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Anthony is not riding too fast.
He is absolutely and categorically not taking risks. He is not pushing his luck, not jumping dangerous fences, not cornering too quickly on the dry, dusty earth. He is out for a pacy ride, to be sure, but it’s not uncommonly pacy. He’s an ambitious sort of rider in general and he thinks it’s perfectly normal for him to take such aggressive lines at such high speed.
He is certainly not riding too fast because he’s due to get married tomorrow.
Any suggestion that he’s trying to outrun his demons must be nonsense. He’s not feeling fretful about marrying Miss Edwina at all. She’s the perfect diamond of the season, the most ideal bride for a Viscount, and her elder sister’s enticing eyes have nothing to do with the matter. Anthony has no conflicted feelings, no torn loyalties, no dangerous craving for a lifetime of the elder Miss Sharma’s arch, teasing ways.
He’s very much looking forward to marrying Miss Edwina, and he just happened to fancy a brisk ride this morning.
Another tight turn. Anthony feels hooves skitter sideways beneath him, but he holds his balance. He’s very proficient on horseback. This is a comfortable speed, a confident ride, and that big hedge up ahead is just a modest obstacle to enliven his morning.
Ah. Well. It’s perhaps a moderately large obstacle after all.
No. It’s fine. He has this. He won’t quail now. He urges his horse on even faster, sits as calm in the saddle as he can. This is fine. It’s a perfectly sensible hedge, and he’s neither riding too fast nor jumping too high. He has the situation entirely under control, and -
And he’s gone. He’s falling, tumbling to the dirt. He’s seeing the ground rush up to meet him, a blur of hooves and dust and his life flashing before his eyes.
He’s seeing Miss Sharma’s face in his mind’s eye, imagining her giving a rueful shake of her head.
All at once his world turns dark.
…….
Anthony doesn’t dream.
What would such a man even dream of?
A loving father? He had one of those, once.
A loving marriage? He’s not in the market for a match like that. A loving marriage is more trouble than a cordial one - he long since decided as much.
A loving brood of children? Some chance of that. He long ago resigned himself to having a dutiful rather than affectionate relationship with the necessary offspring of his conveniently cold marriage. Dynasty and duty don’t give rise to cuddles on Christmas morning, do they?
So - Anthony doesn’t dream.
Perhaps it’s because of the blow to his head. Or perhaps it’s because he doesn’t know how.
…….
He might be awake when he hears her voice. He might still be asleep. He hardly knows what he is or where he is or who he is, at present.
But he knows she is here. Wherever here is - whether he’s trapped within his head or living in the real world - she is here with him, holding his hand, whispering sweet nonsense, wiping his brow.
Hmm. Maybe that blow to his head has abruptly taught him how to dream after all.
…….
He manages to open his eyes, then wishes he hadn’t.
The light is too bright. Far, far too bright.
“Anthony?”
Why is Miss Sharma calling him by his given name?
“Are you awake? Can you hear me? It is good to see your eyes.” She says, and he would almost say she sounds tearful.
No. That can’t be. She’s rarely a tearful lady.
“Anthony.”
He groans a little. That light still is very very bright.
No one has ever been so pleased to hear a groan, it would seem. All at once she’s squeezing his hand tighter, muttering something about how relieved everyone will be, how she must call for his sister instantly.
His sister? Not her sister? Why is the elder sister at his bedside, and not the one he is engaged to marry? Not that he would necessarily want Miss Edwina to sit here and fuss over him, of course - that doesn’t sound at all compatible with the comfortable, unemotional sort of marriage he is set upon.
Dear heavens. Too much thinking. He can’t handle it. The light is bright, and these thoughts are exhausting, and it’s all he can do to squeeze feebly at the hand still holding his.
His last thought before sleep claims him once more?
She makes his name sound like poetry. And he never has had much use for poetry.
…….
The next time he wakes, he manages to express himself rather more coherently.
“Anthony? Are you awake?” That’s Miss Sharma again, and he still can’t fathom why.
He nods against the pillow, finds it makes the world spin quite dizzyingly.
He presses on. “What happened? Where am I? Why - why are you here?”
“You had a fall from your horse - a nasty one. We’ve been sorely worried about you.” She says, and yet again, somehow, she is tearful. “It is fortunate at least that you were so near to the Hastings’ home when it happened. You were brought here, and all manner of physicians have been to see you, and - and you’ve been unwell for the better part of a week.”
A week? He has lost a week of his life to a little overambitious riding?
Hang on - if it has been a week, presumably he’s lost a wedding somewhere along the way, too.
“And the wedding? Postponed, I presume?”
“Ah - something like that.”
He frowns, and it hurts. There’s definitely something she’s not telling him, here. And somehow, somewhere along the line, she seems to have let go of his hand. He suddenly finds that he misses it.
Indeed - it feels like an aching sort of absence, as if he has grown very accustomed indeed to having her hand hold his, this last week, as if he’s grown to expect it even whilst unconscious.
