Chapter Thirteen
“Your Grace, you must come at once!”
Adrian looked up from the estate ledgers spread across his desk, concern flaring in his chest. Young Thomas wouldn’t have burst in this without cause—the boy was usually too timid by half. Adrian was on his feet before he’d consciously decided to stand.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Lady Flora, Your Grace. In the gardens. She’s…she’s collapsed!”
The ledger hit the desk before Adrian registered, dropping it. He took the stairs three at a time, his heart a fist against his ribs. The east gardens seemed impossibly distant, the corridor stretching like something from a fever dream.
The morning sun struck him like a slap when he burst through the terrace doors. There—by the rose arbour, a cluster of staff stood frozen in a tableau of useless panic. And kneeling in their midst, her sage morning dress pooling in the dew-damp grass, was Cecilia.
She knelt with her skirts spread around her like petals, one hand cradling Aunt Flora’s head while the other pressed against his aunt’s wrist, counting pulse beats with professional efficiency.
Her hair had come loose from its pins, copper strands catching the morning light and turning to flame.
She’d probably dressed in haste, pulled from whatever she’d been doing by the crisis, and yet there was nothing hurried about her now—only focused, absolute competence wrapped in fierce tenderness.
“Don’t just stand there gawping!” Her voice cut through the garden’s stillness, sharp and utterly composed. “You—fetch blankets. Light ones, not those heavy wool monstrosities. You there—I need fresh water. Cold, from the well, not the kitchens. And someone find Mrs Whittaker. Now.”
The servants scattered like startled birds.
Adrian’s boots crunched on the gravel path. Each step felt weighted, as though he were wading through water.
“Adrian?” Aunt Flora’s voice emerged thin and reedy, so unlike her usual tartness that something in his chest constricted painfully.
Adrian dropped to his knees beside them, propriety be damned.
Up close, he could see the fine tremor in Aunt Flora’s hands, the way her breath came shallow and quick.
The scent of crushed grass and morning dew mixed with the lavender water Cecilia wore.
He found himself breathing it in despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, needing something to anchor him against the rising tide of panic.
“What happened?”
“We were admiring the roses.” Cecilia didn’t look up from her examination, her focus absolute.
“She seemed perfectly well one moment, and then…” She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
“I managed to catch her before she struck her head, but Your Grace, her pulse is rapid, and her skin feels clammy.”
The clinical assessment should have sounded cold. Instead, it steadied something wild and panicked thrashing in Adrian’s chest.
“I’m fine.” Aunt Flora attempted to sit up. “Just a dizzy spell, I—”
“You’re not fine.” Adrian’s hand found his aunt’s, squeezing gently. The bones felt fragile as bird wings beneath his fingers. When had she become so delicate?
A maid returned with blankets, another with water. Cecilia directed their placement with quiet authority, tucking wool around Aunt Flora’s shoulders while pressing a dampened cloth to her forehead. Her movements were economical, certain; competence wrapped in genuine concern.
“The physician?” Adrian asked, and hated how his voice cracked on the question.
“Already sent for, Your Grace.” Mrs Whittaker appeared, her usually stern face softened with worry. “Jenkins rode for Dr Whitmore the moment word reached the kitchens.”
Time moved strangely after that. Minutes stretched into hours whilst they waited, Cecilia never leaving Aunt Flora’s side.
She spoke in low, soothing tones about inconsequential things—the roses, the weather, a book she’d been reading.
Nonsense, really. But Aunt Flora’s breathing gradually steadied, colour seeping back into her cheeks.
Adrian watched his wife’s face, the way morning light caught in her hair, turning it to burnished copper.
Her dress would be ruined, her knees were probably aching, and yet she showed no sign of discomfort.
The way her thumb traced absent circles on Aunt Flora’s hand spoke of genuine affection, not mere duty.
He’d spent weeks cataloguing her deceptions, tallying her lies like debits in a ledger. But this couldn’t be manufactured. Could it?
Dr Whitmore arrived in a flurry of black coat and leather bag, his examination thorough and mercifully swift. Adrian paced the length of Aunt Flora’s bedchamber—they’d moved her inside with infinite care—while the physician prodded and listened and hummed thoughtfully.
