REGENCY: Loved by the Duke (Historical Billionaire Military Romance) (19th Century Victorian Short Stories) (2 page)

Charles seemed regretful of his actions and he strode assertively back to her.

“Emma, I am in anger at your flaunts of attention for other men,” he spoke, confident in his words. “It pains me in more ways than you know. I implore you to cease.”

“I will,” she whispered quickly.

He nodded and swiftly continued. “More than that,” he paused hesitantly. “You rely only on your unparalleled beauty to get you through life. I think you should start relying more on the qualities I married you for; your intelligence and your wit.”

Emma was again speechless and unbearably so. She turned away, more than embarrassed at herself and unworthy of his good view of her. She walked away a bit more and she was thankful at his silence. She was so unsure of what to think.

Finally gathering the courage to approach him, she was met with an even more frightening prospect.

Charles had his back to her. His posture was one she had never seen before; he stood between her and the great danger before them. The man looked withered and weary and he staggered forward toward them. Emma was fixated on the desperate aspect of his emaciated appearance and the perilous weapon clutched in his shaking fist. She took a trembling step toward Charles, unsure of everything but the need and desire to be close to him. Her husband’s hand flickered slowly up to keep himself between her and her presumed death.

The man’s eyes were haunting. Crazed and frantic. Emma was possessed with a paralysing fear as he stumbled ever closer to the couple, muttering desperate words she could not hear. Then with a swift flick of his hand, he aimed the gun at Emma swiftly and without proper aim.

Staring into death, she had no thoughts at all but felt herself begin violently pushed to the ground by a strong force. Emma fell down as a deafening shot rang out and she watched the body of her husband jerked brutally as the impact ricocheted throughout his body. Emma heard a strangled scream escaped her lips.

The figure staggered drunkenly toward them again; his body swaying unsteadily as if his mind could not decide on which way to walk. Emma was numb. Her mind raced with questions and indescribable fears. He seemed unperturbed at his sickening crime as he came to inspect the quivering figure of her husband. Charles was still alive and breathing. A fact both Emma and the attacker knew very well. His anguished moans possessed the air disturbingly so.

Her terrified eyes were engrossed at the assailant stepping ever closer to her husband; the smoking gun precariously aiming at the Duke’s body slumped on the ground. Emma jumped up instinctively scrambling to his side. She rushed at the violent stranger and barged brutally into him, knocking his aside and causing the gun to discharge again; a deafening whistle took over her senses and she was suddenly deaf to her surroundings. She was all too aware of his presence and she span around to ensure he was incapacitated. He rolled on the floor, groaning slightly; his state of mind meant he was unable to compose himself with any speed so Emma rushed to her husband’s side. Any chance of escape was now.

The scene before her was sickening and unbearably gruesome. Emma gaped at the pulsing hole in the left side of his chest. Warm gushing blood spurted horrifically out of him and he wailed quietly at the agony of his wound. The skin surrounded the hole was a bloody pulp and the metallic smell burned Emma’s nose and churned her stomach. Her shaking hands clutched his face and his eyes, wide with alarm, met hers and she knew he was conscious.

Emma said nothing but attempted to pull him up into a sitting position. His body, although lanky, was heavy under the delicate strength of Emma’s arms. But her persistence to escape the violent man, groaning behind them, did not falter at any point. She squatted desperately beside Charles and pulled his arm over her shoulders. His gasps of pain were distressing and Emma struggled not to cry. She was amazed at his incredible strength as he heaved himself up with Emma’s help. He murmured words in a tongue she could not make out and her emotional heart and mind forbade her to speak without the need of tears so she kept ever silent and did not enquire of what he said.

After a fatiguing struggle, they finally were on their trembling feet and hobbled erratically toward their frightened horses. Emma heard mumbled shouts behind her but her terror prohibited her to turn around and she fled ever more incessantly toward the promised safety of the giant beasts.

The Duke ceased to move suddenly and she was forced to copy him. He unsteadily turned around, freeing the grip he had on her but Emma could barely move; the horses were but metres away and she was unable to face whatever danger was unfolding behind her. Her body shook violently in the unparalleled panic of the situation. It could not be real. She was certain of it. Emma closed her eyes; a drowsiness overwhelming her. Her fists balled up tightly as she willed herself to leave. She could sense the sticky blood stains splattered across her dress and it made her feel dizzy.

“Leave the woman be,” she heard Charles speak calmly.