“So - I am under my sister’s roof.” He concludes. He does perhaps vaguely recognise this as one of the Hastings’ guest rooms.
She nods. She’s all quiet, and she’s meekly nodding, and it’s not the sort of strident behaviour he expects from her at all.
Also - why the devil is she here, and why has she been calling him by his given name?
He tries, once more, to get to the bottom of it.
“And what are you doing here?” He asks. Maybe it’s pain making him gruff, or maybe he’s just a naturally gruff man. Maybe this is the ultimate proof that he’s not made for a life of love and affection.
“Your sister sent for me. She thought - ah - that is to say, you were very seriously unwell, and she had reason to believe my presence might bring you some comfort.”
“Damn it, woman - what reason? Why are you here? Why have I woken to find you at my bedside when I am engaged to be married to your sister?”
He watches her physically gather her courage. There is clearly something substantial afoot, here. She’s breathing too carefully, holding her shoulders so high and proud they look quite rigid and tense from the effort of it.
And then, all at once, it makes sickening sense.
“You were asking for me. You were - ah - quite vocal, indeed. You have been groaning my name rather often. So - so under the circumstances, your sister thought it prudent to send for me. And... my sister thought it prudent to terminate your engagement.”
Oh God. Oh Lord on high in heaven above. This is - it’s awful. Dreadful. The worst hash of a broken engagement a Viscount could ever make.
Damn his foolish, pesky emotions for peeping out while he was too poorly to restrain them.
“You ought to leave.” He tells her simply. And again - perhaps his brusqueness is born of pain, or perhaps he’s just a rude and frosty sort of man in general.
“You want me to leave?” She asks, and he can well understand why she might feel the need to clarify, under the circumstances.
Damn it. Of course he’s spent a week unconscious and groaning her name.
“Please leave.” He concludes firmly. “It’s not at all proper that you’re here. And I was most earnest in my suit of your sister. Perhaps there is some hope of repairing our engagement when I am well.”
She doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Worst still - she doesn’t argue with him, doesn’t show any of her usual spirit or fire.
He was expecting her to fight back, if he’s being honest. He was expecting her to list half a dozen reasons why she ought to stay and then perhaps - perhaps if he was feeling particularly poorly and weak - he might even have admitted defeat and agreed with her.
But it’s as if there’s no fight left in her. As if she’s broken, somehow, as she simply picks up her shawl and walks to the door.
Is she really going to walk away without even trying to argue with him? What on Earth is the matter with her?
What has happened to the world, in this last week?
“Miss Sharma.” He calls out to her, at the last possible moment, just as she is stepping across the threshold.
“Yes, My Lord?” She asks, all coldly proper, her eyes fixed demurely on her toes.
Stay.
It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue. Another attempt to order her around? A weak man begging for a bit of comfort and peace?
No. He mustn’t. He’s being a fool, and just as soon as he’s strong again he’ll be up off this bed and carrying on with his neat, dutiful life.
“Thank you for nursing me.” He tries. That’s an unobjectionable sort of thing to say, yes? More polite than how short he was in telling her to leave, but still essentially detached and proper?
She nods a curt nod and goes on her way.
…….
He doesn’t miss her, once she’s gone.
The next time he wakes up, there is a business-like older maid by his bedside, and she offers him a cup of broth without touching his hand at all. That’s how nursing a poorly Viscount should work, he believes.
The following time, he’s alone. And he doesn’t mind that - really he doesn’t. He’s had twelve years now to grow accustomed to feeling lonely in a house full of family.
This ought to be no different, but somehow the pain in his head and the ache in his heart have him feeling lonelier than ever.
He pushes that thought aside and gives way to sleep once more.
…….
When he next wakes, he feels considerably better at last. He can actually move his head without feeling so very dizzy.
Inspired by that bit of progress, he sits up. He helps himself to some broth from his bedside - still warm.
Very good. He’ll be out of this sickroom in no time.
He’s just wondering whether he still owns shoes, or whether that is another thing which has turned all topsy-turvy during his illness, when Daphne bustles in.
“Ah - good. You’re awake. I was beginning to think you slept through all my visits deliberately.” She says, in a brisk sort of tone.
“I’m very much awake. I was just intending to find some shoes and - and try to walk around the place a little, I suppose.”
“No you don’t. I’ll not hear of it.” She tells him firmly, actually lifting his legs back into the bed.
Ah. Hmm. Perhaps he is still quite weak, if his sister can run rings around him like this.
“We didn’t nurse you back from the brink of death to have you go and injure yourself again now. You’re to stay in bed at least a few more days, thank you. The physician will be here in an hour or so - you may argue it out with him then.”
He swallows hard. He’s not sure what to make of all that - or of his sister’s somehow prickly attitude. What does she mean by the brink of death? Is she exaggerating, perhaps? Engaging in a little dramatic hyperbole to talk him into staying in bed?
