Patrick watched her go, emotion clogging his throat. He shook his head, then with all the force his tension-filled body had, he all but flung himself against the wall. Bracing both hands, palms-down, against the wall, he hung his head, and with a force similar to that of the bulls he’d heard about in Spain, the emotional dam he’d built burst. All the memories of that fateful day more than five years ago flooded his mind...
***
April 2, 1810
“Patrick!”
Abigail screaming his name jolted Patrick straight from his seat.
Heedless to anyone or anything in his path, Patrick bounded through the halls of Briar Creek, not slowing until he reached the viscountess’ room. “Yes?” he choked, gasping for breath.
“It hurts,” was her only response.
Patrick nodded his understanding, and walked to his wife’s side. An empty chair was positioned to her right and he sat down. He averted his gaze as the doctor lifted the sheet and pooled it at her waist. Abigail had always been sensitive about him seeing her unclothed. Whenever they’d been intimate, she’d insisted on wearing her nightrail, then had made him snuff all the candles before joining her under the covers. Once they were through, she’d go behind the dressing screen to attend her feminine needs and insist he put his nightshirt back on, too. He didn’t wish to cause her any undue worry at a time like this, so he forced his attention on her chalky face and used his fingers to brush the hair stuck to her damp forehead behind her ear.
The doctor continued his exam, and Patrick studied Abigail. He may only be a young man of three-and-twenty, with more knowledge of knitting than the process of delivering babies, but if he, the father, was called into the room, something must be wrong, indeed. For both Celia’s and Helena’s births he’d been in the drawing room or his study, waiting to be informed the birth had occurred.
His eyes did a slow sweep of his wife’s sweaty face. She looked tired—no, not tired—exhausted. She looked positively exhausted. Her red-rimmed eyelids were so heavy they appeared to be almost closed. Her mouth was hanging open a touch. Her skin was nearly translucent, and a dark half-moon rested under each of her eyes.
Swallowing, Patrick pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket, dipped it into the pitcher of water resting near him, and then ran the edge of it over her dry, cracked lips.
“Lord Drakely.”
The doctor’s scratchy voice startled him. “Yes?”
“Can I speak to you a moment in the hall, my lord?”
Patrick glanced down at Abigail. “Can’t we talk in here?”
The doctor’s shake of his head, coupled with the expression in his eyes, nearly paralyzed him as a whole new meaning of the word fear presented itself.
Patrick forced himself to stand, and the damp handkerchief he’d been holding slipped from his fingers. Flickering one more glimpse at his sickly wife, Patrick’s brain somehow made his feet carry him to the door.
“Lord Drakley, I want you to know this is highly unus―”
“Stop it,” Patrick hissed. “I’ve been acting as viscount since I was thirteen at which time I was made aware my uncle was embezzling from the viscountcy. If you have something to say, say it.”
“Very well, my lord. Lady Drakely is in grave danger―”
The rest of the doctor’s sentence would forever remain unknown as panic washed over him, and the blood pounded in his ears. Grave danger? She was going to die? A lump the size of a grapefruit formed in his throat. This was his fault. All of it.
Abigail hated marital relations. She always had. From the time they had married until only two months later when she’d conceived Celia, she’d allowed him weekly intimacies, then had asked him to allow her a reprieve from her duties until several months after Celia was born. He’d agreed, of course. She was his wife, and he loved her. When it was time to try again, he’d gone slower, touched her, kissed her, asked her what she liked, what she didn’t. But nothing had changed. She still flinched at his touch or ducked from his kisses. She’d trembled at his attempts to see her, and had begged him to just do his part. So he had. He was a viscount and had a title to pass on, thus he had to have an heir. He knew that. He’d known it his whole life. So as gently as he could, he’d done his part, then had spent the night sick with torment, followed by gifting her with expensive jewels the next day.
After only a few months of that torturous cycle, she announced she’d conceived again. Elation shot though him. He was most likely the only man on earth who was happy at the prospect of not bedding his wife anymore. But he was. Now, they could both sleep more comfortably at night tangled up in the other’s arms, not dreading Friday nights and the painful discomfort it would bring for them both.