Page 77 of One Day for a Valet

Oliver approached Sofia and rubbed his thumb across the frown line present even in her sleep. “Even if I wanted to be a duke—which I absolutely do not—and even if I possessed the skills to do the job adequately—which again, I absolutely do not—I cannot be a duke today for the same reason that I couldn’t be a duke’s heir when I was born. My sire would have left me in a foundling house because he understood it then, just as I do now. England does not have brown dukes.” He pulled the counterpane higher and tucked it snugly around Sofia.

“It’s just as well that Oliver Anson drowned in the sea, because Oliver Lioni is more than satisfied with a life of digging holes and trimming overzealous shrubbery. A life where he can watch his bossy little sister fall in love with a valet who is worthy of her. Where he can finish a day harvesting olives in the autumn, then make piles of leaves for his nieces and nephews to leap into. Oliver Anson can remain at the bottom of the ocean. His existence would only hurt everyone I care about.”

Oliver looked up at the vaulted window, his gaze steady, as if he could see those people and that life playing out for him in the darkness just beyond the glass. Then his gaze cut to Christopher. “And if that wasn’t clear enough for you in your well-deserved, half-drunken, fully belligerent state, I’ll make it clearer. That’s you I’m talking about. You and my sister, eccentric Violet with her sleeve full of insects, Nora, the little hellcat, and sensitive Zachariah. Even that uptight brother of mine is beginning to grow on me … rather like a fungus, really, but he makes it to the list nevertheless.” He took a step closer, then stopped. “I care about you. About all of you. And I’ve never been sorrier for my time as a gluttonous wastrel than I am right now.”

A look of amusement passed over Oliver’s face. “I mean, it wasn’t all terrible. There was a pair of twins I met in a tavern once with the most remarkable flexibility. That part was excellent.” Then he continued, more sombre. “But mostly I just wasted money and hurt people. Neither of which I particularly enjoy doing.” He took one final step closer. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I am asking you to listen. I am so damned sorry. And no matter what happens tomorrow or the next day, I’m going to take the friendship we have, the things you’ve taught me, and hold onto them. I will never stop being grateful to you for helping me find myself again. For giving me my sister back.”

Christopher stood and went to the pitcher, rinsing and refilling his glass with water, then he extended it for Oliver to take.

Christopher raised a brow. “You’re wrong about one thing. You aren’t entirely lacking in ducal skills. In fact, you’re very like Gabriel in your persuasiveness. Annoyingly so.” He smirked, and Oliver met him with a bright smile of his own, which dimmed after a moment and was replaced by an assessing look.

“You haven’t eaten and I’ve made an entire meal of shortbreads. We can’t have you collapsing here on Sofia’s floor, now can we? I’ll bring up a plate.” Oliver closed the door behind him as he left.

Christopher sat on the edge of Sofia’s bed twining her cool, lax fingers with his own. “I’m still angry at you. Livid, in fact. It’s time you wake up so we can have a satisfying row about it. I may even throw something. Something small and harmless like a knitted sock, but I’ll throw it with gusto.” She remained unresponsive, and he smoothed her cold hand between both of his.

“Go ahead and sleep then. You’re going to need all that energy for the fighting when you wake up.” Leaning over her, he brushed a kiss to her forehead.

The hours ticked by and morning arrived, bringing with it a constant rotation of concerned faces. Annie read the newest letter from her beau, Jeremy delivered a bouquet of flowers, and Zach tacked a picture he’d drawn to the wall beside her bed. The doctor repeated his exams, his expression laced with deeper concern each visit. Gabriel and Violet arrived after lunch to pry Christopher from the room so he could bathe and eat a proper meal.

No one who was aware of Oliver’s claim to the dukedom raised the issue. Each seemed to understand that it was a conversation best paused until Sofia was awake and recovering.

Christopher returned five minutes after Gabe and Violet had sent him away, unwashed and holding a chicken leg in his hand. Gabriel sighed with exasperation. “This is not a dining room, that is not a proper meal, and you have … sticky digits.”