Yes. That must be it.
He therefore pushes on in the direction of something which has been bothering him.
“I must ask why the devil you took it into your head to invite Miss Sharma over here.” He begins, deliberately rude. He’s angry with her, and he wants her to know it.
Besides - he’s beginning to think rudeness suits him. He’s not a man made for tender feelings, is he?
“It was clear that she would bring you considerable comfort - and that she would be comforted by staying close to you, rather than receiving messages about your health from a distance.” She says, as if that explains anything.
“Really, Daphne - it was most improperly done. I hear from her that Miss Edwina has even decided to terminate our engagement. Really - I don’t know why you couldn’t just hush the whole thing up. How hard is it to pay off a few servants?” He asks, really warming to his theme, settling into the rant. “As for her part in it - Miss Sharma, I mean - I haven’t the foggiest clue why she accepted the invitation. I always thought her a fundamentally proper sort of lady, even if her manners are a little… original. I can’t see why she should throw her good name out of the window and ruin her sister’s engagement just because -”
“She thought you would die!” Daphne bursts out, too loud, too shockingly tearful. “We all did. We were all convinced we would lose you. The physicians despaired of you by the end of the second day. They - they told mother and me to prepare for the worst. So we did. We invited the lady whose name you kept groaning to hold your hand as you slipped away - or so we thought. And she agreed to it, despite the impropriety, because she was out of her mind with grief for you.” She concludes, hitting one of his pillows rather robustly for no apparent reason.
Oh. Well. Perhaps that changes things, just a very little bit.
“I - I was thought to be on the brink of death?” He asks. He seems to remember she did start there, actually, but he’s evidently a bit slow at understanding things, today.
“Yes.” She bites out, short and sharp.
“I see. I - ah - I suppose that does explain why I feel so utterly unwell.” He tries to make a joke of it, and does not entirely succeed.
Daphne gives him a tight, strained smile for his trouble.
“I am sorry for causing you such distress.” He offers now. That seems like a dutiful sort of thing to say.
“You are the most colossal fool.” She throws a fist at that pillow again. “I don’t want such an apology. I want to know why on Earth you were riding so recklessly - the bystanders were quite alarmed - and I want you never to do something so idiotic ever again. At least you won’t be going anywhere while your poorly head and broken ribs heal. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”
Yes. He’s beginning to understand that, now.
“And anyway - if you owe anyone an apology, I should say it’s the woman who adores you to distraction and whom you have recently banned from your bedside for the crime of - what - nursing you day and night for a week? The crime of caring about you, perhaps?”
“She shouldn’t have been here.” He argues staunchly. “I - I suppose I do now understand that I was critically ill. But all the same, there is no reason for the sister of my intended to be sitting around my bedchamber and making free with my given name.”
Daphne snorts out a dry laugh. “You’re not marrying Miss Edwina, brother dear. She has made that abundantly clear.”
“Hmm - did you tell her about my… unguarded words, or did her sister?”
“It hardly matters. Did you perhaps not hear me point out that Miss Sharma adores you to distraction?”
“I heard it and chose to disregard it. It’s simply not true. I vex her, and at best she thinks I have a passably pleasing face. And besides - even if she did have some tender feelings for me, that’s no basis for marriage. I am set on a practical match with the diamond of the season - you know that.”
“And this, for the final time, is what makes you a colossal fool.” Daphne decides, and now she is actually picking up that pillow and waving it at him. “I am glad you are not dead, to be sure, but I have never been so furious with anyone in my life. She is a good woman, a well-balanced match for your foibles, and she loves you. I daresay she loves you almost as much as you would love her, if you gave yourself permission to do so. She has been utterly devoted to your care, worried sick about you, and the first thing you did on waking was to throw her from your room!”
He wonders about correcting her. He seems to remember, in a vague, fuzzy sort of way, that he did groan at Miss Sharma and squeeze her hand a bit, the first time he really woke up, before he managed to speak to her and send her away.
He swallows hard. It can’t be true that Miss Sharma loves him. It’s as he said - he vexes her, and she thinks him handsome enough but otherwise unlikeable.
And anyway, even if it was true, he has never wanted a love match.
Or - he never wanted one before. Before he fell so badly, watched his life flash before his eyes, hovered at death’s door. Before he realised he had nothing to dream of, no comfort to hold onto besides the hand of a woman who shouldn’t by rights even be here.
Hmm. Maybe a near-death experience has a way of making a man question his choices. Or maybe it’s his sister’s thorough reprimand which has done that.
“Anthony?” Daphne asks, suddenly quieter, now hugging that pillow rather than gesticulating with it. “Are you well? I didn’t expect you to allow me so many words uninterrupted. Have I caused a relapse?”
He gives a stiff chuckle. “I’m well enough, for a man who has recently cheated death. I believe I am beginning to notice those ribs. I’m starting to make sense of some individual pains amongst the wretched whole.” He jokes feebly.
