The Heir and the Spare (31 page)

Phillip backed away from her. Devon ignored him and fell to his knees beside Emilia.

“Wake up, darling, wake up,” he said. He gently lifted her head and felt a nasty bump at the back of her skull. “Emilia,” he said sternly, “open your eyes.”

And then, thank God, she did.

“That’s what you said the first time we met,” she mumbled.

“Wake up. Keep your eyes open. I’m taking you home.”

“It was an accident,” Phillip said. His voice rose as he kept talking. “I didn’t mean to! It was an accident.”

“Shut up,” Devon thundered. “If you have an ounce of decency in you, go get a damned doctor.” Phillip turned and ran.

Devon pulled Emilia into his arms. “Keep talking to me,” he said as her legs buckled beneath her. He had to get her out of this cold wind and rain.

“I hurt my ankle,” she said. “Again.” She sighed.

“Did he—” Devon growled.

“No. I slipped and he and I fought. I couldn’t let him . . .”

“Em, I am so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He looked into her eyes, dark blue, and striking among the gray and the green of their surroundings. He wasn’t sure if it was rain or tears that glistened in her eyes.

Devon carried her back to the house. “You deserve better than me,” he said grimly. Yes, he had come to her rescue just in time, but he had also vowed to protect her and to keep her out of situations that required saving. And he had failed. He would spend the rest of his life making it up to her. He looked down at her face, her blue eyes oddly calm and half closed. The scrapes on her cheeks hurt him more to look at than if he had received them himself. He had to admit what he had known all along: he was in love with her. Nothing else mattered but that she was safe, and that she knew that he loved her.

“Please don’t leave me,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Em, don’t fall asleep, darling,” he urged, quickening his pace.

They returned to the house through the library; Devon had wanted to avoid it, but it was the closest entrance, and he could not keep her out in the rain any longer. She shivered in his arms, so he held on to her tighter.

The damned solicitor and Marksmith were there, immersed in a conversation that ceased upon their entrance.

“What on earth—”

“A hot bath. Quickly.”

“Sir, I beg you to reconsider. If I could just have a moment of your time . . .”

Devon kept walking, kept holding a shivering Emilia in his arms.

“So cold.” She sighed. He consoled himself that at least she was still somewhat conscious.

Preparations for a bath were already under way by the time Devon arrived in the room. Meg took one look at her mistress and sent one of the other maids to fetch tea, blankets, and another log for the fire.

Once alone, Devon ripped Emilia’s silk dress open, lacking the time and patience to undo the buttons. He’d buy her dozens more dresses. She hung limply in his arms, like a rag doll. Her carried her to the bath and placed her gently in the steaming water.

Her blues opened and peered at his face. “Oh, Em,” he murmured. Perhaps sensing she was safe, and warm at last, she shut her eyes once more. Devon’s hands moved over her body, hoping to warm every inch. He washed her legs that had tangled with his. He kissed the scar on her knee. He smoothed hot water over her arms that had held him and her slender hands that had caressed him. As his own hands moved over her stomach, he paused, wondering if there was more than one life in jeopardy. He rinsed her hair free of the bits of twigs and grass that had gotten caught there and winced as he felt the bump on her head. He found a brush and pulled it through her long hair. He traced his fingers over her scratched cheeks and the curve of her upper lip.

“Emilia, I’m sorry I failed you. But I need you, all right? I need you to be well.”

“So tired . . .” was all she said.

He gently lifted her from the water and dried her skin. He couldn’t find one of her nightgowns, just one of his shirts, which he somehow managed to put on her. It fell to her knees and the sleeves covered her hands. He set her on the bed and covered her in blankets.

Meg returned with tea and more blankets. She took a moment to tend to the fire before leaving silently. It was only then that Devon stripped off his own soaked clothes and replaced them with his robe. He paced around the room, never once taking his eyes off his beautiful wife.

Why had he run outside like a damn fool? He should have known she would follow. Why had he even been so selfish as to bring her there in the first place? Even Lady Palmerston had not managed to be this negligent.

