[A/N] Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope you all have a lovely festive season and stay safe in your travels. Anywhere special you might be travelling to? I don't travel too much in the holidays, but let me know if you do or where you are hoping to go.
And a quick reminder to hit the follow button, as I will be placing a sneak peak for each chapter through out the upcoming weeks.
Thank you for all your support, and enjoy!
Time moved too slowly for Cordelia as the Curricle rushed along the road towards the scene of the disaster. She watched anxiously as Leviathan shakily stood, winded from the harsh fall, his rider remaining motionless on the ground.
A small crowd had already begun to gather around them by the time they arrived, and Cordelia jumped from the vehicle as soon as it came to a reasonable halt, nearly tripping over the rug and her skirts in the process.
The gentleman whom her aunt had been speaking to had dismounted and was currently holding Leviathan's reins as well as his horse when he noticed her approach. "Miss Sutton!" he exclaimed, and she turned to see that it was a gentleman whom she was well acquainted with and hoped not to see for a good long while.
"Lord Tilbur, what happened?" she asked, forcing her reservations about him aside as she rushed to her aunt, only to gasp in horror.
Her face was pale, contrasting greatly with the crimson liquid that flowed down the side of her face. Her tophat had been thrown far to the side, and her skirts were raised slightly, showing her riding boots and one concern in particular—one leg was not in its correct position.
"I do not know, Miss Sutton. We were talking and her horse suddenly bolted," Lord Tilbur stated, his eyes wide as he looked at the injured lady on the ground.
"What do we do?" she panicked.
"We must get her into my Curricle," the Marquis stated, his firm voice quieting the anxiousness in her body instantly as he moved to her. "I will drive her home then send my groom for a doctor. Lance!"
Cordelia watched helplessly as his groom rushed to his side, and together, they gently lifted the Countess. A sickening crunch was heard from the movement, followed by a strong rebuke by the Marquis when the groom carelessly jostled the boot of the broken leg.
She could only stand to the side and attempt to help as far as possible in moving her into the vehicle, her hands trembling terribly in her assistance as the unconscious lady was adjusted to lean against her in the seat. The blood on the Countess' temple, though not much, was cause for great concern as Cordelia supported her against her shoulder, the warm liquid dribbling onto her dress.
As carefully as he could, Lord Midrake urged the horses to move as smoothly as possible as they rushed back to the house, the Viscount following along behind them with the horses.
Once they had reached the entrance of Mayfield House, Lance jumped from the back of the Curricle and rushed inside to call for help before quickly returning. Servants hurried from the front door, and Cordelia almost sobbed in relief at seeing Martha's face, instinctively knowing that she was the best person to handle such a situation.
As gently as they could, the servants eased the Countess from the vehicle and carried her inside, setting her down on a settee in the drawing room. Cordelia lingered in the background, keeping out of the way as she watched the Marquis instruct everyone on what to do, his confidence reminding her that he must have dealt with such trials often while on the battlefield.
Although she always felt guilty for forcing him to experience such instances, she could not help but be grateful for the fact that it had given him the confidence and level-headedness to deal with such matters.
The doctor, whom Cordelia had recognised to be the one who had tended to herself, was there a few minutes later, and the servants filed from the room while the Marquis remained by his side. She watched Martha approach her with kindness in her eyes as she gently led her from the room and called a younger maid.
"Please, fetch Miss Sutton a pot of tea and take her to the morning room. Also, ask one of the men to find the Earl. He must be informed of his mother's accident." She then turned to her mistress with a smile. "I must assist the doctor, but I will speak to you of her status as soon as I can."
Cordelia seemed to cling to her old nurse like a babe to its mother, and it took a gentle firmness of the old woman's hand on her wrist for her to release her grip. Shaken and troubled, Cordelia watched helplessly as Martha smiled at her with soothing comfort before entering the drawing-room once more, closing the door behind her.
Faintness overcame her, exhaustion darkening her vision and weakening her knees. She felt herself begin to fall, but a strong hold on her arm prohibited the occurrence. She glanced up briefly to see Lord Tilbur's pinched expression of concern, but she was too weak to protest as he guided her towards the morning room.
He seated her on a soft chair and when the young maid had returned with a tray of tea things, he poured her a small amount and offered it to her. "Drink this. It will help with your shock."