She smiles a shaky smile, still hugging that pillow.
Dear heavens. He really has given her a fright recently, hasn’t he? If unflappable Daphne is in such a state, he hates to think how the rest of the family are faring.
Maybe he understands why brave Miss Sharma looked so tearful, now.
“Have you sent word to everyone that I’m on the mend? Should I expect a great number of Bridgerton visitors shortly?” He asks.
“I’ve sent word that you’ve woken up a handful of times, but you won’t have all our brothers and sisters here for a while. The physicians said you would likely be fatigued and averse to loud noises and bright lights, so I thought it prudent to keep the younger ones at least away for quite a while.” She explains.
“Thank you. I - ah - I do hope everyone’s well. I didn’t mean to cause such trouble.”
She nods. He nods, and the world moves slightly, but not too much. He can imagine that it might not move at all, some day in the future.
She sets down the pillow. She walks towards the door, then hesitates, then turns back around again.
“Daff?” There is clearly something else she wants to say, and he wishes she would get on with it.
“I believe I must tell you one last time that I think you are being a particular fool where Miss Sharma is concerned. I realise love is frightening, brother. This week I know we have all seen first-hand how terrifying the prospect of losing a loved one can be. But I tell you, even that fear is better than no love at all. At least, if you were to give a love match a try, whichever of you outlived the other might have some happy memories and God willing some children to soothe the grief. I think that a rather better prospect than being left with nothing. And so - in short - that is why I invited Miss Sharma to sit at your sickbed when I first heard you say her name. Because I thought, if nothing else, that love ought to be acknowledged and you both ought to have a chance to say goodbye.”
He’s not weeping by the time she is finished. He is absolutely and certainly not giving way to tears. He’s a Viscount - and a capable one, at that - and he’s not so feeble as to start crying just because his sister has some long speech about marrying for love.
But - well - he might be a very little bit moved by it.
He swallows hard. He turns around to faff with that pillow Daphne recently returned to his bed - but only because she put it back all wrong, mind you, and not because he needs to hide his face for a moment.
And then, at last, he offers her a dangerous olive branch.
“I hope you might send Miss Sharma a message thanking her for taking such good care of me. I am afraid I was quite… gruff with her when I woke up. The pain and shock, you know - I’m not at all proud of it. But I do believe it would be right for me to offer some acknowledgement of her kind attentions, even if I cannot approve of your inviting her here.” He concludes firmly.
Daphne nods and actually manages half a smile at that. She assures him she’ll take such a message, that Miss Sharma will be relieved to hear it, that there are no hard feelings for his clumsy behaviour during his recovery.
No hard feelings? He’s not sure he deserves such leniency.
……..
He has a very few visitors, over the next handful of days. Two physicians who talk to each other more than him, even though he is presumably the patient. His mother stops by briefly, each and every morning without fail. Benedict pops in for one longer visit, for a cheeringly normal chat about horses and brandy and nothing of substance. That does Anthony rather a lot of good, actually.
But nothing can distract him from fretting about this whole situation with the Sharma sisters. From moping, in all honesty, like a silly lovesick schoolboy.
He fears he’s mucked up everything, now. He’s mucked up the dutiful match with the younger by blatantly preferring the elder, by his damn subconscious going and telling the world of his feelings.
And he must have mucked up any chance of a fonder kind of marriage with the elder by being such an emotionally constipated bear.
He simply doesn’t know what to do about her. He has absolutely no idea how to handle the notion of a good woman feeling some genuine affection for him. He certainly can’t grapple with devotion of such scale that she would jeopardise her good name and cast propriety aside to come and nurse him as he hovered at death’s door.
He can no longer say in all honesty that he doesn’t want a love match. That much is definitely true. His own near-death experience and Daphne’s powerful words have convinced him that a love match might be a thing worth seeking.
But he’s still not at all sure he’s equal to the task. If he did want to marry for love, would he and Miss Sharma be able to try such a thing? Might she actually, perhaps, just possibly, love him?
Why the devil would she do that? He’s quite convinced he’s not a very lovable person.
He’s certainly never been very lovable towards her. He’s offered her nothing but trouble and rudeness, as far as he can recall.
He thinks that’s what makes the idea she might love him all the more tantalisingly wonderful, actually. There’s something quite moving about the notion of a woman who has seen him at his worst and still finds qualities in him to admire.
Heaven only knows what those qualities might be.
He’s a rude, sour man who once proposed to her sister and is currently bedbound.
Really - what right does he have, now, to think of love matches?
……..
He admits defeat and asks Daphne something about it, in the end.
“I say - did you ever have chance to send that message to Miss Sharma? To pass her my gratitude for her care and my apology for my poor manners on first waking? I wonder - did she make any reply?” He asks, carefully light, as the two of them enjoy their supper trays together.
