A Passionate Endeavor by Sophia Nash Page B

saving his neck for further displays of frothy cravats.
     

     
    It was the heat that had done it. That was
the conclusion drawn by Dr. Kittridge and his daughter in private.
They could not go against Her Grace, who was convinced that it was
the very nature of the air outside that had brought on the
duke’s relapse.
    Charlotte hastened outside the duke’s vast
chambers, daring to leave His Grace alone for a few moments to
communicate the necessary ingredients—cinchona bark and licorice—to
make a tea to soothe the duke’s cough and reduce his fever. She
could hear him still coughing violently as Lord Huntington appeared
on the stair’s landing.
    “How does he fare?” Nicholas asked, hope and
fear vacillating in his expression.
    Charlotte frowned. She despised this part of
her position, that of imparting bad tidings. “He has worsened with
each passing hour, my lord. Perhaps you could bring a measure of
comfort to him now. Let us go in.”
    His father lay motionless on the bed, eyes
closed. The duke’s flesh was stretched over bone, showing the all
too apparent skeleton that loomed beneath. His prominent forehead
was as still and white as marble.
    “Father,” exclaimed Nicholas as he grasped
his hand.
    “Nicholas, my son—so glad you came back.
Wanted you to know this before I am gone,” he rasped, his eyes
opening a crack.
    “I am glad I came back as well, Father. I
missed you over the years,” Lord Huntington admitted.
    “I am sorry you went away, even if we all
agreed it was for the best,” the duke said hoarsely. “But I missed
you… I missed you more than I can say.” On the last words, he began
to cough. The effort required to do so seemed to rob the old
gentleman of an energy he did not possess.
    Charlotte supported the man’s frame as he
continued in a long spasm, advising him to talk less. The duke lay
back upon the many pillows she then arranged to his liking.
    “Is there nothing to ease his discomfort?”
Lord Huntington gave her a haunted look.
    She took his hand to comfort him. “Yes, my
lord. There is a soothing tea for the throat that is being
prepared.” He did not surrender her hand.
    The duke was looking at them through
half-shuttered eyes.
    “Miss Kittridge, how can I thank you?” Lord
Huntington asked, covering their clasped hands with his free
one.
    “There is no need.” She felt embarrassed
under the old gentleman’s gaze, and excused herself without delay.
“I must see about the tea. My father should arrive any moment, Your
Grace.” She gave a quick curtsy and removed herself from the
room.
    Running down the stairs, she held her flaming
cheeks in her hands. It had been mortifying to face the perceptive
glance of the Duke of Cavendish. Despite his age and condition,
his knowing, eagle eyes had pierced her composure. And she had fled
like a poacher caught with a tangle of game over one shoulder.
    She met Charley coming the other direction,
carrying a heavy book. “Miss? The doctor said you might be needin’
this. Said sumpin’ about a book you’ve been lookin’ for.”
    “Oh, yes. Thank you, Charley. Is he coming
then to relieve me?”
    “Yes, miss. He bewaitin’ on the medicine you
asked to be brewed. He said for you to wait until he comes.”
    Charlotte took the large volume and returned
to her post, outside the duke’s door, after thanking the lad.
    The door was ajar, and she could hear the
voices of the son and father clearly. Charlotte, desperate for a
distraction, opened the tome and refused to eavesdrop. But the
temptation was too great, once she heard her name mentioned, and
her resolution too weak. The voices floated from the sickroom.
    “My son,” the duke said. “Don’t think I
haven’t seen the look in her eye.”
    There was a long silence.
    “Miss Kittridge is not for you.” Again a
coughing fit overwhelmed the father. “No, let me continue. I must…
it cannot be left unsaid.”
    She could hear the bed creaking and the
whisper of the