Chapter 23 #2
Dominic swallowed hard, aware of June listening intently. "My heart seems to... forget its rhythm. It races, then pauses, then races again. Sometimes I feel a pressure in my chest, as if someone were squeezing it from within."
"And do these episodes coincide with physical exertion? Emotional distress?"
"Sometimes," Dominic said. "Not always."
The physician nodded, reaching into his bag again to extract a small vial. He uncorked it and held it under Dominic's nose. "Breathe this, Your Grace."
The sharp scent of mint and something more astringent filled Dominic's nostrils, momentarily clearing his congestion. Dr. Forrest observed the effect, then repacked the vial.
"Open your mouth, please," he instructed, peering down Dominic's throat with the aid of a small hand mirror and a candle June held for him. "Hmm. As I suspected."
He straightened up, replacing his instruments in his bag with methodical precision. June stepped forward, unable to contain herself any longer.
"Well?" she demanded. "What is wrong with my husband?"
Dr. Forrest adjusted his spectacles. "It appears to be nothing more than a common cold, Your Grace," he pronounced. "The throat is inflamed, the chest congested. A few days of rest should see His Grace much improved."
Dominic stared at the physician in disbelief. A cold? Impossible. Not with the weight crushing his chest, the fever burning through his veins, the certain knowledge that his time was running short. "Are you certain it is only a cold?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Quite certain," Dr. Forrest replied, snapping his bag closed. "The symptoms are unmistakable. The congestion in your lungs, the inflammation of the throat, the fever—classic signs of a winter chill. Not uncommon as autumn gives way to colder weather."
"But the palpitations," Dominic pressed. "The pressure in my chest."
The physician considered him thoughtfully. "Those could be caused by any number of things, Your Grace. Anxiety. Too much rich food or strong drink. Insufficient rest." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "I understand your family has a history of heart ailments?"
Dominic nodded stiffly. "My father died of it. His father before him."
"Then it's natural you would be concerned," Dr. Forrest acknowledged. "But I find no indication of serious heart trouble at present. Your pulse is somewhat elevated, but that's to be expected with fever. The sounds in your chest are those of congestion, not of a failing heart."
Relief should have flooded through Dominic at these words. Instead, he felt oddly disappointed—as if having prepared himself for the worst, this reprieve was almost an anticlimax. Or perhaps it was simply that he didn't believe it.
"What do you recommend?" June asked, her voice steadier than it had been all night.
"Rest," the physician said firmly, packing away the last of his instruments.
"Warm broths, honey and lemon for the throat, mint oil rubbed on the chest to ease breathing.
Avoid exertion until the cough has resolved completely.
" He extracted a small paper packet from his bag.
"This powder, mixed with hot water, will help reduce the fever. "
"Thank you, doctor," June said, accepting the packet. "Your prompt attention is most appreciated."
After the physician had departed, June sat on the edge of the bed and took Dominic's hand in hers. Her fingers were cool against his heated skin, and he found himself clinging to that contact like a drowning man to a lifeline.
"You heard him," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Nothing more than a cold."
"So it seems," Dominic replied, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice.
"You don't believe it?" June's amber eyes searched his face.
Dominic attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "I'm simply not accustomed to good news regarding my health. The Blake men aren't known for their longevity."
"Perhaps you'll be the exception," she suggested, squeezing his hand. "In any case, we will not continue our journey until you are better." Her tone brooked no argument. "Besides, the weather is turning cold with autumn giving way to winter. The roads will only grow worse."
Dominic nodded, forcing a more convincing smile this time. "You're right, of course. A few days of rest will do me good."
June's expression brightened, relief washing over her features like sunlight breaking through clouds. She rose, moving to the window to push aside the heavy curtains. "Look, the day is breaking. Shall I ring for some broth for you?"
"In a while, perhaps," Dominic said, watching as she arranged the curtains to let in the weak morning light.
Her movements were graceful, assured—so different from the panicked bride of hours earlier.
Already she was adapting, assuming her role as duchess with natural authority.
Pride swelled in his chest, momentarily eclipsing his darker thoughts.
But as June busied herself straightening the room, Dominic's mind raced with worries he couldn't voice.
The physician's diagnosis felt too simple, too convenient.
A cold didn't explain the months of warning signs, the increasing frequency of episodes, the knowledge that ran bone-deep—the certainty that the Blake curse was circling ever closer.
He turned his gaze to the window, where gray clouds hung low in the morning sky. Outside, the world was draped in autumn's melancholy—trees shedding their leaves, birds winging south, the earth preparing for winter's cold embrace. A fitting backdrop for his thoughts.
June's face reflected visible relief as she moved about the room, humming softly to herself.
But Dominic's private dread remained, silent and heavy as the clouds beyond the glass.
The cold would pass, but what then? How much time remained before the next episode? Before the one that would prove fatal?
He stared at the gray skies, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Let June have her relief, her hope. He would carry the dread alone, for as long as he could.