She’s a good sister, sitting to eat with her invalid brother like this. Was he cursing her for ruining his misguided engagement, not four days ago? That feels awfully distant now.
“Oh - yes - she did make a few brief remarks, as I recall. I suppose I didn’t think them worthy of repeating. She only said that it was gentlemanly of you to send word and that she didn’t pay much regard to a poorly man’s manners, I believe.”
“Oh. Was that it?” He asks.
“I didn’t think you would want the message to turn into a prolonged correspondence.” Daphne says with a shrug. “You assured me that you weren’t interested in love matches and insisted that her behaviour had been very improper - and mine improper in inviting her here. So I saw no need to pile impropriety on top of impropriety by carrying messages between you both.”
“Hmm. Yes. Quite so.” He agrees, and bites into a chunk of bread rather viciously.
That’s because he’s developed quite an appetite, since he started to recover in earnest, and not because he’s at all displeased with her response, of course. Healing is hungry work.
All the same -
“I don’t suppose sending a more substantial message would be as improper as - you know - as all that hand-holding and Anthony business.”
“She mopped your brow rather often and changed the poultice on your chest daily, as well.” Daphne offers lightly, as if talking of the weather.
Oh God. Dear Lord. Of course she did. Of course Miss Sharma spent all that time seeing him at his worst - and she the only woman he has ever wished might… esteem him.
He could never make a love match out of this, even if he wanted one.
Which he might not. Maybe. He’s not at all sure.
He clears his throat, tries to sound like a confident and Viscountly sort of invalid as he makes his next remark.
“I’d be ever so grateful if you would carry another message from me, then, and if you might encourage her to make any reply she feels fitting. I would have her know that I am most grateful for her constancy last week, and that I hope to have the opportunity to speak with her again when I am well. Indeed, I find that I am very much looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.”
“Of course - I’ll gladly take such a message. Why, you almost sound like a man who regrets sending her away.”
He chokes briefly on a bite of cheese.
“Anthony? Are you alright? Does the physician need to make another visit?”
“I’m quite well. Just… cheese.” He explains inanely.
“Quite so. Cheese can be a very troublesome foodstuff for the invalid, so I’ve heard.”
He laughs a grudging laugh. “Stop teasing me, Daff. You know very well that I regret being so rude to Miss Sharma. And - yes - perhaps I do regret sending her away. I suppose the damage to propriety was already done by her being here at all, wasn’t it? Once she was present, she might as well have stayed. One might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb - isn’t that what they say?”
“So you mean to say you would welcome her company if it were convenient for her to visit you again? If it could be arranged with no further damage to her reputation?”
“Yes. I suppose that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He admits.
“Excellent. Perfect. I did hope it would turn out this way. I’ll send for her presently - she’s just downstairs.”
“What?”
“She’s sitting in the library, I believe.” Daphne tells him, incongruously light. “She’s been rather fond of that room since you asked her to leave your sickroom.”
“She’s here?”
“Certainly she’s here. You ordered her to leave your chamber, to be sure, but you have no power to order my guests to leave my home. And clearly it made sense for her to stay close at hand so she could be the first to receive news of your health.”
“She stayed.”
It’s not a question, this time. It’s a statement, full of wonder. He was rather rude to her, has done nothing to encourage any affection on her part, and yet still she stayed.
No one has ever been so tenacious about him before. He’s certain of that much.
“I’d like to speak with her as soon as can be, if she’ll see me.” He explains now, in a rush. “I believe I owe her a thorough apology and - and I suppose her company might lift my spirits quite considerably, if she’s inclined to offer it. And I really must do something to redress the balance - I have been a most ungrateful patient. Indeed - I am nearly finished with my supper tray, and I find that I’m no longer at all hungry so -”
“She’s not going anywhere, brother. Finish your food. You’d better take care of your health if you have courtship on your mind.”
“I don’t necessarily have courtship in mind.” He protests. “I think this season I have proven myself an inept suitor in every possible way. I intend to start with apologies, not courtship.”
Daphne’s looking at him askance, now, with an odd sort of facial expression.
Then it gets even odder.
“Why, Anthony - I do believe I’m proud of you. Or rather - I’m proud of us. Scarcely a year ago we were both making a hash of my falling in love with Simon - do you recall it? And now, somehow, we have both learnt to speak rather more fluently about how we are feeling.”
He snorts out a hollow laugh. “I blame Miss Sharma. She’s infuriatingly good for me.”
“Ah, yes - that must be why you made such a miraculous recovery when she showed up to hold your hand.”
He feels himself flush, forces his attention back to his food for a few moments. The sooner he can eat this last piece of ham, the sooner he can beg Daphne to show Miss Sharma up here.
He’s suddenly much less worried about his feeble health, his bearish manners, his general ineptitude on the matter of marrying for love.
She stayed.
Cautiously, tentatively, he begins to wonder whether there might be some happiness on his horizon.
…….