Cordelia wordlessly took the beverage from him, but she could not find it within herself to drink it. Her throat felt like it had closed in on itself, and her arms were much too weary to move much at all, her anxious mind spinning circles in her head.
The Viscount paced down the length of the room, his gaze glancing at her from time to time to ensure that she would not grow faint again. His riding boots thudded against the floor, his spurs clinking a little as he walked. His riding hat was placed on the chair beside her, but he kept his crop in his hand, tapping it lightly against his boot from time to time as he walked.
Aside from his movements, the room was eerily quiet, and Cordelia clasped her hands together before her mouth and prayed silently for her aunt, feeling that it was the only thing she could do.
Broken bones were not an uncommon occurrence, and she knew that the doctor who had been brought was an expert in his field, but it was often the aftermath of such a trauma that was most lethal. She did not want to lose her aunt. She was one of the only relatives she had left in this world. She could not stand to lose another in such a tragic manner.
The intricately designed clock situated against the far wall chimed eleven times, but the drawing-room door remained closed.
Cordelia kept her face lowered; the tea cold in her hands. Once she had recovered from the initial shock of the occurrence, she became painfully aware of who was with her in the room. Her grip tightened on the delicate teacup, and she hoped with everything in her that the gentleman would not address his proposal. She was certain she would say something wrong, her mind too troubled to think coherently.
But she also grew curious about the fact that he had been in discussion with her aunt before the accident. And so, she cleared her throat quietly to gain his attention. She glanced up when she felt him turn to her, and she asked in a soft voice, "Please do not think me impertinent, but may I ask what you were discussing with the Countess?"
Lord Tilbur remained silent for a moment, watching her closely. He seemed to ponder the memory in his mind before finally drawing a deep breath into his lungs and closing the distance between them to sit beside her.
The sudden action alarmed her a little at his proximity, and her breath hitched when he clasped one of her hands within his leather glove. "You had not been well, and so Lady Mayfield did not allow me to see you. As you are well aware, I had asked for you to be my wife at the ball, but you never offered me a response. I was asking her for your decision, but since I am now with you . . ."
"What was the Countess' response?" she asked quickly, attempting to divert the attention from herself and the anxious rhythm of her heart.
A tightness came about the Viscount's mouth. "She said that she will not speak on your behalf. You have been extremely indisposed, and she did not wish to force you to give an answer that you may later regret."
There was a brief sense of relief in her gaze when she heard those words, and she glanced to the door when she thought she heard the knocker sound at the front door.
A light squeeze to her hand forced her attention back to the matter at hand, and she turned to see Lord Tilbur staring at her intently. "That was your guardian's response, now I ask for yours. Will you be my wife?"
"I . . . do not think this is an appropriate time," she began weakly, and she noticed how his gaze morphed into a mixture of anger and impatience.
"All I ask is a 'yes' or 'no' response, Miss Sutton. It is not too difficult to say," he remarked a little harshly, causing her eyes to widen a little in surprise. "I believe I have been most patient considering the circumstances. As you know, a man of my status and fortune is not used to being told to wait, and now I request an answer. Do you or do you not want to marry me?"
His gaze was hard on her face, and she felt that he was attempting to bore his way into her very soul. His hold on her hand had turned bruising, and she winced. "Please . . . you are . . . hurting me."
He glanced down at her hand briefly, noticing how red her fingers were becoming before looking back into her startled cornflower eyes. "Yes or no?" he pressed, not releasing his tight hold.
Cordelia swallowed nervously, the intensity of his eyes on her face making her feel uncomfortable. She lowered her gaze instinctively.
"No."
The silence was deafening, and she could feel the Viscount's surprise by how his grasp suddenly went slack on her hand. She drew it away from him quickly and gingerly rubbed it with her other while he continued to stare at her.
Eventually, in a low, tight voice, he said, "Need I remind you what you will forfeit by not accepting my hand?"
Cordelia pressed her lips together and glanced up at him. "I am aware; you do not need to remind me. But I cannot leave my aunt, especially not at such a crucial moment. She will need me now more than ever before."
The Viscount narrowed his gaze. "You are not in a position to make such careless choices regarding your future, or lack thereof, I should say. A lady of your standing cannot expect such an attractive offer to be made to you again. And once I leave this house, I will not breathe another word on the topic."