His voice was so unafraid and she was in awe of him once more. Emma turned her head a little to catch a glimpse of the Duke urging the maniac to show some mercy, some compassion. His hands were extended forward in an empathetic surrender.  A screeching howl erupted from the man’s throat; a strangled cry of pain and anger and Emma was distressed by it; her body jerking at the sudden outcry. She was even more afraid to move now.

The warm feel of her fingers being interlocked with another hand sent another wave of panic through her. She felt certain she would now be doomed to a premature death in a most violent manner. Though the affectionate sense of not being alone and the knowledge that she had somehow earned his want to protect her was of some comfort, Emma was still possessed immeasurable dread.

“You must die!” came a vicious screech of untold misery and anger.

Emma was startled once more by the horrific nature of his speech and she felt her fingers being squeezed.

A gun shot rang out once more. The ground beneath her seemed to tremor. The shrieking ringing was ear-splitting as the sound damaged their ears once more. Emma was jolted painfully. Her body erupted in shock as she fell to the grassy floor. A mangled cry escaping her dry throat. She sensed a body drop beside her as another shot rang.

Strong arms gripped her shivering body and she jolted against the sudden touch and she cried out in alarm. The familiar face of a servant filled her vision and she was overcome with relief. Now partially deaf, her mind could not register the events unfolding around her. Emma was hauled up from the ground and, panicked; she peered round to where her inhuman assailant now lay on the ground with two bullet holes in his chest. The sight, although relieving, was sickening and Emma projected a hurl of vomit out into the grass.

A gentle hand rubbed and soothingly patted her on the back and she cried significantly. Her heart pounded furiously. A gasp of agony from beside her caught her undivided attention. Charles’ breathing was erratic and unnatural quick pants. He lay in the grass, exhausted and pale. Blood engulfing all of his torso and his clothes were stained in a revolting way. Emma watched him with alarm. The servants fussed manically over him and eventually hoisted him off the ground and carried him away to the safety of the house.

Emma, herself, was helped carefully to her feet; her legs were quivering hysterically and she could not seem to calm herself in any way. A large figure of a broad man approached her and although she did not hear the words he spoke, she nodded vaguely. The Duchess was swept from her feet and carried swiftly away from the horrific ordeal of her near death.

She had been fussed over more times than she had been fussed over by any man before. Her welfare was expressed to be of the upmost importance but she was too in shock to appreciate it. She sat on a small chair outside the chambers of the Duke. None of the five doctors had yet left his room and Emma could not decide if that was good or bad news. She had finally been left alone in the empty corridor. Servants came every now and then to check on her. Every small cut and bruise had been attended to but she scarcely gave them any notice. The silence, though, was deafening. She could not even make out the murmured conversation in the room opposite her nor did she ever hear any cry of pain. This too distressed her greatly. At least then she would know he was still alive. Right now, she was unsure if he even lived.

With a loud creak, the door finally opened. Emma looked up desperately for some information. Her eyes searching the doctor’s features for any signs of misery or hope.

“Your Grace?” he murmured quietly. “The Duke is in a very critical condition.”

Her heart faltered.

“Although we have attended to him as best as we could, there is still the possibility of death and I must urge you to prepare yourself.”

Emma was flabbergasted and silent tears trickled down her quivering face.

“May I see him?” she whispered.

The doctor smiled solemnly. “I’m afraid that is not wise at this time, Your Grace.”

She nodded frantically before he had finished speaking.

“You have suffered a grave ordeal, Your Grace,” he continued, gazing at her empathetically. “Might I suggest you get some rest yourself?”

Emma sighed deeply and shook her head. “No, I will stay here.”

“Your Grace...” he protested but she silenced him with her hand.

“I will stay here, please tell me when I can see him.” she looked away then and settled herself in her chair again.

She listened as his footsteps disappeared inside the room again and the door closed quietly behind him. Alone, once more, she gave way to tears. Her face crippling into despair and she sobbed desperately, praying wildly.

Shocked awake by the disturbing contents of her dreams, the Duchess gasped as she pulled herself into a sitting position in the now uncomfortable chair. Her shaking hands groped at her agitated body. Her clothes were stained with the stench of blood and the crisp and sticky feel of it rubbed against her fingers. The sight of it was too horrific for her delicate state to handle and she cried out bitterly.