It will take Daphne a couple of minutes to fetch Miss Sharma, she tells him, so he spends the time frantically trying to plan what he might say to her.
There are three salient points, he believes. He ought to thank her more earnestly for all she has done to take care of him - really, to pull him back from the gates of heaven, if he has understood it right. She must have quite exhausted herself over it, if she was such a diligent nurse as all that. And when he thinks of it, he’s certain she was present by his bedside every moment, or as good as - in those hazy memories from when he first hovered on the verge of waking, she’s holding his hand in every single one.
Secondly, he must apologise for his poor manners. He must apologise for his rudeness throughout their entire acquaintance, indeed, not just the way he spoke to her last time they met.
And thirdly, if all goes well, he might perhaps tell her he has a newfound interest in the idea of marrying for love. He might even explain that this particular near-death experience has left him more grateful than she can imagine for her warmth and constancy, and has made him think he might like to have more love in his life to live for.
He’s not going to try to secure her hand in marriage today, of course. That would be preposterous. It would be infinitely more gentlemanly to give her time to consider his apology, to put a concerted effort into courting her in the meantime, to be patient and polite and -
“Apparently you feel an urgent need to see me, My Lord?” Miss Sharma herself interrupts his train of thought, walking straight into his room without knocking.
Then she seems to realise what she has done. Then she actually reverses out of the room, shaking her head, knocking soundly against the doorframe.
“I do apologise. I have grown too accustomed to coming and going from this room without ceremony. I was so determined to remember to call you My Lord that I quite forgot about knocking.” She mutters, evidently flustered, eyes fixed on her toes.
He’s so overjoyed to see her that he almost leaps from the bed.
“Not at all. Please don’t apologise. It’s quite alright.” He assures her in a rush.
Only - is it alright? Is anything ever going to be alright between them ever again? She looks so stiff and awkward about being here at all, and he hasn’t the foggiest clue how to begin speaking, and -
“Your sister made it sound like something serious was afoot. She said you requested my immediate presence for a most particular conversation. I wasn’t at all sure whether she had in mind your last will and testament or a marriage proposal.” Miss Sharma says.
It’s a joke. It is clearly a joke - the sort of strained gallows humour a ruined lady might try at the bedside of the man who nearly died on her last week.
Only -
“I wasn’t intending to propose today.” He hears himself saying. “To be sure, I did hope to tell you I have recently developed an earnest wish to marry for love. That was amongst the items I thought we might discuss. But - that is - I wasn’t going to start there. I believe I have got this all backwards, now.”
Somehow, it seems, that was the perfect thing to say. All at once Miss Sharma is laughing - and it’s a laugh tinged with hysteria, to be sure, but at least it’s a laugh.
She takes a seat in that chair at his bedside.
“Don’t we always get things backwards, you and I?” She asks him, with another tired chuckle. “I believe I fell in love with you before I had learnt to like you, laughed with you long before you ever let me hear you make a joke, and just lately I found myself nursing you at your deathbed before we were anything like an old married couple.”
“You fell in love with me.” He echoes. He’s sure the rest of what she said was interesting, too, but he’s rather stuck on that point.
“I don’t see much sense in being coy about it now. I’m hardly here out of cordial indifference, am I?”
He’s utterly dazed, his world moving in quite a different way from the dizziness which has plagued him in recent days. He’s reaching for her hand, holding it fast, making a frantic attempt at telling her how he feels.
“You are a remarkable woman, and I - I positively adore you, honestly. Sorry - I am rather clumsy at all this. I am rather clumsy at everything where you are concerned, I often think. I had intended to be more… put-together, tonight. I had a clear plan to thank you, then apologise to you, then tell you that I wish to marry for love, if you are amenable to the idea.”
“You truly intend to marry me?” She asks, eyes narrowed.
“Yes. I - as I said - I wasn’t going to ask you now. I am getting this all wrong. But I wasn’t going to delay out of indifference or uncertainty, to be clear - it was more that I did not want to overwhelm you or - or risk you saying no, when I have been so rude to you in the past. I thought to spend a while convincing you I can be a gentleman.”
“I’m less concerned about that than I am about - about the future, I suppose.” She tells him, all determined despite the shake in her voice. “What would happen when I grow old, hmm? I don’t deny that you feel some attraction for me - I have eyes in my head - but what if shock and your head injury and - and lust have conspired here, and you later decide that it is a mistake, or lose interest when I am older and not so comely?”
“You did hear me say I’d like to learn my way around a love match, not a lust match?” He points out, squeezing her hand.
That’s it. That’s the moment he starts to get through to her at last, he thinks. That’s the moment she really starts to believe he loves her in earnest - he can see it in her eyes.
He presses his advantage. “Besides - if age were to bring you some infirmity, it would be my privilege to nurse you as you have nursed me this week. I - that is - I have had cause to reflect that it is pleasant to be surrounded by care, but that it might be even more wonderful to have a wife and children to care for in my turn.”