“Well?” Adrian bit out when he could bear the suspense no longer.
Whitmore straightened, snapping his bag shut. “A fainting spell brought on by exhaustion and nervous strain. Aunt Flora’s heart is strong, but she’s been pushing herself too hard. At her age, such episodes are warning signs we’d be foolish to ignore.”
“What does she need?” Cecilia asked from her post beside the bed.
“Rest. Constant monitoring. Light meals, no excitement, and absolutely no exertion for at least a week.” Whitmore’s gaze moved between Adrian and Cecilia. “She’ll require someone with her at all times. The confusion that sometimes accompanies her condition makes leaving her alone inadvisable.”
“I’ll manage her care myself,” Adrian said immediately. “Her medications, her meals—”
“With respect, Your Grace, but Lady Flora needs a woman’s presence. Someone who can assist with her personal care, provide companionship without taxing her energy.” The physician’s expression gentled. “What she needs is a nurse. Or a devoted family member.”
“I’ll do it.”
Adrian’s head snapped toward his wife. “You?”
Cecilia met his gaze squarely, chin lifted in that way he’d begun to recognise as her battle stance. “Yes.”
“That’s not—” He stopped himself, the refusal dying on his tongue. Because what wasn’t it? Appropriate? Expected? But she’d already proven herself more capable than any nurse he could hire. And Aunt Flora trusted her.
“If Her Grace is willing,” Whitmore interjected diplomatically, “I believe Aunt Flora would be in excellent hands.”
“Very well.” The words tasted like surrender. Like relief. Like something he couldn’t quite name. “Thank you, Dr Whitmore. Jenkins will see you out.”
The following days blurred together in a strange, suspended rhythm.
True to her word, Cecilia never left Aunt Flora’s side.
Adrian knew this because he’d taken to walking past Aunt Flora’s rooms at odd hours, listening for voices, for signs of distress.
Telling himself it was concern for his aunt that drew him, not the need to know his wife was there, keeping vigil.
Every time he checked—and he found himself checking far more often than strictly necessary—she was there, reading aloud from Aunt Flora’s favourite novels, or coaxing spoonfuls of broth past stubborn lips with gentle persistence.
She’d changed from her ruined morning dress into something simpler—a soft grey that made her eyes appear more green than hazel.
The plainness of it somehow made her more striking, stripped of artifice and pretension.
And reminded him inconveniently of Miss Vale.
On the second evening, he entered to find them laughing—Aunt Flora propped against pillows, Cecilia perched on the edge of the bed, her red hair escaping its pins in wild tendrils.
The lamp on the bedside table cast them in warm amber, softening edges, creating an intimacy that made Adrian feel like an intruder in his own home.
“And then,” Cecilia was saying, her eyes bright with mischief, “my cousin Kenneth tried to impress the visiting English lord by demonstrating Highland dancing, only he’d perhaps had a wee bit too much whisky, and he went arse over teakettle straight into the punch bowl!”
Aunt Flora’s laughter cracked, genuine and delighted. “You’re making that up!”
“On my honour, every word is true!”
Adrian found himself leaning against the doorframe, transfixed by this glimpse of who she might be when she thought no one was watching.
Cecilia’s own laughter softened. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling such scandalous tales to a lady of your refined sensibilities.”
“Refined, pfft.” Aunt Flora waved a dismissive hand. “I’d rather hear truth than polite nonsense any day, my dear.”
Adrian cleared his throat from the doorway. Both women started, Cecilia’s hand flying to her chest to cover her chest with her shawl.
“Your Grace! I… I didn’t hear you come in.”
Scarlett bloomed across her cheeks, spreading down her throat to disappear beneath the modest neckline of her dress. His fingers twitched with the sudden, mad urge to trace the path of that flush. To discover how far it travelled.
“How is she?” He moved to Aunt Flora’s other side, needing the distraction of purpose.
“Improving.” Cecilia’s voice had gone formal again, that careful mask sliding back into place like a door closing. “She ate nearly all her supper tonight, and her colour is much better.”
“Because this one won’t let me rest,” Aunt Flora grumbled, but her eyes sparkled with affection. “She’s worse than a shepherd with a wayward lamb.”
