CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Three days passed, and Graham found himself drifting through the house, aimless and untethered.
He barely slept, choosing to stay at Amelia’s bedside and only dozing when his body physically could not keep him awake any longer, and when he was ushered out for assessment of her injuries or a changing of her dressings.
Graham would dab perspiration from his wife’s forehead, and he would hold her hand. He would speak to her, everything he had never said to her when he should have. He read to her, poetry, plays, philosophical debates where he might imagine her answers and theories.
In her chamber now, the curtains were drawn, casting the room in a heavy gloom so he had long lost track of when night or day had come and gone. He could not even tell by the candles, for maids kept changing them too quickly for him to see a wick stub.
Amelia’s long brown hair was splayed around her head, arranged on her pillow, as though she merely slept; not as though she had come so close to leaving him altogether.
Purple circles had made a home beneath her closed eyes—eyes that Graham had dreamt haphazardly of.
Eyes that had opened a thousand times in his prayers and thoughts but never in reality.
On her left temple, a bruise and healing gash was visible, and he had thumbed over both of them while she had slept, as if his touch alone might heal her completely. His back ached. How long ago had he been ushered for Amelia’s splint to be changed?
The door creaked open, and despite his stiff joints, he was on his feet in an instant to greet Mr. Thornton.
“You are keeping vigil, I see,” the doctor murmured, nodding. “Many dukes I work with simply wave me in to attend their wives. It is nice to see.”
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “I require an update.” His voice was rough with a lack of sleep and high frustration. He swayed tiredly on his feet and grabbed for the chair’s back to steady himself.
“Your Grace, you must rest.”
“I must know my wife’s condition,” he growled.
Mr. Thornton grimaced before nodding. “Her Grace’s condition is improving, and her body is taking well to the tinctures and medical treatment. Her arm is not showing signs of infection, and the splint is securing the break very well. However, she will need a great deal of rest to fully recover.”
As the doctor ran through all of the things that was still left to heal—her ribs were still bruised, and her body had rejected one of the herbs that could help her pain management—Graham’s hand clenched and unclenched at his side. His emotions warred. How could she be so well if she was not awake?
With Amelia being in the carriage alone, and not woken up yet, nobody knew how her carriage had overturned.
The coachman had been injured to the head and unable to remember properly.
During the haze of being awake, Graham had turned over the carriage accident.
In all his years he had not known anything to be wrong with the carriage they had taken that night.
It had withstood snow—why had it suddenly failed on a wet road?
He had been angry, blaming the coachman for driving recklessly, but Felicity had quickly reminded him that the coachman had been the same for many years.
“That is all my reports for now,” Mr. Thornton said. “Should you need anything else, Your Grace, do not hesitate to send someone for me. I will be here at a moment’s notice.” He paused. “Your wife will be well, Your Grace. She will come around; it will take time but you shall have her back.”
“Thank you.” It was a reluctant gratitude, but he was grateful for the honest assurance. He nodded as the doctor took his leave. He sank back into the chair, clasping Amelia’s hand, but no sooner did he do that, a knock on the door sounded.
“Leave us,” he snarled, not bothering to look over his shoulder. Felicity or Daphne would walk right in, so he knew it was someone he did not wish to see.
“I have brought flowers for our fallen duchess.” Owen’s voice had Graham tensing. “And I also wish for a private word with you regarding some news.”
Graham and Owen had barely spoken since the tense lecture he had delivered to Graham the night of the musicale evening. Wordlessly, Graham nodded, and although he was loathe to leave his wife, he stood up and went into the hallway, gesturing for Owen to follow him into his chamber.
It wasn’t where he would usually conduct meetings but it was the furthest he dared go from Amelia.
“You look as though you have not slept in days,” Owen murmured.
“I have not,” Graham sighed, rubbing his dry, gritty eyes. “I cannot sleep when my wife is… when she was—” He cut himself off, not daring to speak of those first hours when there had been too much blood, and too much paleness in her face, and Graham had feared of truly losing her.
“She cannot open her eyes to a husband who is not even awake enough to support—”
“Spare me your lectures,” Graham snapped. “What is your news?”
Owen looked upwards witheringly but how could he expect Graham’s patience to be at its best in a moment like this?
“A witness has come forward regarding the night of the accident,” he told Graham, his voice grave. “He was a street urchin trying to sell an evening paper, and he saw a man tampering with your carriage moments before Her Grace would have gotten into it.”
Graham’s stomach dropped. “It was deliberate?”
Owen’s expression was pinched when he nodded. “There is more. The lad reported the description.” He paused long enough that Graham wished to grab and shake him. “It matches that of your cousin, Lord Percival.”
Graham’s heart stopped. “What?”
“Percival tampered with the carriage, Graham.”
Everything narrowed down into rage. It built, slowly at first, like he could feel it, and he thought it would only come out in a snapping, angry shout.
But his whole body tensed, and then Graham’s fist slammed into the wall next to him.
Pain lanced through his knuckles, shooting right up his arm, but he did not care, for the pain was a welcome distraction to the maelstrom of fury.
Owen’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, steadying and grounding.
“You must tread with caution—”
“Damn caution,” Graham snarled. “I shall wring him—”
“Graham.” Owen’s voice snapped, raising louder than Graham had ever heard.
“We need stronger, harder evidence. You might be a duke but he has won over the ton with his charm and presence. We cannot simply accuse him on the witness statement of a paper boy. For every witness we might find, Percival will likely charm five to give an alibi.”
After a moment of trying to rein his anger in, Graham nodded, not trusting himself to curse terribly.
His own cousin. The betrayal coursed through him as he shoved off the wall, pacing into the hallway, needing more ground to cover.
