Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aurelia woke with an aching head and a dry throat.
Her entire body felt as though she had been through a mangle, and when she opened her eyes, she did so with a groan.
The world came into focus slowly, and she blinked a few times, waiting for the lines to settle.
As they did, she became aware of a sound beside her.
Breathing. Heavy breathing—the kind that came from a man rather than a woman. The deep rise and fall of a large chest.
Frowning, she twisted her head to find Sebastian seated on the wooden chair by her bedside. His head had fallen forward, and she expected he would get a crick in his neck if he were not careful. The heavy breathing was coming from him.
Asleep, beside her bed.
Memories came to her in drips and drabs. So much of it she had thought she’d dreamed, but perhaps it had been the truth. Or some of it, at least. Because in all her dreams, hot and restless, there had been Sebastian.
Sebastian, with patient eyes. With gentle hands and soft words.
A different man from the one she had come to know.
She shivered, though for once, not from the feeling of cold.
If anything, she was too hot in the stifling room.
There were beads of sweat on Sebastian’s brow, and he had tugged his cravat free.
In fact, now she looked, she saw he wore only a shirt, open slightly at the collar to reveal a tantalizing triangle of pale skin.
She closed her eyes tightly, squeezing them shut.
There was a reason—distant now, partially lost behind the confusion and pain of the past few hours—that she was angry at him.
Furious, even. Her last solid memory—the last certainty she had—was that she was going to dinner to give him a piece of her mind.
I’m having dinner here with you instead.
Had he truly interrupted his own dinner so he might come here and eat with her?
Before she could wonder any more, Sebastian stirred, as though awoken by her attention on him, and his gaze snapped to her. Upon seeing her awake, his eyes immediately widened, and he rested his palm against her forehead. The movement seemed so practiced; he had to have done it before now.
“Your fever has broken,” he said, his voice thick with fatigue. And yes, there, underneath it all, relief. “Finally, your fever has broken…”
“How long?” she croaked.
“Two days. The physician came by yesterday again and said you were through the worst of it, but I confess, I thought you would never be free of it.” He stretched, and she noted once again that he had been on a chair by her bed.
He had been resting beside her bed.
For two days?
“Don’t frown,” he told her, and she realized some of her thoughts must be showing on her face. “And don’t fret. I have something for you.” He held out a large, rounded orange, which she stared at, uncomprehendingly. “If I cut this into segments, will you eat it?”
An orange? She knew they were not so rare in London now—the Duchess of Fenwick even had a pineapple adorning her dining table for a few weeks before she had deigned to eat it. And she often ate bananas. Yet still, Aurelia couldn’t help staring at the orange in wonder.
“For me?” she croaked.
“I wouldn’t have sent for it merely for me.
” He took a paring knife from the side and deftly cut it into quarters.
Then, glancing at her, he cut each quarter in half.
When finally satisfied, he handed her a piece, placing it directly into her mouth.
His fingers brushed her lips, and she held back another shiver.
It was as though she had stepped into another world—one where she had married a man who cared for her, who knew how to be gentle and kind and considerate.
Her experience with the duke thus far had been far from that.
Yet as the tart, sweet flavor of the orange exploded on her tongue, she felt heady.
Sebastian rose and rang the bellpull. “Now that you’re awake, you ought to eat,” he said to her.
“I don’t understand,” she breathed around the peel against her teeth. “Why are you being so… nice to me?”
“Aurelia.” His tone went grave, and so did his eyes—great pools of somber dark. “Why do you suppose that I would fail to care for my wife? I was the one to bring you here, and you fell ill in my house.”
“But—” If the rumors were true about his first wife, then why would he go out of his way to stop it happening again?
Unless, of course, the rumors were not true. But he had made it so clear that he cared nothing for her. She was here as a breeding mare.
Well, she supposed one could not be a breeding mare if one was ill. And it would doubtless be difficult for him to find another wife after he had gone through all the trouble of locating her.
She closed her eyes, a trifle pained.
Sebastian strode to her side. “You think I am too proud to do the work myself? Is that it?” He sat on the mattress this time, his weight on the covers pressing her legs more firmly to the bed. “Or do you not think yourself worthy of my attention?”
Finally, she removed the orange skin from her mouth, having taken all the sweetness from its juice. “I thought you too dismissive of me and my role in this house to offer it to me,” she mumbled. “That has nothing to do with my perception of my worth.”
An expression crossed his face—if she hadn’t known better, she might have felt it was pain.
“It is true I have not been the best of husbands to you thus far. There is no happiness that might be found with me. But that doesn’t mean I care nothing for your well-being.” He possessed himself of her hand, and she had memories of this, too. Why had his touch been so gentle?
Everything felt so very confusing.
“I’m sorry for the things I said to you the last time we spoke,” he managed. “They were said in anger and not indicative of my true feelings.”
Well, what was she to say to that? She had wanted to set him down a peg or two, but instead, in the two days she’d been asleep, he had tumbled down himself; humbled and even apologized. Leaving her nothing to do now but accept it with as much grace as she could.
He had, after all, nursed her back to health.
“You were cruel,” she whispered pointedly. “And I disliked it.”
“As well you might.”
“But… I do appreciate your apology. And I appreciate you staying here with me.” Her gaze flitted back to the chair, which must have been exceedingly uncomfortable. There had been no need for him to remain with her, especially when she had maids and others who would have taken his place—but he had.
Truth be told, she didn’t know how to feel about that.
And so, she brushed her feelings aside and concentrated on the immediate future. “So… what now?”
“Now you eat, and you rest.” He surveyed her for a long moment. “And when you are sufficiently recovered, we may discuss the redecorating of the drawing room.”
Sebastian hadn’t meant to make that concession. Her illness changed nothing about his plans and intentions. But the look of gratification that passed across her face made it, oddly, worth it.
He didn’t examine his feelings about that too closely.
The main thing was she was saved.
He supervised her having her broth, hovering over her as she insisted on eating it herself. Then, when she was tired once again and slept, he finally allowed her maid to sit with her while he took himself off to bed.
There, lying and staring at the ceiling, he wondered what on earth he was to do with a wife who would make changes to the house, and for whom he would sit for hours beside, waiting for her to waken from her fever.
In the moment, he had told himself that he only felt this way because of Kate. He had lost one wife—he would not lose another.
But now, reflecting on it, that wasn’t the full truth.
Yes, losing Kate had devastated him beyond reason; that fact was unavoidable.
But the prospect of losing Aurelia had threatened to devastate him for very similar reasons.
The force of his affection for her was nowhere near as strong, but there was attraction, and hell take it, there was something there.
A reason why he feared losing her—not just because it pressed on the wound Kate had left behind, but because he would grieve Aurelia too.
When had this happened? What had she done to get so under his skin?
And more importantly, did he want to prevent it?