Chapter Seventeen
“Where is she?” Drake asked the maid who had been helping Mrs. Bean take care of him for the past several days.
“Who, my lord?” The girl propped the window open wider, scooted a wooden rack over in front of it, then draped clean bandages across it to dry in the breezy sunshine.
“Lady Felicity.” Drake tried not to snap at the servant, but the chit knew very well whom he meant.
“The duke’s sister. I have not seen her for days.
Has she gone?” Gads alive, he hoped not.
Not when he had finally decided to follow her around on his knees until she forgave him.
They could not end this way. He needed to prove to her that he could do so much better.
When the maid didn’t answer, he thumped the bed, flinching as the searing pain shot through his shoulder, reminding him he shouldn’t do that. “You know bloody well who I mean. Where is she?”
“Mrs. Bean should be the one to tell you, my lord.” The girl curtsied and hurried from the room.
“Damn and blast.” Drake gritted his teeth and floundered to shove himself higher in the bed. He was sick of being flat on his back and weak as a kitten. He went still and held his breath as the door creaked open again, but it turned out to be the insufferable Mr. Warner.
“And how are we feeling today, my lord?” the surgeon asked in a tone that clearly stated he couldn’t possibly care less about Drake’s well-being.
“I am shedding this bed.” Breaking out in a cold sweat, Drake forced himself to an upright position, then swung his legs over the side.
“Take care now, my lord.” Warner rushed forward and caught him just as he lost his balance and veered to one side. “Do you care so little for my handiwork? I removed your stitches only yesterday. If you fall, you will split the wound open wide all over again.”
“Leave me, quack.” Drake swallowed hard. Bile burned the back of his throat, churning his innards with a queasiness that would not bode well if it didn’t settle soon. “I must rise. Strengthen myself. I have to return to Broadmere Hall.”
“Why?” Warner didn’t release him. Instead, the man had the gall to hold him there as he teetered unsteadily on the side of the bed. “If you wish to speak with His Grace, I can send a maid for him.”
“Not that you have any right to ask, but I do not wish to speak with His Grace. I demand to see his sister, Lady Felicity.”
“Demand?” Warner laughed. “I admire your spirit, my lord. A man in your condition issuing demands.”
“Is she still here, damn you?”
“She is. In the kitchen, I believe. Showing our cook one of her recipes.” Warner chuckled again. “Mrs. Warner cannot seem to get enough of her chocolate biscuits.”
“I have not seen her in over two days.” Drake didn’t care that he sounded like a spoiled child. He wanted to see Felicity. “It is imperative that I see her.”
Warner narrowed his eyes and grunted, an annoying habit Drake had noticed before.
“You are weak, my lord, and cannot expect to roam the inn in search of her. If you would be so kind as to lie back down, I will speak with His Grace and inquire as to whether his sister might be fetched.” After a curt shake of his head, he added, “I make no promises. One can predict nothing when it comes to women.”
Not about to admit defeat so easily, Drake pointed at a small writing desk in the corner. “Help me sit upright long enough in this infernal bed to write to her. I beg you.”
The surgeon scowled at him. “I do not recommend that just yet, my lord. You must be stronger first.”
“I will never get any stronger if I do not push myself. Are you going to help me or not?”
Warner’s usual scowl deepened. “Fine, my lord. Hold fast and let me know if you need the chamber pot.”
Drake very nearly did cast up his accounts as the man helped him position himself back against the headboard with the support of multiple pillows.
As the surgeon fetched quill, ink, and paper, he closed his eyes and sucked in deep breaths to regain control of the pain before his vision darkened any more with the threat of unconsciousness.
The cool rim of a cup was pressed against his mouth.
“Small sips, my lord,” Mr. Warner ordered him, “and continue breathing deeply while I fetch the items you require.”
“Thank you,” Drake whispered. He would do this task. It could very well be his last chance to convince Felicity to bless him with her presence. Blinking away the sweat running into his eyes, he sipped the water as instructed and also noted the surgeon had placed a basin within reach.
“My wife insisted we put my old lap desk in this particular room.” Mr. Warner set it across Drake’s legs. “The woman amazes me at times.”
“I appreciate her foresight.” Drake concentrated on what he wished to write to the woman who held his fate in her hands. “This will not take long. I have repeated these words over and over in my mind several times.”
This was his last chance. He dare not waste it.
*
The young woman cleared her throat with a loud harrumph and curtsied. “My lady?”
