Chapter 3
Three
The duke fell asleep soon after he woke up. The physician assured Isolde that this was normal, claiming that the next twenty-four hours were critical and would determine whether the duke would make a full recovery or take a turn for the worse.
“You must tend to him,” the physician told her as he readied himself to leave. “Keep him cool, for his fever is likely to spike throughout the night.”
“I really wish you would stay,” she urged him as he made for the front door. “The storm…”
Beyond the open front door, the storm blew heavy and angry. It was the middle of the night; the way forward was a gaping pit of darkness that might have appeared empty were it not for the rain that lashed, and the odd flash of lightning that lit the sky. Most would not have dared to brave it…
“The storm is terrible, but I have dealt with worse.” The physician wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and put up a hood to cover his head. “His Grace’s health is in your hands now, Isolde. But from what I have heard, such hands are more than capable.”
He left her after that, wading into the storm as if he and it were one.
And there Isolde stood, the spray of rain dousing her face, the feel of the wind whipping her hair, and a crushing sense of doom settling on her shoulders that told her this storm would grow worse long before it passed.
It is not the storm that worries me…
Her father had long since retired to bed, as had her brother and sister.
This left Isolde alone with the duke, and she wished it were not so.
He slept as soundly and peacefully as a newborn as she inched her way back into her room, but she looked at him as if he were a dragon that might awaken at any moment, erupting with fury and a wrath sure to end her.
Was it any other man… anyone at all… Isolde would have taken to caring for him as if her own life were at stake. She was the type of person who cared for others, taking pride in tending to those who could not look after themselves.
However, as she knew personally, the duke was not like any other man.
She sat down by the head of the bed on a rickety stool. At her feet was a bucket of water, and she gently lifted the rag from his brow, wetted it, and placed it back on his head. He moaned softly, in pain, but he did not wake.
As Isolde sat by the duke’s side, she did her best to remember who this man was and what he had done.
He is an awful man. Cruel. Malevolent. Selfish. Were the roles reversed, I doubt he would lift a finger to help…
Strangely, as Isolde looked upon his sleeping face, she struggled to pair her memories of what had happened with this same man.
That man had worn a wicked smirk, his dark eyes had reflected coldness and detachment, and even from afar, she had felt the strength, the confidence, and the power that had radiated from him.
It had been enough to make her shudder and shake just from being in his presence.
But the duke now… he was just so broken. Frail. There was the sense that a stiff breeze might be the end of him. What was more, as he slept, he wore a soft smile on his lips, one that suggested that his dreams were happy.
Isolde watched him in the darkness, noting the hard lines of his face, the squareness of his jaw, and how clean he was. He was a duke, better than her in every way, yet she could not escape how irrelevant this now seemed.
Without thinking, she reached over and rested a hand on his chest. She felt his steady breathing, the flutter of his heart, and she saw him in a way that she never would have expected. Much like a wounded animal come upon in the wild, he needed help… he deserved to be helped.
How can I hate someone so much, while wanting to save them at the same time?
The duke stirred suddenly, a soft groan escaping his lips.
Isolde started and pulled her hand away. She looked at the doorway as if to flee, as if he might wake and suddenly attack her. But that was foolish, she knew, and as he groaned again, pain heard clearly on his lips, she did as she knew she must. She helped him.
Gently, she peeled back the rag on his head and wet it again. His brow was hot, a fever taking him, and she dabbed at his face and neck and chest before reapplying the rag to his brow.
“Easy now,” she said in a whisper. “You are safe.”
The duke groaned again as he slowly opened his eyes. This time, he did not shut them immediately. He blinked them carefully, adjusting to the darkness of the room, and then he moved them until he found Isolde sitting over him.
She braced herself, as if he might suddenly scowl at her. She searched him for anger or annoyance. She waited… breath held… her heart beating quickly.
“You…” His voice was weak. “I know you…”
“You do,” she agreed with caution.
“From before…” He cleared his throat and winced. “You were there when I woke up… with the physician… You helped me.”
“You remember?” she asked him.
“Barely,” he grimaced. “It is like a dream. What was real, what I imagined…” He exhaled. “But I remember you. Yes…” A smile touched his lips, and again she saw the trust in his eyes. “That was real.”
Isolde stopped breathing. She did not know what to say.
The way the duke looked at her was as if they were old friends, as if of all the people he wanted to wake up to, she was the first. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to be angry with this man, to connect him to that same one whom she had spent years hating for how he treated her and her family.
But he is that man. Just because he does not remember does not change what he did.
“What else do you remember?” she asked in a whisper.
He winced again and went to touch his head.
“Don’t.” Gently, she took his hand and laid it back at his side. Then, when she went to pull her hand away, he held onto it, refusing to let go.
“Sorry,” he said when he realized what he was doing. “I… I don’t understand what is happening. Do you and I… do we know one another?”
“Tell me what you remember, exactly.”
“Nothing,” he said, his brow furrowed tight, a flash of anger behind his eyes which quickly transformed into helplessness. “Waking before… seeing you…” Again, that smile. “And you told me that I was… my name is Duke?”