Cordelia met his scorned expression without hesitance and stood, feeling more confident with her decision the longer he spoke. "Then I believe it is best you leave immediately."
His lips parted, shocked by her brazen words as she moved to the closed door of the morning room. She opened it and looked back at him without regret. "Thank you for your assistance with Lady Mayfield. I will ensure that I tell her of your kind deeds."
The level formality of her tone riled him like no other, and he was about to mention it when the sound of frantic footsteps echoed throughout the entrance hall. They looked just in time to see the Duke of Kentwood enter the morning room, his coat in disarray upon his shoulders and expression desperate.
"Where is she? What happened?" he asked breathlessly, his tawny gaze latching onto Cordelia.
Lord Tilbur scoffed and marched passed him, shoving against his shoulder roughly as he did so. The Duke would have taken more notice of the action had he not had his attention trained on the young lady, awaiting her response.
Cordelia watched the Viscount leave with a livid expression on his face, before finally addressing the Duke's question. "We are not sure what happened, but she was out for a ride on her stallion. He suddenly bolted and fell with her. We do not know why he did so."
The Duke's expression was strained with distress as he listened to her explanation. "How is she?"
Cordelia lowered her gaze. "I do not know. The doctor is still with her, but I fear her leg must be broken."
He sucked in a sharp breath at her words and turned away, his hands balling into fists as he attempted to remain calm. He asked no further questions, but Cordelia could see the torment he was going through. She was not aware that the Duke cared for her aunt so greatly, and if she could, she would have offered him some comforting speech.
But she could not bring herself to do so, the situation still too raw in her mind for her to offer any form of solace, and she quietly returned to her seat.
The large hand of the clock almost reached twelve before they heard the approach of footsteps moving towards the morning room. They looked up at the same time to see the Marquis enter. Although his expression was impassive, Cordelia could see the weariness on his features and the tightness of his jaw.
She stood, her gaze imploring.
"The Countess appears to be stable at present. It was indeed a broken leg that she sustained, and the doctor had set it with a splint. He is busy finishing the last necessary bits but has asked if a room can be prepared for him. He wishes to stay the night so that he may check on her often."
"Yes, of course. That will not be a problem," Cordelia said quickly and rang the bell.
The same young maid entered shortly after, and Cordelia instructed her on what to do. The Duke of Kentwood was discussing something quietly with the Marquis, and when she turned her attention to them, his tawny gaze met hers.
"Miss Sutton, I would like to see the Countess' stallion. The Marquis reiterated the events to me, and I would like to investigate something."
Cordelia frowned at his words. "I am not certain what you will find, but I assume the groom will have taken him back to the stables by now."
Lord Kentwood nodded and moved from the room, his strides purposeful and expression determined.
And so, only the Marquis and Cordelia were left in the room, and when she turned to take a seat once more, the Marquis cleared his throat, halting her movements. "I apologize for seeming a bother, but do you have a place where I could wash my hands?"
She looked at him with a frown, before her gaze lowered to his hands. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of dried blood on his fingers that travelled up his knuckles and beneath the crimson-stained cusps of his sleeves.
"Yes, of course. How careless of me," she said and gestured for him to follow her.
She took him to the guest room that was prepared for the doctor, knowing that a basin would have been prepared for him to wash his hands. He followed her inside the room quietly, the only sound being that of their breaths and the falls of their feet as she gestured to the basin filled with warm water.
He thanked her with a nod and stepped up to it, and when he moved his shoulders to shrug out of his coat, Cordelia realized that it would be almost impossible for him to remove it without staining it as well.
"Allow me," she said quietly, making him pause to glance at her over his shoulder.
She knew that she should have called a manservant to assist him, but the room was further away from the bustle of the house, and she did not wish to keep the Marquis waiting when he had already done so much for her.
He watched her silently, his stormy gaze locked on her blooming cheeks as she slowly made her way towards him. He did not reproach her as she slowly lifted her hands to grasp the firm fabric of his coat, and with a few gentle tugs, the item fell from his shoulders and passed his hands.
Cordelia felt her cheeks grow warmer still, and she kept her eyes averted, not willing to risk glancing upon his dress shirt, but she gestured for him to hold out his arms to her. As carefully as she could, she rolled back the sleeves, ensuring that the scarlet stains did not ruin the material further. When they had been folded to about halfway up his forearms, she backed away shyly and cast her eyes to the carpet beneath her dress.
