"You could never fail me," he said fiercely, lifting one of her hands to press a kiss to her knuckles. "I did not marry you for an heir. I married you because the thought of spending my life with any other woman in England made me want to sail back to Spain and walk into enemy fire. Let Nansen have the dukedom when I am gone. I do not care. I only care about you."
Brynn choked on a sob, overwhelmed by a love so fierce it terrified her. "But your legacy?"
"My legacy is my own business," Alaric said firmly, standing up and pulling her up with him. He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her flush against his chest. "Now, we have wasted enough of this afternoon on foolish men with leather bags. Dry your tears, my love."
She sniffled, wiping her cheeks. "What are we going to do?"
Alaric smiled—a dangerous, thrilling curve of his lips. "I am going to dismiss the rest of the staff for the evening. And then, I am going to ask you what you would like for supper. I believe Cook was preparing a roast pheasant. Does that suit you?"
Brynn stared at him, utterly bewildered by the sudden shift in reality. Her medical doom had just been pronounced, and her husband was inquiring about poultry.
"Supper?"
"Yes, supper," Alaric repeated, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Because you are my wife, you are perfectly well, and I am ravenously hungry."
The grand dining room of the Westmore estate was designed to intimidate, built to seat forty dignitaries beneath glittering crystal chandeliers. That evening, however, it held only two.
Alaric had indeed dismissed the footmen and the butler, taking it upon himself to carve the roast pheasant and pour the rich burgundy wine. He had dragged Brynn's chair from the far, lonely end of the mahogany expanse and placed it directly beside his own at the head of the table.
Candlelight flickered across the silver cutlery, casting warm, dancing shadows over Brynn's face. She picked at the roasted asparagus on her porcelain plate, her appetite still buried beneath the residual shock of the afternoon.
Alaric watched her over the rim of his crystal goblet. He had removed his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, a scandalous state of undress that signaled how entirely he considered them alone, insulated from the strictures of London society.
"You are not eating, Brynn," he noted, setting his glass down.
"Forgive me, Alaric. My stomach is still in knots." She set her fork aside, turning to face him. "I cannot simply pretend that nothing happened today."
"Dr. Abernathy is a fraud," Alaric finished for her. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his expression shifting from gentle husband to the calculating tactician who had outmaneuvered French generals. "Have you not noticed a pattern, Brynn? Consider the chronology of your frailties."
Brynn frowned, confused by his analytical tone. "What do you mean?"
"When we married, you were the picture of health. You rode with me at the country estate. You danced until dawn during the season. You were never dizzy, never faint." Alaric reached out, tracing the rim of her wine glass with his index finger. "Your ailments only began four months ago. Precisely when we returned to London for the season."
"The city air is notoriously bad," Brynn reasoned, though a cold prickle of unease was beginning to gather at the base of her neck.
"The air in Mayfair is fine enough," Alaric dismissed. "Tell me, who recommended Dr. Abernathy to you when you first felt unwell?"
Brynn thought back to the tea party in late April. "Your cousin, Nansen. He was visiting, and I mentioned a mild headache. He insisted Abernathy was the only man to see."
Alaric's eyes darkened, a flash of pure predatory danger passing through them. "Exactly. Nansen. The man who stands to inherit everything if I die without issue. The man who has been racking up gambling debts at White's faster than he can beg me to pay them."
Brynn's breath hitched. "Alaric, you cannot possibly be suggesting... Nansen is your family. He would not—"
"Nansen would sell his own mother for a prime piece of horseflesh," Alaric said coldly. "I paid two of his debts last year to keep his name out of the papers. Since then, I have cut his allowance. He is desperate. And a desperate man looking at a dukedom is a dangerous creature."
He reached out and took her hand, his thumb stroking her palm. "Think about your daily routine, Brynn. Think about what has changed since April."
Brynn searched her memory. "Nothing significant. The new season, new dresses... I take the tonic Dr. Abernathy prescribed." She paused.
"The tonic?" Alaric repeated softly. "And who prepares it for you?"
"My new lady's maid, Clara." Brynn's heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "Nansen recommended her as well. He said she had served his mother before she passed."
Alaric exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. The pieces were locking together with terrifying precision.
"So, my heir presumptive installs a maid in my house, who administers a tonic prescribed by a doctor that my heir presumptive recommended. A tonic that miraculously, instead of curing your ailments, has made you increasingly faint, pale, and, according to the good doctor today, entirely incapable of bearing children."
Brynn stared at her husband in horror. "You believe I am being poisoned?"