“Ah, yes - because your seven siblings do not provide adequate expression of your capacity to take care of others.”
“It is different. It is different to choose someone to care for, to be chosen in turn. That is what I have realised this week.” He swallows hard. “That is what I realised when you stayed.”
She’s silent, now, staring at him wide-eyed. She does seem more inclined to silence, lately, than he remembers. Perhaps that’s a consequence of his nearly dying, or of his poor manners, or perhaps a mix of the two.
“I am truly sorry for my rudeness.” He tells her now, plain and simple.
That, of all things, seems to bring out her playful side. “To which specific incidence of rudeness do you refer, My Lord? If you are talking about your hasty words last week, they are quite forgotten. You found yourself in a quite unprecedented situation. But if you are speaking of some earlier rudeness in our acquaintance, I believe we might have a cheery debate about that. We have both been ruder than we ought, before now.”
“No. I’ll not have it. I believe it is different for a Viscount to be rude than for a young lady to be rude. Rudeness is your only defence, while my rudeness stemmed from a position of strength. I regret it now.” He tells her firmly.
“Yes. You have made that extremely clear. I think you may consider that apology thoroughly made and accepted in turn, now.” She teases him sweetly.
He laughs a tired laugh. He’s so very exhausted, and there is so much he wishes to speak with her about, and he hasn’t a clue where to go next.
He’s lost all sense of direction, since she walked into the room.
“I ought to leave you to your rest.” She says now, as if reading his mind.
Ah. Perhaps he has let out a yawn or two, or perhaps his eyes are beginning to glaze over. He ought to take more care.
“I’m not tired.” He lies brightly.
She frowns at him.
“I am less tired than I am determined to stay awake and speak with you longer.” He amends.
She laughs. “I think you’ll find you can speak to me perfectly well in the morning, or the next day. I am in a guest room just down the hall.”
“You’re staying.” He agrees. He is still rather stuck on that point.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He nods. The world moves a little. Perhaps it really is time for him to give way to sleep again. Will he sleep this much for the rest of his life, or is it only a consequence of still being so shaken by his injury?
He sincerely hopes it’s the latter.
“I intend to woo you thoroughly when I am out of this bed.” He informs Miss Sharma robustly. “I have resolved to become the most attentive suitor the ton has ever known. I’ll be dancing two sets a night with you before long - just you wait and see.”
She actually has the gall to roll her eyes at him. “I hardly think such theatrics will be necessary. I’ll just be glad to see you well again. You’re to get better as quick as you can, you hear me?”
“Hmm. There’s something very fetching about your lips when you are trying to tell me what to do.”
She laughs, shakes her head, squeezes his hand all at once. It’s such a fabulous tangle of affection, and it warms his heart.
How fascinating. He wasn’t at all sure he had a heart capable of warmth, two weeks ago.
It’s that sign of change which gives him the courage to ask it, perhaps. The courage to be vulnerable and trust that the world will not end if he does.
“Might you stay here until I fall asleep?” He asks. “Sorry - I feel like a child to even ask such a thing. But -”
“I’ll stay all night if it will make you comfortable.”
“No. You mustn’t. You must get some rest, too. I’ll not have you taking sick from fussing over me too much.” He argues.
She doesn’t rise to that. She just rearranges his pillow a little, as if it’s something she’s done a hundred times before.
She probably has.
He lies down, cautiously, carefully. He’s quite forgotten how to move with confidence. It’s very odd, being laid so low like this. Was he a bold rider, less than a fortnight ago?
“Will you still love me if I can never ride a horse again?” He asks, and then winces at his own words.
She raises a pointed brow at him. “If my love can survive you proposing to my sister, I sincerely doubt a little long-term injury on your part would be the end of it.”
Ah. Yes. She might have a point. He’s rather grateful for her firmness, he decides, in times like this. She has a fabulously forceful way of getting on with setting his world to rights.
“Besides - now you have woken up properly, and you are still in command of your wits and can move and eat a little, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t make a full recovery. The physicians are rather hopeful.”
Hmm. Very well. He just hopes he doesn’t relearn his old stubborn foolishness as he heals.
He reaches out for Miss Sharma’s hand on instinct, finds it just where he knew it would be. He tangles his fingers with hers, feels that familiar, grounding presence.
Hang on - Miss Sharma?
“You ought to stop with all this My Lord nonsense.” He tells her, sleep beginning to blur his words. “My name is Anthony, and you’re is Kate, and that’s -” He gives way to a yawn. “That’s the end of it.”
“Ah - but a gentleman told me not so long ago that it would be vastly improper for an unattached young lady to sit in his sick room and make free with his given name.” She points out.
It’s all getting a bit fuzzy, now. His eyes are closed, and his head is weak, and all he’s really aware of is Kate’s firm hand in his.
All the same, he gathers his strength for one last point.