"Thank you," the Marquis stated softly, his voice low.
She could feel his intense gaze on her face, and she nodded, backing away from the room. "I will call the servants to have the water replaced."
She ducked from the room quickly, and closed the door behind her, releasing a harsh breath that she did not realize she had been holding. She stood there for a moment, attempting to gain her wits as her heart thudded erratically within her breast.
What had possessed her to do such a thing was beyond her. It certainly was not the way a young lady should behave. Only menservants could assist gentlemen with dressing. She cupped her cold fingers to her heated cheeks in an attempt to cool them as she walked down the hall.
Foolish, that is what you are, she scolded herself.
On her way, she instructed a servant to change the water in the allocated guest room, and as she entered the main hall, she noticed the doctor exit the drawing room and she rushed to meet him. "How is she?" she asked, her imploring gaze flittering over his tired features.
He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead and she noticed the blood stains on his fingers. "She is resting at present, but she will be in a great amount of pain when she rouses. I shall have to be here when she does."
Cordelia nodded and glanced towards the closed door. "May I see her?"
The doctor inclined his head once. She thanked him and said he may ask any servant to direct him to his room before she made her way to the door and slowly entered.
The drawing room was very quiet, the curtains drawn so that minimal light could bother the resting Countess. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room, and she noticed Martha cleaning up the last of the soiled medical supplies before her gaze finally rested on her aunt.
Her chest tightened at the dismal sight of her lying prostrate on the settee, her leg bound and raised on a cushion. Martha paused in her work when she heard the door, and she glanced up to see Miss Sutton standing there with a strained look on her face.
"I am certain she will be all right, Miss Sutton," Martha said softly as she reached her side. "Dr. Whitely is one of the best doctors I know. He will ensure she makes a smooth recovery."
Cordelia glanced at her old nurse with tears in her eyes. "I hope so," she whispered.
Martha offered her a kind smile before leaving the room to discard the bloodied cloths and wraps.
With a heaviness that she had not experienced for many years, Cordelia slowly crossed the length of the room to reach her aunt's side. Her dark hair was splayed around her resting face, her skin the palest she had ever seen it. She was still in the same dress that she had been in when she fell, and so grass stains covered most of the skirts and bodice. She was certain that the maids would have a difficult time attempting to remove those stains. The dress was more than likely ruined.
She sighed heavily as she pulled a chair close to the settee and sat down, taking small comfort in watching the slow rise and fall of her aunt's chest, a tangible reminder that she was still alive. She reached out her hand and gently touched it to the Countess' cheek, the skin feeling cool to the touch.
Cordelia did not know much about the world of medicine, but she had heard of the dangers one could succumb to in the event of a broken bone. Fever and delirium lasting for days, most likely due to the horrendous pain. That was what frightened her the most. She was certain a fever caused by a broken bone was far more intense than a fever caused by homesickness.
Home, Cordelia thought grimly. They certainly were not going to return to the Manor soon.
The door to the drawing room opened once more, casting a dim glow of directed light into the darkened space. She glanced up, noticing the Marquis, who had since washed what he could of the blood from his hands and resumed wearing his coat.
She did not mean to blush as she did, and she hoped that the darkness of the room concealed her appearance well enough as she returned her attention to her aunt. "Thank you for all your help, Lord Midrake," she said softly. "I would have been lost on what to do if you had not been present."
He did not respond to her words, and she felt her spine tense when he slowly walked towards her. She kept her gaze averted when he came to stand a mere step away from her. "It is not the first time I have dealt with such matters," he began, a contemplative tone about his voice as he recalled his time in the militia. "But I am assuming that this was your first experience. It must have been traumatic for you. Are you alright?"
"I will be, as long as my aunt recovers."
She lowered her face then, her emotions suddenly cascading over her with a fervour she had not expected. Her shoulders shook and tears misted her eyes as she bowed her head. She was only vaguely aware of the Marquis kneeling beside her before his hands gently reached for her, encouraging her to turn to face him.
He watched her sorrowful expression for a few seconds, his gaze compassionate as his stormy eyes roamed her face. Then his arms surrounded her, drawing her close. She went willingly and buried her face against his shoulder as she cried.