Kneading the dough as if it had wronged her, Felicity hadn’t noticed the maid Chance had hired to help Mrs. Bean with Drake’s care.
On that, Felicity had remained steadfast. She had agreed to stay at the inn, but she would not be spending every waking moment at Drake’s bedside. Her heart simply could not bear it.
Without taking her focus from the soon-to-be bread, she worked the dough harder. “Yes?”
“For you, my lady. From his lordship.” The girl held out a folded bit of paper.
Felicity eyed it as if it were a viper. “From Lord Wakefield?”
The maid nodded. “He asked that I put it in your hands rather than leave it in your room.”
“Did he now?” Felicity wiped her hands on her apron, then took it from the girl while trying to keep from shaking. “Thank you.”
The maid curtsied again, then hurried away, leaving Felicity alone beside the kitchen worktable.
It took her a moment to realize she was the only one in the kitchen. “I sense a conspiracy,” she told the bread dough as she unfolded the letter. “He must indeed be doing better.” But it wasn’t a letter. It was a poem from her eloquent, yet lying, earl.
A Gentleman’s Plea by One Most Contrite
O fairest lady, whose tender glance once shed
A radiance brighter than heaven’s own spread—
If, by my folly, chill silence and pride,
I dimmed the star that once in thy heart did bide,
Then here I kneel, with humble breath implore,
That your mercy lift me from death’s dark shore.
No honor mine, who shattered thy trust;
My pride lies broken, naught but dust.
I let my tongue be bridled by fear,
When truth, not silence, thou didst deserve to hear.
Yet know, sweet love, my heart was ever true,
Thou art its liberty, its joy, its view.
Recall, my dearest, our walks ’neath lilac skies,
Thy laughter like larks when the dawn did rise.
Oh, let not shadows steal that tender bloom,
Restore me, I pray, from this self-fashioned doom.
Forgiveness! I beg thee but one word,
That hope may breathe again where despair has stirred.
Let mercy’s grace thy wounded heart employ,
And I shall prove my love with steadfast joy.
For what is life, if not to love thee still?
And what am I, if not absolved by thy will?
Speak, beloved, and grant me but this grace—
To live redeemed within thy fond embrace.
“Bah! Most contrite, indeed.” But his words touched her more than they should, making tears escape before she could stop them.
Do not be such a fool. She squinted her eyes tightly shut and swiped the tears away.
Whatever should she do? This poem captured her soul even more fiercely than his ode to her coddled eggs.
Fierce like a lioness. Not cowardly like a mouse. She clutched the poem to her heart, wanting to be courageous but not wanting to be a fool.
In their letters, her sisters had stressed that Drake’s lies of omission were out of fear that he might lose her and not merely because of her dowry, which he had denounced, and remained firm on that count.
The gossip about his proposing to other women had proven to be just that—gossip.
He couldn’t very well control what others said about him.
And as each of her siblings had so boldly pointed out, if he had not dived in front of her, the bullet he had taken would have hit her.
She stared down at the poem, knowing she would cherish it forever. “Drat it all, I do love him. What the devil is wrong with me?”
Tapping the page with her thumb, she made up her mind. She rushed from the kitchen, calling out to the scullery maid peeping at her from the pantry. “Please finish the bread. I have a letter to write.”
*
Still sitting upright in bed with the lap desk beside him, Drake kept his focus locked on a crack in the wall across the room.
Had Felicity read his plea, or had she tossed it into the nearest fire?
“Let her read it,” he whispered to any benevolent entities who might be passing through. “Let the words of my heart touch hers.”
A tapping on the door interrupted him. It couldn’t be Mrs. Bean or Edmund. Neither of them ever knocked. “Come in.”
A different maid from the one who had carried off his original message entered. Gaze lowered, she paused just inside the door and curtsied. “A letter from Lady Felicity, my lord.”
Both eager and yet dreading to read the missive’s contents, Drake motioned the girl forward. “Thank you.”
She hurried to place it in his hand, dropped a quick curtsy, then scurried back out again as if he were the devil incarnate.
After a hard swallow, he broke the seal and slowly unfolded it, fully expecting three simple words: I reject you. When the page revealed more than that, his heart pounded as he devoured every word.
The Lady’s Reply by One Not Easily Moved, Yet Not Unmoved
Thou speakest now of love and rueful pain,
Of pride laid low and words thou wouldst reclaim.
Yet though thy voice with trembling sorrow pleads,
The hurt thou gave my heart yet softly bleeds.