“You need to regain your strength.” Cecilia adjusted the pillows with practised efficiency. “Which means eating properly and sleeping adequately.”
“Tyrant,” Aunt Flora accused fondly.
“Stubborn old goat,” Cecilia returned, without heat.
Adrian watched the easy affection between them, the casual intimacy, and felt something loosen in his chest. They’d formed their own alliance in these few days, built something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with genuine connection.
It made him feel oddly excluded and strangely grateful in equal measure.
“You should rest,” he heard himself say. “You’ve been awake for...” He glanced at the window, where early evening was deepening into dusk. “How long, exactly?”
Cecilia’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I slept a few hours this morning.”
“That’s not rest. That’s a nap stolen between crises.” The words emerged sharper than he’d intended, edged with concern.
Cecilia’s eyes widened fractionally at his tone, but before she could respond, he pressed on, uncomfortable with the direction of his own thoughts.
“Thank you,” he said suddenly. “For everything you’ve done. For her.”
Cecilia’s lips parted, as though she might speak, and he found himself leaning forward infinitesimally, drawn by the promise of whatever truth she might offer.
“I care for her dearly, Adrian,” Cecilia said softly. “You are my family, which means she is my family, too.”
The simplicity of it struck him like a blade between the ribs—sharp, clean, devastating. She slipped out before he could respond, leaving only the whisper of skirts and the faint scent of lavender in her wake.
Adrian stood frozen, his aunt’s knowing gaze boring into him.
“That,” Aunt Flora announced into the silence, “is a remarkable woman.”
“Yes.” The word escaped before he could trap it behind his teeth.
“And you,” Aunt Flora continued relentlessly, “are a damned fool if you don’t realise what you have.”
Adrian sank into the chair Cecilia had vacated, still warm from her body. The heat of her seeped through his coat, intimate and impossible to ignore. The book she’d been reading lay open on the side table. Her ribbon marked a place near the middle.
“It’s complicated,” he said finally.
“Desire usually is.” Aunt Flora’s voice was knowing, not unkind. “Especially when it’s tangled up with wounded pride and fear.”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to.” Aunt Flora’s smile was gentle, understanding.
“I’ve watched you these past days, boy. The way you look at her when she’s not watching—like she’s something precious you’re afraid to touch.
Then there’s the way your whole body goes still when she steps into a room, as though you’re bracing yourself against her effect on you.
” She paused, her eyes far too perceptive.
“That’s not indifference, Adrian. That’s a man at war with himself. ”
Adrian wanted to deny it. The words lined up on his tongue, ready for deployment. But they died there, smothered by the weight of truth he wasn’t quite ready to speak aloud.
“She deceived us.” But the words lacked heat.
“And apologised beautifully for it, from what I understand.” Aunt Flora’s hand found his, squeezing weakly.
“Adrian. I’m tired, and my patience for foolishness diminishes by the day.
That girl has tended me with more devotion than I deserve.
” Her eyes sharpened despite her exhaustion.
“I’ve also seen that you had that chess set moved to the morning room after she mentioned preferring the light there.
The way you asked Cook to prepare tablet—Scottish tablet, mind you—because you remembered it was her favourite from childhood. ”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t realised anyone noticed those small gestures.
“You feel something for her,” Aunt Flora continued quietly. “Whether you’re ready to name it or not. The question is: will you let your wounded pride destroy whatever this could become? Or will you have the courage to let yourself want her without armour?”
“Rest,” he said, tucking the blankets around Aunt Flora’s shoulders. “No more matchmaking tonight.”
“Stubborn boy,” Aunt Flora murmured, eyes drifting closed.
Adrian remained at her bedside as her breathing deepened and steadied into sleep. Outside, darkness claimed the gardens. The house settled into its evening quiet, punctuated by the distant sounds of servants finishing their duties.
His fingers found the ribbon marking Cecilia’s place in the novel. He drew it free, the silk whispering across his palm.
Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would find her. Thank her properly, without Aunt Flora’s teasing observation or the press of crisis muddling his thoughts. He would allow himself to acknowledge what these past days had made impossible to ignore:
His wife was extraordinary.
And he was—God help him—beginning to care for her far more than was safe.