Page 64 of Vying for a Viscount
Anastasia and Aurora gladly picked up their teas and took deep sips.
Letitia could only imagine how they must be feeling. Their only brother was lying in bed, his leg wounded and very sick from an infection.
“The doctor’s here,” Hunter said as he helped himself to anotherpour of brandy, this time sipping it.
“Did he awaken while you were there?” Letitia asked.
“Yes,” Aurora replied. “He’s worried about Mother and Father and about us.” She paused, finished her tea, and set the cup and saucer on the table. “I told him we’re fine, and he should just get better so I can beat him in a horse race.”
“Oh, what did he say about that?” Letitia asked.
“He laughed, then had a coughing fit and gasped for air.” Aurora wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “I’ve never beaten him in a race, but I had to say something.”
Anastasia took her sister’s hand in her own. “It was the perfect thing to say.”
“It was,” Hunter agreed. “You know how he is about his horse. I’m surprised he hasn’t joined Stanton in opening his thoroughbred farm. Stanton asked him. I believe it’s only a matter of time before he’s as thoroughbred-racing crazy as Stanton. I may have to join them as well.”
Letitia knew Greyson loved horses and racing, but she didn’t know that Stanton had asked him to partner in his thoroughbred farm. She believed he would excel, and if Hunter joined them as well, the three of them would produce some of the fastest thoroughbred horses ever. All it would take was for Greyson to recover and keep his leg. She worried about him if the doctor had to amputate. Sometimes, when an infection set in, they remove the infected appendage to save the patient’s life. However, she believed the infection had already spread, and removing the leg now would not do any good.
If the doctor found he needed to remove his leg, would Greyson come to terms with it? It wouldn’t matter to her whether he had two legs or one. All that mattered was that he was alive so she could love him for the rest of their lives, however long that may be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Greyson had blinkedthe sleep from his eyes and couldn’t believe what he saw. Letitia sat beside his bed, her hands blanketing his. The warmth of her hands was almost more than his fevered body could bear, but he would die before he pulled his hand from between hers. Before he’d opened his eyes, he’d known she was there. Her floral scent and the sound of her breathing were familiar to him; he would recognize them anywhere. Even as the fever ravaged his body, he recognized her as an extension of himself.
They belonged together. They completed each other, body, mind, and soul. He prayed he had the strength to fight the pitchfork wound and the infection that no one needed to explain was running rampant through his body. He only needed to inhale, and the pain in his lungs stoked his greatest fear—the fear of dying on his family. Not being there to take care of them. Not being there to handle the burdens they would face if he were gone.
He trusted his cousin, but it wouldn’t be the same. He didn’t know or love them as he did. And when it came to Letitia, whom he loved to distraction, who would look after her? Her son, Simon, was many years away from being able to care for her. If Greyson died, he prayed she would fall in love again with a gentleman worthy of her—one who would cherish and love her as he did. Knight would step up and watch over her. With him and Charlotte, he could rest easy knowing she hadfriends who cared for her, along with Clarice, Emmeline, Lilly, and their husbands. She also had his sisters, Hunter, and Warren. She would be fine.
His chest ached. He wouldn’t be fine. He’d be dead. No. No. No. Don’t think that way. He needed to fight with everything he had. It was the only way to survive.
He forced his eyes open and said, “Don’t cry.” It seemed the perfect thing to say at the time.
He was so thankful she had come to him. No doubt Knight had sent word. And if Knight had sent word, he was very sick indeed. Forcing his fears aside, he enjoyed the time he spent with her. Even if he wished he had the strength to pull her into bed with him and make love to her. He had to believe the time would come when he could. He would not give up. He would not give in to his fears and worries. Even if he lost his leg, he would be alive and could still love Letitia if she’d have him, cripple and all. And she would. She had the biggest heart of anyone he knew. She loved him now, flaws and all. She would love him with one leg.
When she spoon-fed him chicken broth, tears welled in his eyes at the gentleness of her soul. Everything she felt for him was evident, and he would fight with everything he had to experience her gentle soul again and again until they were old, with gray hair and wrinkles. Until their grandchildren were old enough to marry and have children of their own. This was what he had to remind himself he was fighting for. Fighting for a future with Letitia. If he didn’t fight and death took him, those children and grandchildren would never be born, and how tragic would that be?
When she finished feeding him, he tried to keep his eyes open—tried to speak and tell her how he felt, how he loved her enough to reach into the sky and give her a star. But his body had other ideas, and he drifted back into sleep, full of fitful dreams and an uncertain future.
He’d woken again briefly when Hunter and his sisters visited, thenagain when the doctor arrived.
“Are you awake, Viscount?” Doctor Hanson said as he lifted his eyelids, and he moaned, shocked that moving them could hurt.
“Perhaps.”
“Good. Nurse Pendergrast and I are going to raise you just a little on a pillow so we can get you to take some nice warm broth.”
He had to keep sucking in air to keep from screaming because the pain in his leg was so intense.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “But if you are to keep up your strength, you need nourishment.”
“Open,” the nurse said.
He obeyed, and the warm broth slid down his throat and eased his thirst. They repeated this many times until he croaked out, “Enough.”
“You did well, Viscount. Now we’re going to try something to help your lungs,” the doctor said. “We’re going to put a linen towel over your head while you breathe in the mist from the boiling water, which I’ve infused with a medicinal mixture. Whatever you do, don’t move. I don’t want the water spilling and burning you. Do you understand?”
Greyson tried for patience. Not easy when all he wanted to do was sleep. “Yes.”