His arms were solid against her, a rock as she attempted to brave the tempest sea. She drank in the soothing words he whispered in her ear, and her hands instinctively fisted the dark fabric of his coat, unwilling to let him go, knowing she would drown if she did.
How long they remained in that position, she could not tell. But it was long enough that her eyes eventually relented their onslaught, and she was left feeling weak and vulnerable in his arms. But she did not mind. She felt safe with the Marquis. She always did and despite the years and the tribulations that had caused him harm, he was still there—still providing her support in her darkest hour.
"I am sorry," she whispered, her voice muffled since her face was still buried against his shoulder.
She felt his body tense beneath her cheek, knowing that she was not referring to her weakened state. She tightened her grasp on him, afraid he would move away. Then she felt him move, one hand reaching up to thread through the soft strands of her sunshine hair.
"As I have said before, I do not blame you. I never have. It was situations such as this that my time in the militia proved to be advantageous. You must believe that, Cordelia."
Cordelia was quiet for a moment, her thoughts tumbling in her mind. She looked up at him, at the concern and desperation evident on his face. She could not understand him.
It was because of her that his youth was cut short! The reason he never attended Oxford or Cambridge. Why was he treating her as more than she was?
She looked away a moment later, her grasp inadvertently tightening on his shoulders. "I thought you were angry with me, despised me even. I just . . . cannot fathom why you are treating me with such kindness," she whispered brokenly, feeling exposed even though he could not see her downcast face.
Gently, with a tenderness that seemed foreign to his actions, his fingers touched beneath her chin, raising her head to meet his gaze. Despite the wretched experience she was forced to endure, her face looked radiant. Her cornflower eyes, although undeniably sad, seemed to burst with such life that it put the sun to shame. Taking his time, he allowed his eyes to roam over her features, memorizing every little detail from the splash of freckles on the tip of her nose to the feminine curve of her eyebrows.
But then his eyes locked on the only imperfection on her cheek—the delicate skin was cut by a thin, faded scar. While hardly perceivable when powdered, her tears had washed most of it away, causing it to be as plain as day in their proximity.
His chest burned with anger, his grip instinctively tightening on her chin. Not by much, but noticeable enough by the young lady all the same.
She remained still in his hold, watching the emotions flicker across his eyes, thunderous like an approaching storm.
"The only thing I despise," he said at length, his voice solemn and deep, "was not being able to keep my father from striking you." He noticed her flinch at the painful memory, and his hand raised to cup her cheek tenderly, his thumb gently caressing the scar. "Along with all the fear instilled because of it."
Her eyes were wide as she beheld him in her hypnotizing gaze. Her throat constricted at the soothing motion of his thumb against her cheek, the warmth of his hand against her face. He looked at her as though she was something precious to him that he had lost and thought he would never find again. It was a look that robbed her of words.
"I was angry at myself; never at you," he concluded, his eyes finding hers once again. "I could never be angry at you."
She clasped his wrist, but she made no effort to make him lower his hand. Her body thrummed most unusually as he watched her, feeling exposed but cherished at the same time. There was something kind and protective in his gaze, as though the very sight of her distress caused him pain.
Eventually, in a low voice, he began, "Cordelia . . . there was a reason I asked for you to drive with me."
Her breath grew still in her lungs, her ears latching onto every word he spoke. He gently swiped his thumb against her cheek once more, his gaze tender. "I wanted to ask you if you would—"
The sudden sound of the front door being flung open jarred them, and the Marquis quickly stood, turning his back to her and concealing her with his broad frame as he faced the drawing-room door. Her heart thundered against her skin as she slowly peered around him to notice the Duke of Kentwood enter, his expression grim but livid all at once.
"I know why she fell," he stated, his voice quiet but full of anger.
Cordelia slowly rose to her feet, her eyebrows furrowing as she looked at him. "What did you find?"
The Duke's gaze had settled on the Countess, and he was silent as he stared at her before his lips tightened with indignation, and his expression flashed with unbridled anger.
"Leviathan had a spur wound in his side."
FUN FACT: during the Regency Era, splints, wooden casts, and plaster techniques were available to the doctors for administering to broken bones, setting, and keeping immobile while the bones mended. However, the success of the remedy depended on the skill of the attendant (sometimes this could be a farrier, vet, midwife or anyone else on hand).