She Was Sold to an Old Duke — But His Wedding Night Gift Changed Everything
Chapter 11
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The vast house grew deathly quiet. Josephine ordered the corridors heavily carpeted to muffle the servants' footsteps. She moved a small cot into the sitting room adjoining the master bedchamber. She slept in her clothes, waking at the slightest sound of his distress. The estate business was conducted in hushed whispers at the doorway: she was running the duchy, but her mind was anchored entirely to the heavy four-poster bed where the Duke lay fighting for air.Dr. Evans, a practical, unsmiling man from the village, came twice a day, smelling of camphor and pipe tobacco. On a miserable Tuesday afternoon, with freezing rain lashing the windows, he packed his leather bag and looked at Josephine with grim finality."His heart is straining against the fluid in his lungs, Your Grace," the doctor said quietly in the hallway. "He is 71 years old. You must prepare yourself. The next 48 hours will decide the matter: he will either break the fever, or the fever will break him."Josephine nodded once, sharply. "Thank you, Doctor. See yourself out. I will send a rider if there is a change."She closed the heavy oak door to the master suite and leaned her forehead against the cool wood. She closed her eyes: the thought of Thomas dying didn't bring the relief of freedom she might have expected months ago; it brought a heavy, suffocating dread. Without him, the estate was just a massive, empty stone box.The quiet did not last.The following morning, the sound of raised voices echoed up the grand staircase. Josephine was sitting by the fire, wiping a cool, damp cloth across Thomas's burning forehead. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged gasps.The heavy door to the sitting room banged open. Mrs. Higgins stood there, her face flushed with uncharacteristic panic. "Your Grace! I tried to stop them—"She was pushed aside. Reginald strode into the room, followed closely by his mother, Lady Agatha. They wore heavy traveling cloaks dripping with rain; they looked like crows circling a carcass."Where is he?" Reginald demanded, his eyes darting around the sitting room, trying to peer into the darkened bedchamber beyond. "The village telegraph operator sent word to London: he is dying!"Josephine stood up slowly. She dropped the damp cloth into a brass basin. She smoothed the front of her dark wool skirt. She did not raise her voice, but the sheer, freezing authority in her tone stopped Reginald in his tracks."You will lower your voice in this house, Reginald," she said softly."Do not speak to my son in that tone!" Agatha snapped, stepping forward. "We are his family! We have a right to see him, and we have a right to secure the estate! We know he is incapacitated. We require the keys to the estate office and the master ledgers immediately!""You require nothing," Josephine said. She moved to stand perfectly in the center of the doorway leading to the master bedchamber, blocking their view. "The Duke is resting. He is receiving medical care. He is not receiving visitors—least of all visitors who have come to measure the drapes before the man is even dead."