“Really Gabriel, you’re a terrible snob. I hear this is how they all eat chicken in the Americas.”

Gabriel stood and rang for a maid, who arrived promptly, then he turned his attention back to Christopher. “All the more reason to utilise cutlery.” Gabriel nodded to the young servant. “Please fetch Mr Keene flatware and a plate before he forgets how to properly articulate his vowels.”

Passing the maid at the door, Oliver arrived with a matching drumstick in hand. “Didn’t I tell you this was easier?” He flashed a smile at Gabriel’s disgusted expression.

“Make that two sets of utensils and plates please, Abigail,” Gabriel called, without expression.

Violet had broken away from the men and was studying Sofia closely. Tension swept over her body.

Christopher abandoned his chicken leg to a handkerchief and washed his hands. When he reached for Sofia, she moaned and turned away. “Christ, she’s hot.” He pressed the back of his fingers to her forehead, then her throat. “She’s burning up. Get Higgins in here.”

He sat down beside her on the bed, running his hand up and down her forearm. “She was fine when I left. How did she spike a fever so fast? Her pulse is racing.” He was painfully aware of his rambling and the three sets of sympathetic eyes fixed on him, but he couldn’t find the will to care if he sounded half mad. It wasn’t as if they didn’t already know. He drew back the bedclothes, but when she shivered, he promptly tucked them back in place and shoved his hands through his hair.

Dr Higgins took one look at Sofia’s flushed face and wet a length of cloth from the pitcher, laying it across her brow. He painstakingly unwound a portion of her bandage, then prodded at the area around her wound, examining. Dr Higgins loomed for long minutes with his fingers pressed to her pulse and a dour expression on his face. Christopher could feel his own pulse throbbing in his temples as he attempted to remain quiet throughout Higgins’s exam. The blasted doctor was taking too long, and the silence scraped across Christopher’s skin like the drag of a serrated knife.

Christopher flinched at the snap of the doctor’s pocket watch as it closed. “I can’t say that I’m surprised to find her febrile today. Frankly, I expected it yesterday. The dressing on her wound was foul, and the bullet remained in her shoulder far longer than I would have liked.”

“Yes, but I can’t do anything about that now,” Christopher said, his voice rising with every word. “I couldn’t do anything about that then. What can be done for Sofia now?”

“There isn’t much. Keep her cool, try to get liquids into her, and give her willow bark for the fever and inflammation. I don’t know if she can hear you, but it can’t hurt to talk to her. Let her know you’re here. If her fever gets any higher, give her a cool bath—not cold. I must check in on my other patients, but I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.”

The moment the others filed out behind Dr Higgins, Christopher pulled off his boots, stripped off his waistcoat, and crawled on top of the covers to lie beside Sofia. He pressed his face into her curls and closed his eyes.

“The picnic and the pear trees, I want all that with you. I need you to stop this nonsense and get better now. I’m so sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry I didn’t take you into my arms the moment you were safe from those wretched men.”

Reflecting upon the person he’d become when he gave free rein to his anger, Christopher’s breaths grew sharp and shallow. “I love you so much, and I need you to wake up and tell me you love me too. Or tell me I’m an idiot, but please, please just wake up, sweetheart.”

He told stories about the life he imagined for them, the cabin by the lake he would build … or have workers build because he was never as clever as Gabriel with a hammer. He talked about his mother and the day she left. When he ran out of stories and the energy to make up more, he told her what he would have for breakfast in the morning. On and on he spoke until his voice was rough and his mouth parched.

When Christopher looked up, the sun had set. He found more strips of cloth and re-wet the ones that had warmed. Despite his efforts, her skin was like fire and she squirmed beneath the gentle stroke of his hand, murmuring incoherently. Christoper cursed, reaching for the tea the doctor had left and holding it to Sofia’s lips.

“Sofi, sweetheart. I need you to be still so I can get this blasted medicine into you. Please, love.”

“No, Oliver. Don’t leave! I’ll talk to Papa. Please don’t leave me alone.” Sofia writhed, spilling the tea on the counterpane.