saw the physician out b
ut returned a moment later, joining Nick beside the bed. “She looks so peaceful, doesn’t she?”

  Her features were in a state of repose, her lashes dark against the paleness of her cheeks. Her hair was loose, the golden curls splayed across the pillow. The top of her night rail was just visible above the bedclothes.

  “You changed her clothing.” He didn’t say what he was thinking—how long did you wait to send word to me? It didn’t matter. He was just glad they had sent word. But then everyone in the household was aware of their affair. Was anyone else? “I’m glad you sent for me. However, it’s best if we don’t make our…relationship known. For propriety’s sake.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  To preserve her reputation, he ought to leave. And yet he couldn’t. Not while she lay there unmoving.

  Oh God. What if she never woke? The tremors that had shook his frame on the way over returned.

  Chalke seemed to notice. “I’ll fetch you some whiskey. Sit with her. It will do her good to know you’re here.”

  He looked sharply at the maid. “You think she knows?”

  The older woman nodded, her lips pressed together. She seemed certain in her conviction. “I do. She cares for you most fiercely, you know.”

  Yes, he knew. And he cared for her. Too damned much.

  After Chalke departed, he pulled a chair from the corner and set it next to the bed. He sank onto the cushion and touched her face. It was smooth and cool. There was a bit of color, but not much. She didn’t look lifeless as Jacinda had.

  Chalke brought him the whiskey and stayed for a bit, chattering about how she’d come to work for Violet when she’d moved to Bath.

  “You weren’t with her when she was married?” he asked, grateful for the diversion of conversation but also curious.

  “No. She had a maid her husband hired and apparently her ladyship didn’t care for her. She moved here to Bath to start fresh—new staff, new everything.”

  He could understand why she’d wanted to do that. She’d endured a marriage she’d never wanted, and she hadn’t even been able to make the best of it.

  “You’ve known her ladyship a long time,” Chalke said softly, her knowing gaze clearly communicating that she was aware of their history.

  He didn’t respond since it wasn’t a question. Instead, he pictured Violet as she’d been then, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed in the midday sun as they strolled through the park. Suddenly, he thought of her parents. “Have you sent a note to her parents?”

  Chalke pursed her lips. “I was waiting to see if she’d wake. She doesn’t like to see them very often. I’ve only met them once.”

  This didn’t surprise him either. But it made him sad. What he wouldn’t give to have his parents alive and well. Still, it wasn’t as if she could control the Caulfields’ behavior. He wondered what they would think of him being here. They’d probably be thrilled. He was, after all, a duke now.

  “You should also send a note to Hannah Linford.” While Violet might not want her parents here, she’d want her closest friend. Simon rose in Nick’s mind. He still hadn’t heard from him, and Nick’s mail had been diverted to the house in the Royal Crescent.

  “Oh yes, I should. I’ll go and do that straightaway. Here, give me that.” She took his empty glass. “Would you prefer to write to Mrs. Linford?”

  He shook his head.

  The maid patted his shoulder, startling him with the physical display. “You’ll keep a good eye on her.”

  Alone with Violet, he watched her sleep. Was she sleeping? Was that what happened when you hurt your head? He leaned over the bed and gingerly felt for the lump she’d sustained. Christ, it was the size of a goose’s egg. Distraught, he sat back in the chair and sat vigil for who knew how long.

  He’d loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat long ago. He considered removing his boots when she twitched.

  Instantly alert, he leapt to the edge of the chair. “Violet?”

  Her eyes fluttered, and her body convulsed. Vomit streamed from her mouth, drenching her front. She gasped, fighting for breath.

  He jumped to his feet and put his hands beneath her back, elevating her. “Chalke! Help me!”

  He continued to shout until the maid and the butler and another member of her staff came running into the chamber.

  “Oh my goodness,” Chalke breathed.

  Violet trembled in his arms, and then another seizure racked her body. More of her stomach contents came pouring forth.

  The butler dashed to the other side of the room and came back with the empty washbasin. He thrust it beneath her mouth as Nick tried to prop her up.

  She sucked in air, her breathing loud and harsh. They all waited, tense, to see if she would be sick again, but after a few minutes, she seemed to be past the crisis. Nevertheless, she continued to shake, and they set to work stripping the bed. The butler removed the soiled bedclothes, leaving the two women to peel away Violet’s night rail.

  All the while, Nick whispered soothing words to Violet and rubbed her back. He didn’t know what else to do. He wished he could say he’d never felt so helpless. But he’d felt this way before. Many times. God, he hated this sensation of being absolutely powerless.

  Someone fetched water, and they moved Violet to the other side of the bed so Chalke could clean her up. Then the maid braided her hair to the side without the lump. Nick swept Violet up so they could completely change the bedclothes, holding her close against his chest while the maids worked quickly and efficiently.

  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?”

  Bloody fucking hell.

  He’d forgotten about going to the princess’s funeral. Could he miss it?

  No. The queen expected his attendance. If Violet were his wife, he could beg off…

  But she wasn’t.

  Wife. He hadn’t dared to think of her in that capacity. And why was that?

  Because of precisely what was happening right now. If he took her as his wife, he’d be open and vulnerable. He couldn’t do it.

  “Your Grace?” Rand looked at him expectantly.

  “Yes, we’ll leave tomorrow.” He had to. One did not refuse the Queen.

  And maybe, if he left Violet, he’d be able to think straight. Because right now, he was tied up in knots, his mind completely twisted with fear and despair. He’d walked that road before, and he knew where it led.