Chapter 2
“Mr. Oxlade!” Thalia shouted, her lungs sucking in a sharp breath as her eyes snapped open.
She expected to find the upside-down familiarity of the carriage around her, and her body to be crumpled against the side of it.
So, it was somewhat jarring to find an unfamiliar canopy above her, a soft pillow beneath her head, a softer mattress cradling her faintly bruised body, her hands gripping fresh white bedlinens.
The startling sound of a door opening prompted her to lift her head, eyes wide as an unfamiliar older woman hurried in.
“Your Grace?” she said, a hand clasped to her bosom. “She’s awake! Fetch hot water, cloths, tea, nourishment, medicine!”
Thalia blinked, wondering who on earth this woman was talking about. As far as she was aware, she was alone in this strange bedchamber; there was no duchess here.
I was on my way to visit with the Duke of Holdridge. Perhaps, this woman is shouting for his… mother?
Maybe, Mr. Oxlade had managed to get her to safety after the carriage was upended. Maybe, those riders had not been troublesome at all but had been racing to warn the driver of the dangers ahead. Maybe, those riders had helped Thalia to the nearest manor, or even to the Holdridge residence.
Just then, a veritable sea of maids poured into the room, carrying everything that the older woman had requested: a basin of steaming water, a pile of cloths, a tray of tea and rather delicious-looking cakes, a little basket filled with a multitude of small bottles and vials, alongside cut-up pieces of fruit, a box of sweetmeats, a fine housecoat and slippers that definitely did not belong to Thalia, and some books.
“Oh, she is awake!” one of them cheered.
“Thank goodness!” a few chorused back.
The older woman approached, keeping the tide of young maids back. “How are you feeling, Your Grace? You gave us all quite the fright.”
“I… fear there has been some misunderstanding,” Thalia managed to croak, as she pushed herself up onto her elbows.
The older woman, a head maid or housekeeper or lady’s maid of some kind, immediately jumped in to help lift Thalia into a sitting position. She grabbed cushions and pillows and stuffed them behind Thalia’s back, propping her up.
“There, is that better?” the older woman asked.
Thalia swallowed to wet her arid throat. “No… no, I do not think it is. I am… very uncomfortable with all of this.”
“Well, naturally,” the other woman replied with a fond smile. “You took a terrible tumble down the stairs, Your Grace, so you’ve a few scrapes and bruises. I doubt anyone would be comfortable after a fall like that. Come, let me change that dressing on your head.”
Thalia recoiled, her hands shooting up in a gesture of defense. “What is going on here? I did not fall down any stairs. I was in the carriage, and—”
A man marched into the bedchamber with no concern for her privacy whatsoever.
So tall he had had to stoop beneath the lintel, he proceeded into the room in a state of shocking undress, wearing nothing but trousers and a shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms, while his open collar showed a triangle of sun-browned skin.
Broad-shouldered and broad-chested, he cut an imposing figure as he came to a standstill and ran a hand through wavy dark hair.
With a shriek of outrage, Thalia grasped the edge of the coverlets and pulled them up to middle of her neck, her eyes bulging at this latest indignity.
“What is the meaning of this?” she rasped.
The older woman, who had retreated from Thalia’s bedside, bowed her head to the man and murmured, “She just woke up, Your Grace. It’s to be expected that she needs a moment for the rest of her to wake up.”
Your Grace? So, that was the reason he was comfortable appearing before such company in so few clothes: he was the duke of this household. However, it did not explain why the older maid had been calling her ‘Your Grace.’ Clearly, there had been a miscommunication somewhere.
“Yes, I imagine so,” the man replied to the older woman, though he still had not acknowledged Thalia’s question.
Instead, his blue eyes, the color of a sapphire gown that Thalia’s mother favored, glanced back toward the door as another figure blustered in, fastening the cord of a housecoat. The first familiar face she had seen since she had woken up.
“Apologies, apologies. I should not have imbibed so much last night; I was slow to rise at the summons,” the newly arrived figure blurted out, skidding to a halt.
The duke cast a disapproving eye across the older man.