The doctor arrived, looked Emilia over, and declared she had a sprained ankle and was likely just suffering from exhaustion. They were to watch in case fever set in, but above all else, she was to rest.

When the doctor left, Devon climbed in bed beside her. Even though she was asleep and couldn’t hear him, he whispered, “I love you,” over and over, hoping it was not too late.

Her shallow but steady breath was the only response.

Devon
awoke in the middle of the night, his eyes opening sleepily. It was a moment before he adjusted to his surroundings—the low fire in the grate, the rain at the windowpanes. Emilia was talking in her sleep.

“No, no,” she murmured. “Devon where are you?”

“I’m right here, Em, right next to you,” he said, though he knew she was only dreaming.

“I knew you would come, but . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off, her eyes remaining closed.

Over and over he murmured, “I love you.”

Emilia slept late the next day. When she opened her eyes, Devon was there. She said she didn’t feel well and went back to sleep. He placed his hand on her forehead and it was burning up. He rang for a servant to go fetch the doctor.

Marksmith entered with a tray of food, for both Devon and Emilia. She wouldn’t stay awake long enough to eat more than a few sips of broth.

“Do try to eat some yourself,” Marksmith said to Devon. “You will need your strength. And I am sorry I was not able to bring this, ahem, situation to light sooner.”

“I know you tried,” Devon said, his voice flat, his gaze still upon his wife.

The doctor arrived next, and said it was a mild fever and to just give it time.

Devon remained by her side, soothing her brow with a cool cloth at times, simply holding her hand at others. Her skin was pale, ashen. And it hurt how much he longed for her blush. He tried to speak to her, but found himself at a loss for words. Thinking she might like to be read to, he rang for a servant. Within a moment, there was a knock at the door. Devon bid them to enter.

He looked up, only to find Phillip standing sheepishly in the doorway.

“Get out,” he growled.

“You just said to enter,” he protested.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Devon said wearily.

“You look terrible,” Phillip said, eyeing Devon’s bruises, partially obscured by stubble. But there was also a look of weariness and near defeat that he had never seen on his brother’s face before, no matter how many times he had tried to bring it out in him.

“So do you,” Devon replied. Phillip’s face was a mass of greenish and purple bruises, and there was a cut by his eye. It was also clear that Phillip’s noble nose had been broken and would forever rest at a rakish angle on his face. At the very least, they were no longer identical.

“So she is sick?”

“Yes, please leave.”

“Is it my fault?” Phillip asked, mildly shocked by the genuine fear that it was his fault. Was that shame he felt? Guilt? He had wanted to hurt his twin, but not her, and not like this.

“It’s my fault. Phillip, just go away,” Devon said, as an older brother would say to a pesky younger sibling. Which, oddly enough, was true. Phillip didn’t quite leave.

“The funeral is on Saturday,” Phillip said. And answering Devon’s question before he could ask—they were twins, after all—he added, “Today is Wednesday.” And then he was gone.

A few moments after that interruption, Marksmith entered, and Devon asked for a brandy and a book. Once he had the requested items, he took a sip of his drink and turned to the first page of the book,
Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
He hoped she wouldn’t think it was silly, or if she did, that she would wake up and inform him of the fact. He began to read. He read until his voice was hoarse and the sun had set.

By the next day, she had been asleep for twenty-four hours straight, and Devon was a mess. The doctor and the servants assured him it was nothing more than a slight fever, and that all she needed was time and rest, but he was not consoled.

He kissed her hot cheeks and her parched lips. He told her that he loved her, in a voice hoarse from hours of reading, which he dared to admit he did in part to calm his own nerves. Sometimes he paced around the room.

He drank tea to soothe his throat. It helped slightly. He drank brandy to ease his guilt and regret. It did not help at all and he gave it up.

Her fever broke, and he almost wept with relief. But still, she slept.