Footsteps ran to her aid as she dropped to her knees and wailed uncontrollably. Tender arms enveloped her shoulders and she was urged to her feet and led away from the discomfort of the corridor to the warm appeal of the bathroom and her inviting bed.

Her fragile hands were handled with care by the servant, Jane. Her touch was caring and soft. She delicately scrubbed away the crispy flakes of blood streaking her skin. Tiny cuts marked her hands and body and she had many blots of discolouration all over. Smudges of yellow, purple and green bruising her angelic figure. Jane soothed them away with the hot soapy water and the calming aroma of lavender and rose. Soft fingers were brushed through the thin strands of her hair and the day’s exhaustion overpowered her as she began to relax.

“Jane,” she murmured.

“Your Grace?”

“You will wake me when there is news of the Duke,” she ordered her sleepily.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she promised.

With that undeniable assurance, Emma fell into a tranquil deep sleep.

The sight was irrefutably deplorable. A sturdy hand was placed on her shoulder and she jumped at its touch but she was grateful for it. It steadied her considerably. Emma stood at the foot of the bed, five doctors and three servants invading the room with her, with a clear view of the damage before her. His face was deathly pale. Beads of cold sweat enveloped his feverish face. His eyes creased in his restless slumber. She was grateful for the fact that every trace of blood had been eradicated and he looked better for it. A large bandage encased his torso and the mere sight of it was reassuring that his health might improve. But his fever was worrying. The pale white ailment infested his skin and he shivered violently; his body frequently fitting vehemently. His greying hair was matted with sweat and the ailing makeup of his face aged him more and he looked so close to death it seemed like inevitability.

Emma’s heart pounded with fearful rhythm and she looked to the doctor’s for some comfort of his condition. Although all their faces were grave when she glanced at them, gentle sad smiles broke out across their features and there was an undeniable reassurance in them. Emma sighed, evidently relieved.

“How is he?” she enquired.

There was a confidence in her voice and she was thankful for it; it gave her faith in herself to be strong. One of the doctors stepped forward; his head was balding due his old age and his wrinkling skin gave her a certainty that he was an expert on such cases as this. His kind eyes smiled softly at her but her mind was too anguished and distracted to return it.

“He is very weak at this point, Your Grace,” he informed quietly. “But we are confident of the Duke’s strength to recover in time.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. And he bowed respectfully, silently backing away. Her legs were shaking slightly as she moved them one at a time to gracefully stumble closer to him. There was a stench about the room. Sweat and blood masking the air. It was almost sickening. Her echoing footsteps were the only sound now and she could feel the curious and cautious eyes of her company following her every movement.

Reaching the side of his bed, Emma reached her small hand out and ran her fingers over his hand; quivering with spasms. It was shocking to touch. The feverish heat of his skin was puzzling against the ice cold appearance of his body. Emma grazed her touch softly over him, interlocking her fingers with his. She heard him gasp abruptly and she snapped her eyes to his. They were staring, gaping, glaring at her. Emotions exploding in the wide, intense gawk in his eyes.

“Charles?” she choked, her voice breaking and she leaned into him.

His eyes were closed as soon as they were opened and he relapsed back into sleep. Emma jerked her head back to the doctors for some explanation.

“He has been drifting in and out of consciousness, Your Grace,” explained the kind doctor. “Do not alarm yourself.”

“When should we expect some improvement?” expressed Lady Hadlington anxiously.

“It is not clear, Your Grace,” the kind doctor admitted. “But we shall keep a close eye on him.”

Emma nodded again. “May I stay with him?” she implored sombrely.

The old doctor approached her then and put a supportive hand on her shoulder again.

“Of course, Your Grace, but I will not pretend that it will not be distressing for you.”

“I will stay,” she replied assertively.

And he nodded, wise enough not to argue with her. Emma felt pressure on her fingers as her husband’s hands trembled again but she held hope that he knew of her presence and was comforted by it.

Over the following days, Emma sat devotedly by his bed. She had found books on his table and had decided to read them to him. Hours past by and she had soon become an expert on farming and the trade of cotton. Finally, she had discovered a novel amongst the nightmarishly boring textbooks of trade. She was surprised by it. A bookmark had been placed in the middle of it, so she presumed he had been reading it of late. What surprised her though was the book itself. A romance novel she had recommended to a friend at a dinner party one evening; the only mention she had ever given on the subject of the novel. Emma was in awe to find it here amongst his intimate books.