And all his options for a wife were the same—ladies trained to please and endure. He had to marry a diamond of the first water, even more so now than before the divorce if only to silence his detractors. He’d never really know if the future duchess was only barely suffering him . . .
A soft scratching sound had him glancing at the door. “Enter.”
Ramsey moved into the room quietly, a silver tray with a note in hand.
“Your Grace. There was a note for you. I’m afraid the delivery was delayed.”
“Who sends it?”
“Miss Archer, Your Grace.”
He straightened in his chair. “How is she?”
“Still rather weak, I understand, still feverish.”
But able to write, that had to be a good sign. Then again, she had tried to debate politics with him while on the verge of fainting. Stubborn woman.
He opened the envelope. “Has my informant sent anything on her yet?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Stubborn, and mysterious.
Her handwriting was not feminine. It was efficient, the hand of a person who wrote a lot, and fast.
Your Grace,
I much appreciate your hospitality and I endeavor to get well as speedily as possible. Thank you for your generous book loan. I am particularly intrigued by the Russian tale on ideological intoxication—a purely incidental choice, I believe?
Sincerely,
A. Archer
Stubborn, mysterious, and witty.
He had sent up books because it was a polite thing to do for a bedridden guest. He had sent those particular books because for some reason, he had known they’d make her think, and her thoughts intrigued him. With her expressive eyes, she was not hard to read, and yet he found her rather unpredictable. Well, one thing was certain—this one would take a man to task if he displeased her. God knew he didn’t care for contrariness; his life was presently littered enough with the wreckage of insubordination, but at least she’d make noise before the man in her life crushed her. Did she have a man in her life? She had said she had no one . . .
He realized that he had left his valet hanging, absorbed in his musings about Annabelle Archer.
He tucked her note into his breast pocket. “That will be all, Ramsey.”
Chapter 12
The next morning, Sebastian cornered Dr. Bärwald in the hallway outside Miss Archer’s bedchamber. The young physician’s expression was harried. “But, Your Grace, unless you are a next of kin or the husband, I can’t go into detail about her condition.”
“She does not have a husband or any next of kin nearby,” Sebastian said impatiently. “She is presently my responsibility.”
“And with all due respect, Your Grace, she’s my patient.”
“Which can be changed, easily,” Sebastian said, and Bärwald’s eyes widened behind his glasses. Sebastian was not normally in the habit of throwing his weight around; certainly he had never done it to Bärwald.
Several seconds ticked past as they stared at each other.
The doctor looked away first. “Very well,” he said, his German accent thick. “She is already recovering nicely, they are resilient, country women, yes? But between us, the reason the cold could overpower her so utterly is that she suffers from long-term exhaustion. She displays signs of sleep deprivation and malnourishment.”
Sebastian was taken aback. “She does not look it.”
“As I said, she’s resilient,” the doctor said with a shrug, “but for her to truly recover, I recommend she does not travel for another week after her fever has gone.”
“That will not be a problem,” Sebastian said automatically.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Bärwald murmured.
“How so?”
“Because the Fräulein objects to the order, Your Grace.”
Sebastian felt the unfamiliar urge to roll his eyes. “Yes. The Fräulein would do that.”
“Modern women,” Bärwald said, shaking his head. “Give them a grand education, and next, they think they know better than the doctor ordered.”
“Oh, she will follow the orders,” Sebastian said, staring at the door to her chamber. Malnourished?
A sour feeling unfurled in his gut. Not on his watch. Until Christmas, she would eat, and whatever her troubles, they would stay outside the gates of Claremont.
* * *
“A week!” Annabelle’s indignation flared afresh the moment Catriona and Hattie walked into her chamber after their morning ride. “I’ll be here until Christmas.”
Hattie settled at the vanity table, examining the wind burn on her cheeks. “I do like the sound of that,” she said. “Just think! The duke might invite you to the New Year’s party. We could all go to the ball together.”
Annabelle was briefly stunned into silence. As she lay propped up against the pillows in the vast bed, her head aching, an upper-class ball was the very last thing on her mind.
“I shall leave when you leave, it’s simple,” she said.
“No,” came the unison reply.
Annabelle glowered at her friends. “Et tu, Brutus?”
“Surely Dr. Bärwald only has your best interest in mind,” Hattie said gently.
Dr. Bärwald also had no idea about her assignments for Jenkins, her pupils, or that she was expected in Chorleywood. As soon as she could leave the bed, she’d ask Montgomery to get a coach ready for her.
“I’ve asked Aunty to stay here as a chaperone,” Hattie said. “She’s glad to do so.”
Grand. Annabelle stared up at the velvety bed canopy. She couldn’t remember ever having been so dependent on other people’s help, and she resented all of it.
Well, perhaps not all of it.
There were the books.
And the food. The kitchen was sending up almost more than she could eat. The stew yesterday had been flavorful, with big chunks of chicken in the broth and hot rolls as a side. She had eaten all of those. And there was an exotic selection of fresh fruits on her breakfast tray, oranges and grapes and pears, and she had eaten all of those, too, smothered in thick, golden custard.
Catriona pulled a chair closer to the bed. “Do you want me to read some more from Crime and Punishment?”
There was an unwilling sound from the direction of the vanity table. “Can’t we ask for something nicer, like Jane Austen?” Hattie said. “I vow, I shall have to draw up a family tree in order to follow this novel. And why does the same character have to be called three completely different names?”