Chapter 4 Jahleel Charles, Duke of Torrance—The Sickbed
JAHLEEL CHARLES, DUKE OF TORRANCE—THE SICKBED
Anya House
London, England
There are noises all around, but nothing’s distinct. My robe feels sticky, sweaty, but I keep trudging forward. I near the steps, the grand staircase of Anya House. If I go down these treads in my own power, everything will be good.
The twenty-two steps have become a thousand. Too steep. I clutch the missing rail. Can’t go down. I back away.
The world seems too hot, very bothersome. “A bath, Mr. Steele …”
I blink. A lone figure stands near a window. She’s draped in gray with ash-colored ribbons.
No strangers are allowed up here. I settle down and try to breathe. A new wave of pain pushes against my ribs like a spear. To calm, I again focus on the woman at the window.
Scarlett? Is that my friend? No, Scarlett Wilcox Carew would never wear this color, nor the long train that floats to the floor. The stranger’s quite regal. Silent and regal. A tune plays. Is that the noble “God Save the King”?
“Anya? Is it you, my sister? I’ve missed you.”
But she died of this sickness, years ago. She died before I battled and won my father’s title. She suffered before I had the money and access to London’s best physicians and scientists. “Anya, am I lost, too?”
No one answers.
A shiver cuts through me. The woman in my bedchamber is not my sister.
“Show yourself. I command it.” Hopefully, this ghost doesn’t know that a duke lacks the power of a tzar in London. Must find a way to change this.
The proud stubborn posture, the curve of her hips gives the woman away. “Katherine. Tell me. Why haunt me?”
She turns and walks me back to my bed. Her footfalls are almost silent.
Her black eyes with specks of gold draw close. Her hand sweeps my countenance, closing my eyes like a good dead soul.
“Say something. Lie and tell me how sorrowful you are, Lady Hampton. You’re only sorry I discovered the truth!”
No response.
But there’s a smile on her lips, lips that fall upon mine. Soft and tentative at first, the kiss becomes demanding.
I taste her—bitter and sweet—and she sucks all the air from my lungs. This is a rusalka, the mermaid-like creature that’s come to steal my soul.
It’s appropriate for Death to appear as Katherine. She’s the original thief of the life I should’ve had.
Yet I yield and wrap my arms around temptation. If I die to her, it will be memorable. So I gamble for her passion, for every last breath.
Our kisses pass away. She slips from me. “Fight. Fight to live for something that’s not me.”
“Da. I have something. My daughter. She needs me.”
The rusalka sings more of her song. It’s seductive. My soul shivers. My skin sweats.
“Live and not die. Know you were never loved. Katherine’s too proud, too prejudiced by lies. Surrender.”
The rusalka, the Katia ghost, wraps her arms about me and strangles me.
Whatever great sin caused Katherine to loath me, I must know. “Send me the answer.”
A wet towel slaps my hot forehead. “Your Grace? It’s Scarlett. Mr. Carew is here and your daughter. Your mother, too. Keep fighting.”
My daughter. My Lidochka. I will fight for her, for my daughter’s love. This bed can’t become my deathbed.