Awakening His Duchess (11 page)

“I’m certain we can sort this out in the morning.” Impatient
to find out, Beau added, “Shut the door.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Digby, but he took a hesitant
step forward. A valet would help his master disrobe.

If Yvette thought to use seduction to put their marriage on
solid ground, he’d throttle her. Of course the last thing he needed his new
valet witnessing was her being thrown out of his bed—if that was where she was.
Beau pointed to the hall. “Good night.”

“Yes, sir, my lord, sir.” The lamplight caught the dull
flush in his face.

“We’ll learn to rub on well enough, Digby, but if you say my
lord or sir again, I shall demand you call me Beau.” He grabbed the immobile
lad’s sleeve and steered him back out into the hallway.

The boy’s mouth fell open. Beau shut the door in his face.

He forced his leg to bear weight as he marched toward his
bedchamber. His lungs fought him, and a faint whistle as he breathed didn’t
bode well for the night. He forced himself to remain calm. The seizing of his
lungs would only grow worse if he grew angry, but he’d be damned before he let
Yvette ply her tricks.

As he drew near the lighted archway of his chamber he
registered that the bed covers were turned down. His nightshirt and dressing
gown draped across the foot of his empty bed.

A shimmer of something too like disappointment curled in his
stomach. Was she here? She seemed to have no compunction against touching him
in the hallway. Was she not viper enough to wait in his bed like an eager
bride?

He closed his eyes blocking the twisted thoughts. He didn’t
want her in his bed, but he would have loved to throw her out of it. With the
rattling his chest was doing, he wouldn’t be capable of anything more.

He spun around. A solitary lamp burned on a sitting room
table, the spill of light coming from the right chamber’s fireplace and the
dark hole that marked the other archway.

Still the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Just as he had
sensed her when he was with Etienne, he felt her presence.

With a hand braced on the wall, he made his way to the dark
archway and leaned against the frame, relieving his weak leg. His eyes slowly
adjusted and the lumps in the room became objects. A chair, a nightstand, a bed
with all the draperies drawn. Curious. The curtains would usually be tied back
even when the bed was occupied except on the coldest of nights. Tonight might
be chilly, but it was a long way from winter.

He listened, but all he could hear was the uncommonly loud
rasp of his own breathing. Was she hiding? Or was he imagining things?

He stared, watching for a twitch of the draperies, the
whisper of sheets under a shifting form, the deep breathing of a sleeping
being.

With his leg screaming at the overuse, he didn’t want to
walk across the space to discover if she was hiding behind the curtains. He
almost laughed at the foolish notion. Yvette wasn’t the type to cower away in
the dark. If she was here, she’d be waiting in his bed or in the sitting room
for another confrontation. Wouldn’t she? He still couldn’t quite dismiss the
idea that she was here. Silence rang in his ears until the snap of the fire
startled him.

Swiveling he discovered the fireplace in the lady’s chamber
was bare. No fire had been laid nor were there ashes to signify a fire had burned
out.

He stilled his own breathing and heard nothing but the beat
of his own heart. His head spun and his weakened lungs protested. He let out
his breath in a rasping gasp and drew in fresh air as deeply as he could.

The room was empty. He must have imagined her. Alone for the
first time in a decade, he felt vaguely unsettled by the solitariness of his
existence. He tried to sigh, but his lungs were too tight.

Odd that in the bosom of his family, he was more alone than
he had been since he left. He should revel in the new freedom, but instead he
fought the urge to summon Digby back.

Shaking his head he crossed through the sitting room to his
bedchamber, snuffing the lamp as he passed the table.

With only the dim light of the fire, he sat down and removed
his boots. Then he stripped to his skin, glad to be rid of the clothes that no
longer fit him or he them. He cast a skeptical glance at the nightshirt. If it
was formerly his, like the shirt, the armholes would be too tight and he was
tired of the chaffing.

His heathenish habits might shock the household, but who was
to know? Except England in October was not a tropical island in the Caribbean,
so stoking the fire in his bedchamber was a good idea.