“Then you ought to be an attached lady.” He manages to mumble. “We should marry. There would be nothing improper in it if we married.”
He snorts a little. A yawn or a snore? He’s not entirely sure.
“Hush, Anthony. Get some sleep. There will be time enough in the future to -”
“Marry me? Will you?”
“Of course I will.”
…….
He wakes up the following morning with a familiar hand still clasping his.
“I do hope you were not here all night. It is important that you get some rest, too.” He reprimands her, peeping one eye open.
Kate only rolls her eyes at him for that, so he feels a pressing need to sit up and have it out with her properly.
He manages it, more or less. He sits up almost under his own steam, only pulling a little on her hand to achieve it.
Then he looks her right in the eye. “I’ll not have you exhausting yourself by sitting up at my bedside every hour.”
“You’ll not have it, hmm? Do you intend to be a domineering sort of fiancé and husband all the rest of our lives?” She asks, strangely fond.
He swallows hard. That did happen. He did propose to her, all fuzzy with sleep, not entirely in command of his wits.
“I intended to pose the question in a more elegant setting.” He tells her ruefully, now. “Sorry about that. I really was most determined not to propose last night.”
“I for one am grateful you did. I am glad to have the matter settled. I’m very much looking forward to a whole lifetime spent vexing you.”
He laughs at that, rubs a thumb fondly over the back of her hand.
“Besides - I have learnt lately that you always say the most honest and sweet things in your sleep. You’re quite the affectionate suitor when you let your guard down. We shall have to be one of those scandalously happy married couples who share a bed so that I can listen to your subconscious speaking all the rest of our lives.”
“I rather like the sound of that.” He admits. Could it possibly be true? Is there a softer, warmer man lurking inside of him somewhere?
Perhaps he might be capable of making a success of a love match, after all.
“I didn’t stay here all night, as it happens.” Kate tells him now. “I’m a lady of some sense. I sat with you until you were settled, and then I went away to get sufficient sleep, and now I am back to say good morning to you.”
He frowns at her. “I think we are likely to disagree over the definition of sufficient sleep, but I certainly concur that you’re a lady of sense.”
“Dear me - a compliment. That fall must have addled your wits.” She jokes.
“You had best prepare for many more. I intend to be a very affectionate husband, just as soon as I’ve learnt how.”
“I should say you’re off to a fair start.”
Silence sits for a moment. But for the first time since he fell from that horse, he thinks it is quite a comfortable, warm sort of silence - they are at peace with one another, confident in their coming marriage, certain that he is well and truly on the mend.
No - now he thinks of it, it’s the first comfortable, warm silence he can remember enjoying in years. Has he sat quietly and at peace since his father died? He’s not at all convinced he ever has.
Perhaps that’s what pushes him to his next conclusion.
“Thank you. You have made me so glad but also - also content in a way I didn’t know I could be content. I find I’m rather keen to get on with our lives together and with showing off our joy to my family, too. Do you think I might make it down to breakfast today, if you helped me?”
She smiles a soft sort of smile at him. “Absolutely not. I, too, feel that joy and contentment - but joy and contentment are no reason to go trekking about a large house when you are still supposed to be on bedrest.”
“But -”
“So I shall bring breakfast to you.” She concludes firmly. “Indeed, I’ll bring the whole world to you as best I can. I’m sure your sister and her husband could join us for breakfast in here, if you would like that. We can easily invite some of your family over - and a minister, perhaps, if you would like to start pressing on with the matter of our marriage.”
“You’d do that?” He asks, awed.
“I suppose you will want your lawyer, as well, if there are settlement papers to be arranged. Do you have strong opinions on my trousseau and wedding gown? Will you want to see the modiste with me?” She continues.
He laughs, holds out a hand to implore her for silence. “Please - you have made your point. You will be an apt Viscountess and manage our affairs most skilfully. I would be grateful for some company over breakfast and a chance to speak with the minister about arranging a wedding for the day I leave this sickroom. The rest of it will perhaps wait until my head is less sore.”
“Very well. One Duke, one Duchess, and a minister. I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you. Thank you for all of it. Thank you for falling in love with me.” He tells her fervently.
“I ought to say the same to you. I have decided that our future happiness will be worth all this distress.” She tells him, all robust and determined.
He grins at her. This is everything that is wonderful about Kate in a nutshell, he thinks - threatening to bring the world to him for breakfast, deciding that love is worth a little challenge and heartache.
He’s not quite there yet. He’s not as resilient as her, perhaps, or just not quite confident in his own ability to sustain a loving marriage. He’s still got this awful pain in his head and his ribs, too, which is hardly helping anything.
But he will be there, soon. For the first time in his life he’s truly confident of his future happiness. He already loves her to distraction, and before long he’ll have learnt a little self-assurance on his suitability as a loving husband, too.
Before long, he might even decide it was worth falling from that horse, to give himself permission to fall in love with Kate in earnest, too.