CHAPTER 12
Beau stared at his wife, who looked ready to come apart at the seams.
For the first time in his life he was breaking his word. But he was doing it for her. He simply could not bear to watch her suffering, and for such a pointless, foolish reason.
He saw that she was shivering. “Make room,” he said, shifting across to sit down beside her. She gave him a glassy-eyed glance as he slipped an arm around her. “The sun is out and you are in furs, but it is chilly. Let me warm you.”
She hesitated only a moment before all the stiffness went out of her body and she melted against him. Beau closed his eyes as he pulled her closer, her small body and the unidentifiable sweet and spicy aroma that seemed to hover around her already familiar to him. And, yes, already quite precious.
Less than a week ago Beau would have scoffed if anyone had told him that not only would he come to like such an awkward little person—with whom he’d bickered from the start and had nothing in common—but also that she would actually begin to worm her way into his heart.
Was this the beginning of friendship? Affection? Love? He didn’t know, nor did he need to have a name for it. All that mattered was that she was his wife and had become important to him—important enough to go back on a matter of honor. Because dishonor was more palatable to him than her pain.
Beau had known her so short a time, but already he saw her differently than he had only a few days earlier. Yes, she was small and delicate, but she was also fierce and passionate and strong. And there was something about her keen intelligence that transformed her rather average appearance into that of a woman who was compelling and beautiful in her intensity.
Yes, whatever man was lucky enough to earn her love, he would have it for a lifetime.
She murmured something against the heavy wool of his greatcoat.
“What was that, my dear? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Thank you,” she said in a voice husky with anguish.
He squeezed her tightly to him, ashamed he’d held on to his foolish pride so long. God save him if Loman was gone before they got there.
* * *
“Papa?”
Jo sank to her knees beside the bed, her heart threatening to explode in her chest. She looked up at Doctor Philpot, who hovered near the end of the bed. “Is he—”
“He is alive, Miss, er, Your Grace. But he has rarely been conscious these past three days. He is in a great deal of pain so I have given him all the relief I have to offer.”
Jo knew what he meant; she could smell the sickly sweet odor of the poppy.
“Can he hear me?” she asked, unable to take her eyes from her father’s skin, which was like gray tissue paper, his chest moving so little she had to squint to detect any breathing.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” the doctor admitted.
Jo took her father’s hand, which was as fragile and light as a dried-up leaf. “Papa,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” A hot tear slid down her cheek, followed by another and another.
Beau’s warm, strong hand landed on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Leave us, Doctor. We will summon you if you are needed.”
Poor old Doctor Philpot’s eyes widened, whether at Beau’s arrogant command or simply being addressed by a duke Jo couldn’t have said.
“Yes—yes, of course, Your Grace.”
The door shut behind him and Beau said, “Here, Josephine.”
She stood to find he’d pushed the chair right up to the bed.
“Thank you,” she said, not having to release her father’s hand to sit.
He soundlessly brought a second chair and set it beside hers, and then he took her free hand and held it with both of his. He did not speak, but his very presence—like a fierce guard dog—gave her comfort.
“Papa,” she whispered without much hope. “Can you hear me?” She choked on a sob and Beau raised her hand to his lips.
“Do you think he can hear me, Beau?” she asked without turning.
“Yes.”
Jo turned at his simple, certain answer. “You do?”
“Yes, I do. I think he is deriving comfort from you right now. I think he feels you holding his hand. I think he is glad we disobeyed his wishes and you are with him. But I think he is tired, Josephine. Too tired and too weary to express the depth of his love for you. Talk to him. Just because he doesn’t answer, it doesn’t mean he is not listening.”
Jo turned back to her father’s shell of a body and stared at his wasted face.
“You made me so angry keeping me away, Papa, but I know why you did it—because you love me.” Her vision wavered and she couldn’t blink away the tears—they were coming too fast and there were too many.
“You loved me more than anyone will ever love me, Papa,” she said, her words garbled and broken. “And I will miss you so much. So much. So—”
Jo dropped her forehead to their joined hands and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Because it was.