Devon opened the window slightly, remembering her instructions that he do so in the duke’s room. He opened the curtains, thinking sunlight might wake her up. Nothing he did had any effect; nothing helped her. It was maddening, and it was humbling.

It was just that he loved her and hadn’t told her—at least not when she could hear. He needed her to know. He needed to hear her say the same.

He looked over at her, with the setting sun seeping through the windows, making her hair glow like fire and almost disguising her ashen complexion. Her eyes were still closed. Her lips parted slightly. His sleeping beauty.

Feeling like an utter fool, knowing what he was about to do, he walked across the room toward her. He leaned over her, desperate yet hopeful. “Wake up, wife,” he murmured before pressing his lips to hers.

Emilia was returning to her senses. She had been endlessly reliving that dreadful moment when she was struggling with Phillip. She was hot with fury, cold with fear, and then there was the rain soaking her. And in her nightmare, Devon would come to her rescue, towering above her. But he would just stand there, making her feel smaller and colder when she needed him to hold her.

But this time, he kissed her. It felt so real, with his breath and soft lips that pleaded for a response and promised he would stay and take her someplace warm. She kissed him back.

And then he stopped! For Lord’s sake, after all they had been through, starting and stopping and starting over. She opened her eyes, and saw him gazing down at her with the saddest eyes.

“Really, Devon. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s poor form to start a task and leave it unfinished?”

He threw back his head and laughed. At first he had been sitting on the bed next to her, but soon he let his large frame fall back and shake the mattress with his laughter.

“I really don’t see what is so funny about that,” she said, trying to cross her arms over her chest, but finding them tangled in the blankets. That only set him off more.

“Stop it! You’re shaking the bed.” She scowled at him while he laughed until tears came to his eyes and he had to pause to take a deep breath.

“Kissing you, darling, is never a task,” he said with a grin and laughter still in his eyes. “But how are you feeling? Would you like water? Or tea? Something to eat? And are you warm enough?”

“Goodness, I must have been quite sick.”

“They said it was just a mild fever. But you slept so much and . . . Oh, God, Emilia. I’m so glad you’re back.”

“You look terrible. Were you ill as well?”

“I love you, Emilia, and I hadn’t told you before, and then I was terrified that I might lose you. And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. He brushed his hand across her cheek. The scratches had faded significantly and most likely wouldn’t scar. Her skin was no longer scorching to the touch. “And I’m starving,” she said.

Devon rang for a servant and returned to her side. When Marksmith entered the room, his constantly stony features broke into an expression of joy and relief upon seeing her well again.

That night, Emilia was finally warm and content as she snuggled deeper into her husband’s hold on her. When she woke in the morning, they were still wrapped in an embrace. They took breakfast at the table by the window.

“How are you?” she asked, discarding three of the four blankets he had insisted on wrapping her in.

“Perfectly fine, now that you have recovered.”

“No, I mean about your father. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s odd. I think it’s not so hard because of that letter. And then with you falling ill . . . I just want to be with you, and nothing else is as important.”

She smiled sweetly at him, taking a sip of tea. “We will be happy together,” she said. And after a moment, “Oh, what happened with the title and all that?”

Devon shrugged. “I don’t know. I was too occupied with something else to deal with it. I’m sorry I rejected it without consulting you first. I’m sorry I even brought you here. I’m quite a horrible husband so far,” he mumbled.

“Even if you were, you’re still my horrible husband. But you’re not. And I don’t give a damn about the title. And I’m glad I am here with you, otherwise I would be a horrible wife.”

“You’re not a horrible wife at all. Come here.”

She crawled into his lap. Devon knew there was nothing more perfect than this: a wife he loved curled up in his arms. As saddened as he was by the loss of his father, they had been practically strangers. But he was in love, and she loved him back, and that just seemed to matter more.

This
particular chamber at Whites was dark and smoky. The hour was late, the brandy flowed steadily, and money changed hands with every round the gentlemen played. Phillip leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table and cards in his hands. He tried to maintain a cool expression, but damn if that pile of blunt on the table didn’t make his eyes shine.