“Father?” Thalia blinked rapidly to be certain she was not seeing things. “What is going on?”
Gibbs smiled awkwardly. “You have been unconscious for almost four days, daughter.”
Her mind flitted back to the conversation that had sent her out in that carriage in the first place, as her bewildered gaze darted from her father to the handsome duke and back again.
Her brain jolted a second time, slotting pieces together. Four days? If that is true, then…
“You cannot be serious, Father!” she gasped, her heart thundering in her chest, while her head began to throb as if someone had hammered a nail directly into her skull.
“I have just been in a terrible accident, you cruel beast! I am not going to marry the Duke right at this moment! What, would you carry me to the church and make me stand there, bruised and dazed as I am, when I have just narrowly avoided death? Did you bring me here unconscious so I would have no choice? Indeed, I am surprised you did not just have the ceremony while I was out cold!”
A murmur of confusion rippled around the maids, while Thalia’s father and the handsome stranger exchanged an equally bemused look, although the duke’s had a darker edge of displeasure to it.
“Father, this is too much, even for you,” she added, though it was the other man who held her attention.
He was looking at her intently, his brow creased as if he had discovered something unpleasant. Indeed, his entire expression bothered her, feeling as if she were being assessed or judged in some capacity, like an insect under a magnifying glass.
The fact that he was extraordinarily attractive, with a strong jaw that had not yet received a morning shave, sculpted cheekbones, and a perfectly sloping nose did not do anything but unnerve her further.
She did not trust handsome men; she had learned that lesson, if nothing else, during her first Season.
The most handsome men in society were the most arrogant, the most mocking, and the most unpleasant beneath the beautiful surface.
“I will summon the physician again,” he said, stepping closer to the end of her bed. “You do not look too well at all, and I do not like the way that bruising is coming down to your temple.”
Still holding the coverlets up to her neck, Thalia frowned back at the man. “I am perfectly fine, aside from the fact that my father is trying to get me to marry when I am clearly in no fit state.”
She knew she was contradicting herself, but it was difficult to form clear thoughts with a figurative spike digging into her skull.
“What I mean is,” she tried again, “how would you know if I am unwell or not? You do not know me, and I do not know you. I assure you I am far tougher than I might appear. Once this headache fades, I shall be quite well enough to leave here, wherever here is, and return home.”
The man squinted as if he, too, were suffering a sudden headache, but before he could utter another word, Thalia’s father cut in.
“Thalia, this is your husband,” he said in a tight voice; the kind he reserved for when someone had embarrassed him in public. “Of course he knows you.”
Thalia scoffed. “He is not my husband. He is the man you want me to marry, and I shall not do it when I have just suffered through such an awful experience. You shall have to wait until my brain does not feel as if it has a band of drummers inside it.”
“Thalia, he is your husband,” her father replied, more insistently. “If this is some tasteless jest, it is not in the least bit amusing.”
A prickle akin to fear began to creep down the back of Thalia’s neck, her gaze skimming across the entire bedchamber, focusing on every individual in turn.
Their continued confusion was not a performance; they were genuinely bewildered by what she was saying, and that older woman had called her ‘Your Grace.’
But how could it be that Thalia was married without remembering it? Had her father put her through the ceremony unconscious?
“When did we marry?” she asked tremulously, her heart lodged in her throat, her head pounding violently.
The duke did not speak, those blue eyes staring at her intensely, tinged with that same squint of displeasure that unnerved her.
Instead, her father answered in an irritated mutter, “You know very well when you were married.”
“Humor me,” she insisted, surprised she even had the ability to speak if this was not a dream or a joke or a peculiarly cruel game.
Expelling a great sigh, her father shrugged. “Four years ago. You were married four years ago.”
A small squeak escaped Thalia’s throat as she met the duke’s unyielding gaze. That is absurd. That is impossible. That is…
It took every shred of willpower she possessed not to collapse into unconsciousness all over again. Indeed, she yearned to pass out, for perhaps, when she woke a second time, she would be back inside the upturned carriage, and everything would make perfect sense once more.
No one could just lose four years of their life, could they?