His muscles were tight, and exhaustion weighed heavily in his stomach, but he turned that night over.
Percival had apologized for his outburst, knowing full well what he had planned—or perhaps, at that point already done—to do.
“I do not know how I can remain calm when he is the reason my wife is lying in bed in her condition, why she almost—” he cut himself off, not able to say the word. He turned sharply on his heel, pacing, muttering to himself.
The only thing that stopped him was a soft, weak voice coming from Amelia’s chambers.
Graham halted, and he did not even check to see if he had fabricated his wife’s voice out of desperation—he ran for her bedside, dropping to his knees when he saw her eyes opened.
“Heavens,” he cried out. “Oh, Heavens, Amelia, you are awake.”
He clasped her free hand in his, bringing it to his lips. Those hazel-green eyes blinked at him, confused and wide. He laughed tiredly, weeping. “The only time I leave your bedside and it is the moment you wake up. You remain contrary.”
“What… what has happened?” she asked, trying to smile at his comment but not understanding the humor.
“I shall tell you,” he promised. “But is there anything at all you remember?”
Amelia’s eyes were wide as she shook her head. “Not yet.”
Graham, with his mouth still brushing her hand, began to tell her.
“I… after you left the musicale evening, I should have followed you, stopped the carriage, done everything to keep you at my side.” Amelia’s face flickered, her brows pulling together, and he wondered if she thought of their last argument, wondering why he suddenly spoke so openly.
“Instead, I went back inside, thinking to give you space, and I stewed in my shame and anger. It could not have even been an hour later when a messenger boy ran in and told us there had been an accident.”
Graham swallowed, his mind flashing through images of the splintered carriage.
“It was… it was terrible, Amelia. I ran through the streets, and all I could do was hope and pray that it was not as bad as I feared. And then I got to the wreckage of the carriage. There you were, buried beneath the chunks of wood, a hand out, as if you waited to be pulled out. Three days have passed since then.”
“I,” she began, frowning. “I recall the carriage veering. The coachman kept shouting, over and over, and we tumbled. I remember blinding pain, a crashing sound, and then everything went dark. I did not know whether it was blood, tears, or rain that had dripped down my face as I lay there, hoping I would not… well, hoping to be rescued.”
He met her gaze, hoping his was as open as he felt.
“Amelia, when I saw that carriage, when I saw the blood on you, when I pulled away piece after piece of the carriage, and ran through those streets, fearing the worst, I could only think that I should have never let you walk away, that I could not bear to lose you. You have been right in everything you have declared. I have kept you at arms’ length, fearing of hurting you, all the while forcing ignorance that doing that was hurting you most. I thought that saving you from ruin was enough, that you would not want any part of me after that, that you wished for a courtship.
That you wished to be wooed by a proper suitor, and I believed I had deprived you of that. ”
He reached out with his other hand to carefully brush her face with the pad of his thumb.
“I know now. Love has grown within me, and although Heavens knows I have my terrible moods, and my past that I cannot always speak of, I wish to let you in. For that might be difficult but the risk of losing you in any way is far, far worse. I wish to change. I wish to be a good husband, an honourable one. I wish to make my family happy rather than tread carefully with me, and I wish to be the duke that you deserve at your side.”
Tears blinked in his wife’s eyes. He fell silent, breathless, as he waited for her to push him away, for her to say that he had not been fair, and to tell him, rightfully so, that he did not deserve her forgiveness.
And then she reached out, her free hand slipping from his to cup his face.
“You were never cursed, Graham, and I have felt honoured by you since the moment we collided in that ballroom. You think that you hurt those you love but you do not control what happens to them. The world is the tragedy, their own choices are tragedies, not you. You are not the harbinger you think you are.”
He opened his mouth to protest but she pressed a finger to his lips, smiling weakly.
“I have seen you laugh with Daphne and pretend that you do not find her funny.
I have seen you embrace your mother when she has felt sad, and I have seen you laugh with Lord Owen, and honour your aunt.
I have seen you think of me, and be courteous with my family.
You have so much good in you that you cannot see it, for you are too busy looking over your shoulder at your ghosts.
They will not go away but they cannot take your attention forever.
Not when what is in front of you is so full of goodness that you deserve to feel.
You feel guilty for what happened regarding the duel but you have a family who never once believed you capable of what any gossip column said.
“For a while, I did misunderstand you, I admit, but since then, in the spaces of those misunderstandings, I have grown to love you. It is as the winter snow melts, replaced by the warmth of spring. It is a change you hope for, that you wait to see, and suddenly, it happens without you quite noticing until one day, it has already happened.” Amelia smiled wider.
“You are terribly broody, and your moods are indeed as foul as I have told you, but you are my foul, brooding duke. You are not cursed, and if you have a beast inside you then so be it. As long as that beast can have ease knowing it is loved as well as the man alongside it.”
“Heavens, Amelia,” Graham murmured, moving to gather her as best as he could in his arms. The rest of the world fell away; he did not even know if Owen had left, or if the rest of his family had heard him speak.
He did not care for a moment. All that mattered was the gentle maneuvering of his wife into his arms, and the press of his kiss on her forehead, slowly moving down the bridge of her nose, to press to her lips.
He let the kiss linger, his eyes closing, as he spoke everything else through that very touch.
Amelia kissed him back, pressing to him, holding his face as best as she could.
And Graham… he had never known how true acceptance and love felt but he found them in that kiss.
Their mouths moved gently, carefully, as if they might already know the shape of one another.
His fingers brushed the side of her face, mindful of her bruises, as he finally knew what it was like to kiss his wife.