She laughed at that. “Sorry, I should not…”
“So, that was a dream,” he sighed as if upset.
“No, you are almost correct. Your name is Cassian Valecroft…” It felt strange saying the duke’s name, something that Isolde would never ordinarily do or dream of doing. “Duke is your title.”
“My title? What does that mean?”
She frowned. “You really do not know?”
He looked away, and she knew why without having to ask. Even in the darkness, even as she tried so hard not to pity this man, Isolde could not ignore the embarrassment that moved across his face. Shame too, she guessed, as if this was somehow his fault.
“I am sorry,” she said to him. “I did not mean to… you had an accident. You fell from your horse and hit your head.”
“Ah, so that it is,” he said. “It is good to know then, that the pain in my skull is not normal. And hopefully not permanent.” He chuckled and then winced.
Despite herself, Isolde laughed. “I would think not. The headaches will likely last a little longer, but by tomorrow, I hope, you will be able to walk and move without succumbing to agony.”
“A shame,” he said as he shifted. “This bed is remarkably comfortable.”
Again, Isolde laughed. She almost felt guilty for doing so, as if it was wrong to laugh at a joke made by this man.
She needed to be stronger, more formal, and keep her distance.
His memory would come back soon, and when it did, she doubted that anything said or done at this moment would make a difference to who he truly was.
“You really do not know what it means to be a duke?” she asked.
“Should I?”
“Your memory will return in time,” she said to him. “Although I cannot say when. And when it does, you will understand that duke is a powerful title. These lands… even this home…” She sighed and bowed her head. “It all belongs to you.”
“It does?” he asked with disbelief in his voice. “How can one man own so much?”
She shrugged. “That is simply how it is.”
“Huh.” He looked puzzled by the concept. “And what of you? Are you also a duke?”
“What? No,” she laughed. “Women cannot be dukes.”
“What are you, then?”
Isolde opened her mouth to answer what should have been a simple question. That she was the daughter of the vicar, that she was his tenant, that her life and her wellbeing—and even her future—were at his mercy.
She tried to say these things, but the words caught in her throat.
Isolde looked around the small room. She listened to the storm that raged beyond its walls. She studied the duke closely, seeing him in ways that might have once been impossible but were now just as impossible to ignore.
By rights, she should have despised him.
While he was not responsible for the parish’s hard times, he had not tried to help.
Help that would have been easy to give, that would be right to do.
So rich was he, so powerful, that a word spoken would save the parish, her family, and their future.
Why, he might even have been able to bring her father back to health.
Lying before her, weak and barely conscious, the duke had never been so helpless.
Should I ask for his help? Would that be wrong to do, considering his state? And would he even remember, once he found his memory…
When Isolde had turned down Mr. Harwood’s proposal of marriage, she had promised her father that she would find a way to save their parish.
She was the only one who could, and when she made that promise, she knew that there was nothing she would not do…
whatever it took, because desperate times meant the measures taken had to be just as desperate.
Who knew how long it would take for the duke’s memory to return? What if he promised to help, and then he remembered who he was, and spurned her once again? What if the moment that he left this cottage, he chose to forget her…
Isolde’s pulse quickened as an idea started to form.
It was a wicked idea. It was a dangerous idea. But it was also an idea that would solve all of her problems if it worked. As wrong as it was, she reasoned that so much wrong had been done to her at the hands of this man that it was justifiable.
Please, forgive me…
“Who am I?” Her smile was warm and loving. “That you do not remember that, well…” A shake of the head. “I ought to be offended.”
He grimaced. “I am sorry, I do not…”
“It is fine.” She touched the side of his face and held her smile. “It will come back to you in time. But until it does, perhaps a little reminder.”
“Please.” He took her hand and held her eyes.
“I am…” She swallowed. “You know me as…” Her brow started to sweat. “I am your fiancée, of course. How else would you have ended up here?”
“Fiancée…” He said the word, and a light found his eyes. It was not shock or revulsion. It was a look of happiness, even relief, as if nothing had ever made more sense. “Of course you are.” His smile returned. “I should have known.”
“Do not worry yourself.”
“My fiancée…” He clicked his tongue. “As this is the case, might I have your name? To remind me further.”
“You may call me Isolde Whitmore, my love.” Her stomach twisted with guilt and shame.
“Isolde…” He repeated the name, and his smile grew.
“But that is for later,” she soothed him. “You have a fever, and you are surely tired. Go back to sleep, and I am sure that, tomorrow, your memories will have returned.”
“Yes…” Already, his eyelids began to droop, even as that smile remained on his lips. “Let us hope so…”
Isolde watched the duke fall asleep. He continued to smile, and she wondered if his dreams were now filled with images of her. She hoped they were not. In fact, she hoped that when he woke up, he would have forgotten this conversation entirely.
A lie told in the moment; an act of desperation that Isolde had succumbed to. And even if it somehow worked… even if the lie held for long enough to save her family, she knew as she knew anything that the guilt and shame she felt would never truly subside.
What have I done…?