Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Help! Help!”
The stillness of the house was shattered at two in the morning by a scream from the nursery, followed by jagged gasping. Imogen, who had been drifting in and out of sleep, was in the nursery before she was even fully awake, a robe hastily tied around her nightgown.
It was Philip. He was thrashing beneath his quilts, his face slick with sweat, his azure eyes wide but unseeing as he battled a nightmare that had spiraled into a feverish panic.
“Philip, darling, it’s me. You’re safe,” Imogen whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling him into her arms.
The poor child’s skin was burning.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Ambrose stood there, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair disheveled.
“I came to see you, Miss Lewis,” he rasped his eyes hungry and searching, for what she could not imagine, until they landed on the boy. “Is something the matter?”
“All was well, Your Grace… until I heard a scream, and the boy is burning up… I do not know what happened, but he has caught a sudden fever…”
“I will fetch cool water,” Ambrose said, kneeling on the other side of the small bed for a moment to look at him closer, before taking off in a rush.
“Shall we ring for Mrs. Higgins?” Imogen asked.
“I will see to this,” he growled. “I will alert the staff later. We must act now!”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied.
“It will be all right, nephew,” he said to him, planting his palm on his head. “Good heavens. He’s got a fever.”
Ambrose took off in a hurry and returned with supplies, then carried a sleeping Arthur to one of the guest rooms. They made quick work of tending the child.
The silence of the nursery was broken only by the ragged, wet sound of Philip’s breathing.
The gold light of the candle flickered against the walls, casting their shadows in giant, distorted shapes.
“Steady, Philip. Just a little more,” Imogen whispered, her voice strained but soft as she pulled the small boy against her chest to keep him upright. “Breathe with me, darling. In and out,” she repeated as she dabbed his brow with a cold compress.
Ambrose sat on the edge of the mattress, his waistcoat now discarded on the floor, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He dipped a fresh cloth into the basin of cool water and reached out.
As he pressed it to Philip’s burning brow, his knuckles grazed Imogen’s collarbone.
She noticed how he didn’t pull away, at least not immediately.
“His skin is still like a bloody furnace,” Ambrose muttered, his voice thick. “Should we fetch a physician now? I could wake Jennings… I know fevers come on the young, but…”
“No, Your Grace,” Imogen said, shifting Philip slightly.
Her shoulder pressed firmly against Ambrose’s chest. “We are doing all that we can, and we will have a doctor check in first thing this morning. We must simply keep him cool and keep him from feeling alone. Look at his eyes, Ambrose. He’s looking for you. ”
Ambrose, she repeated to herself, tasting the syllables of his name on her tongue.
He leaned in, his face inches from Imogen’s as he hovered over the bed. “Philip?”
A groan came from the boy’s lips.
“Uncle is here. I’m right here, lad. I will not leave you…”
The boy let out a pathetic, whimpering moan once more, then reached out a weak hand to him. Ambrose caught it in his own, his large, calloused palm swallowing the child’s small fingers. Imogen watched the movement, her breath catching at the tenderness.
“You have a very gentle touch for a Duke,” she said finally, her eyes lifting from the boy to meet his.
“I am a man of many hidden things, Imogen,” he replied, his gaze intense and unwavering as he used her first name in the privacy of the room.
“I am beginning to see that…”
“And what do you think?
“It is… impressive.”
“Impressive?”
“Yes.”
“You… you are impressive. The way you are caring so well for this boy, as if you were a nurse.”
“While I may not always show it well, I care about Philip very much. He means the world to me, as his father did.
“The cloth is warm,” she said softly, glancing at a nearby clock to see it was around three in the morning now.
She reached for the basin at the bedside table at the same time he did. Their hands submerged together in the chilled water, fingers tangling beneath the surface.
Neither moved away, savoring the heat of their contact despite the cold.
“Please. Allow me,” he whispered, his thumb trailing over the back of her hand before he withdrew to wring out the cloth. “You’ve been holding him for some time now. Your back must be aching at this point. It is my turn.”
“Perhaps, but it is a good ache,” she replied, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I would hold him until the sun died if it meant he’d breathe easier.”
“Imogen,” Ambrose paused, the damp cloth hovering. “You care for them. Truly. Don’t you?”
“How could I not? They are the brightest things in this house, in my life really.” She looked at him pointedly. “Perhaps the only people in this house that don’t care about titles or decorum.”
Ambrose let out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh if he were not so clearly exhausted. “A subtle jab, Miss Lewis?”
“I am never subtle, Your Grace. I thought you had realized that by now.”
He moved closer, easing Philip back onto the pillows as the boy’s coughing finally subsided.
They adjusted the lighter quilts around his chin, and in doing so, their heads brushed together in an awkward, accidental collision.
A faint smile tugged at Imogen’s lips, and Ambrose’s eyes softened at the moment’s clumsiness.
Time seemed to freeze. Ambrose didn’t pull back. For that, Imogen could have gotten on her knees and thanked the Lord. He stayed there, frozen in time, his forehead touching hers.
“Thank you,” he breathed as he finally pulled back, which she followed. They looked at each other from opposite sides of the bed.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
“There is no place I would rather be. I enjoy my position in this household, in sickness and in health.”
“Most governesses would have left such grunt work to the household servants to handle; it is beyond schooling and basic care.”
“I am not most governesses, nor am I most people.”
“I am painfully aware of that,” he said as he ran his hand along his bearded jaw, looking at her with a hunger she could not name.
“Painfully?”
“Oh, most certainly,” he said as he raised an eyebrow. “Well, what now?”
“We wait.”
And so, they both sat at opposite ends of the room in cushioned chairs, watching carefully as Philip slept.