After moving the screen aside, he tossed a couple of quartered
logs on the andiron. A puff of ashes tickled his throat and had him coughing.
He tossed on a third piece but didn’t bother to position it.

Averting his head, he replaced the screen then brushed his
hands while fighting the coughs that would only make him lightheaded.

Crossing to the bed, he slid in between the linen sheets and
sank down into the feather mattress. The clean smell of soap, the comforting
scent of the wool, pulled him down into memories of his youth. Memories of
being safe. Memories of life without the threat of vodou priests and their
black magic, curses, and poisons. The brandy, the score of miles walked and the
relief at finally being home had him sinking into sleep more quickly than he
would have expected.

He woke gasping. His lungs closed and the little air that
made it through whistled on a high pitch. The room was gray and foggy. As his
senses returned, he realized it was smoke.

Jerking out of bed he stared through the smog. A piece of
smoldering firewood had rolled out onto the hearth. The screen trapped it
before it rolled onto the rug, but it was too far removed for the chimney to
draw its fumes. Too long used to fire pits instead of fireplaces with andirons,
he’d been careless and was now paying the price.

Fighting the tightness of his chest, he yanked the screen
aside and grabbed the fire tongs to return the smoking wood to the fireplace.

His lungs spasmed. His tingling fingers were clumsy. The
room began to tilt. The burning log crumbled into embers that tormented him
with multiple smoke plumes. He coughed and couldn’t stop. Turning he tried to
find clean air for his lungs, but it was too late. Darkness closed in from the
edge of his vision as his lungs refused to open. It was almost as bad as when
he was in the coffin.

His head spinning, he reached out but found nothing but
emptiness. His first night home and he was going to die. Alone.

*~*~*

Yvette woke at every little sound. The pop of a spark from
the fire in the adjoining room, the creak of a floorboard, and, most of all, every
time Beau coughed. She knew he’d come to her doorway earlier, stood there for a
long time while she held her breath and waited for him to leave or discover
her. His breathing was harsh as if he couldn’t catch his breath. But she feared
any inquiry into his health would be rebuffed, then hated that she was too
cowardly to ask.

She’d lain in one position so long her bones ached but she
didn’t dare shift. If she didn’t get more rest than this fitful sleep allowed,
she wouldn’t be awake at first light to supervise Etienne’s horse riding
lesson.

She could tell from the sounds that Beau was up and fiddling
with his fire. His breathing sounded worse, wheezing and strained as some of
the slaves did when their lungs grew weak from exposure to the sugar cane processing
and the fires. Knowing she might be able to help, she reached for her dressing
gown then pushed back the covers to go to him even though she feared his
response.

Before her feet touched the floor, a loud thump jolted her.
That was more than his dropping a fire utensil.

“Beau?”

He didn’t answer. Instead only the strained wheeze of his
breathing echoed in the silence.

Shoving her arms in the sleeves of her dressing gown she
flew through the sitting room and found him naked on the floor. His stomach worked,
but his struggle to breathe pulled at memories deep in her, memories of slaves
who’d died for being unable to breathe during the burnings. And more raw, the
memory of him collapsing in front of her the morning after their makeshift
wedding. The shock and despair of that time echoed back to her. Her throat went
dry. Her insides went watery.

She shook off the memories, the keening sense of loss. She
wouldn’t lose him again.

His room was smoky, which couldn’t be good for a man with
the cane disease. He needed fresh air and fast. She grabbed him under the arms
and tugged him toward a window. He seemed to revive a little although his head
lolled as she dragged him across the floor. She let him lie as she fumbled with
the catch and then threw the casements wide. Cold air blasted inside.

She grabbed a chair and turned it to face the window. “Beau,
you need fresh air.”

She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him die—not when the weakness of
his lungs was her fault, too.

He stared at her, a circle of white around the blue of his
eyes and his lips turning faintly purple.

Ignoring the way his warm skin seemed to awaken a part of
her she’d much rather remain asleep, she reached for him. Hauling him into the
chair would have been impossible except he seemed to recognize the need to
breathe the fresh air and struggled to plop into the chair.

Clearly the movement drained him. She pushed his head toward
the open window. Twisting away, she hauled the counterpane off the bed and
thrust it around him, her fingers encountering a welt on his shoulder. She
didn’t have time to puzzle it out. The smoke had to be cleared, he needed
medicine, and he needed it now.

She yanked on the bellpull then grabbed a poker and shoved
the burning pieces into the fireplace. Opening a second window she fanned the
air, shooing the smoke away from him.

Beau was slumped forward, his forehead resting on the
casement. He had to breathe the outside air. She went back to him and pulled
his head up, her fingers against the cool skin of his forehead “Breathe. Try to
relax and breathe.”

His hand clamped around her wrist and her heart jolted.

He turned his head and heaved out, “Don’t...”

Don’t what? Don’t be near him, don’t touch him, don’t...

“Leave...me.”

A rush of hope flooded her body leaving it weak. Her knees
buckled. Did he want her with him? “No, never, but I have to get my medicine
kit. I have herbs that will help.”

She twisted her wrist free of his grasp but didn’t miss the
panic in his eyes. It tore her to leave him even for the brief time it would
take her to retrieve her kit. She hoped the herbs that had been sitting for
years retained their potency. “I will not be far. Just in the room next.”

She ran to her room and the dressing room but had to fetch
and light a candle to see. The delays ticked in her head turning seconds into
minutes and each minute into an hour. The outer door of the suite clicked open
and she breathed a little easier, knowing help had come. The black leather of
her case blended into the shadows of the cabinet until finally she found it by
touch and yanked it out.

Holding her dressing gown closed at the throat she ran back
toward Beau’s room.

An under-footman blocked her entrance. “He’s not decent, my
lady.”

“
Mon Dieu
, I am to help.” She raised the case hoping
that Beau hadn’t barred her. Then having no patience for either of them, she
shoved the unyielding boy out of the way.

“Bring...my...son,” rasped out Beau.

“No. He cannot see this.” Yvette winced. Beau wanted to see
Etienne because he thought he was dying. Did she have the right to deny him?
The thought sent icy currents running through her veins. “You will see him in
the morning when you tell him you cannot teach him to ride the horse.”

Beau twisted. The pleading was gone from his eyes. In its
place was anger. Good, the emotion would help him fight the constriction of his
lungs.

She pointed to the window. “Breathe.”

The under-footman was shutting the second window. “Night air
is poisonous.”

“The smoke is what is poisonous.” She reached around the boy
and wrenched the window back open. She’d nursed countless slaves through these
attacks only to lose them the next time the fields were burnt. She couldn’t
lose Beau again. Even if he hated her, it was better that he lived.

The under-footman looked toward Beau as if to take his cue
from a sick man.

“Go fetch someone else if you will interfere. Wave out the
smoke. He cannot breathe it.” She put her case on the stripped bed and opened
it. The worn leather buckle crumbled a little. But inside she found the bottle she
wanted and unstoppered it. The strong scent of camphor drifted out.

The young man, who must have been assigned to Beau, flapped
a dressing gown sending breezes through the room but also clearing the smoke.
Beau shivered, but clean air was more important than warmth.

“I need a...” The English word for what she wanted
disappeared. She muttered the French word, hoping that getting it out would
open the path for the English word.

Beau twisted and his bare chest and a thigh sparsely covered
in dark hairs were visible and sent an odd sensation to her belly.
“Spirit...lamp,” he wheezed out just as the words
warming tray
popped into her mind.

“Yes, a spirit lamp or a small stove. For to make a
tincture.” Dragging her eyes away, she retrieved a tin cup and poured a little
of the liquid in it then crossed the room to hold it under Beau’s nose. She
waved the fumes in his face as he reared back.

He stared at her.

“Just camphor, the fumes will help clear your passages.”

He cautiously leaned forward and inhaled.

She swiveled on the hapless under-footman. “Go, go, go. I
need a spirit stove now. Wake the housekeeper if you know not where to find
one.”