Chapter Twenty-Three

Hunting was not Nathanial's favourite sport. He was a good enough shot and knew how to handle a gun, but there was a lot of tramping over mud and uneven land, and more pressingly, time away from Theo.

He could still smell her on him. Even now, out here in the warming summer air, in the middle of a field that had once been occupied by sheep, he could smell her. If he closed his eyes, he could hear her, too, and that made him want to never leave her side. Hunting be damned.

Except, unfortunately, hunting could not be damned, and neither could Stapleton's generosity. Nathanial had come under the guise of wanting to try the hunting, and the hunting he would try.

"Ready!" the groundsman called. Nathanial cocked his gun and raised it as the beaters chased the partridges out. He followed their path with the barrel, exhaled, and fired. The bird tumbled out of the sky and at a whistle, one of the dogs ran to collect it.

"Excellent shot, Norfolk," Stapleton said .

Nathanial wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a nod. It was going to be a hot day. He wondered what Theo had elected to do that morning. She'd mentioned something about writing her sister and mother a letter—probably to avoid spending time with Lady Stapleton and Lady Tabitha. He couldn't blame her.

Another wave of birds took to the sky and Nathanial readied his gun with the help of the servant to his side. The moment Theo had recovered and his inquiries in London returned, giving him an indication of the type of poison and its source, they could leave Caddington Hall and return. Or even, perhaps, visit Havercroft. The Season was nearly over, after all, and he was more than ready to return to a quieter way of life.

Perhaps there—

Shots rang out from the assembled gentlemen, and impact thudded into Nathanial, earlier than expected. He always braced himself against the knock from his gun, but he hadn't pulled the trigger yet.

In the distance, he heard shouting. The gun fell from his hand. He staggered. He looked down, frowning. There was something on his chest, growing with every second.

The world rolled around him, and as he hit the ground, he stared at the sky, wondering how such a bright day could be so faint, and why it hurt to breathe.

Theo was in the drawing room when they brought Nathanial's body in. She knew she was in the drawing room because she distinctly remembered the way her teacup cracked against the carpet as she dropped it.

That sound echoed in her head as she followed the shouting into the main hall. She remembered each moment distinctly, edged like those broken china pieces. There was Nathanial lying on a makeshift stretcher, blood staining his brown coat, his eyes closed. Someone had attempted to bandage the wound on his shoulder, but blood soaked through, and there was so much shouting, so much panic.

Theo didn't know where to look.

All she knew was that this was her husband, and her place was beside him. When they took him upstairs, she followed, the banister smooth against her fingers as she trailed her hand along it. Habit—that's what her life was made up of now. Habit that kept her breathing, kept her moving, kept her upright.

"Duchess," Lord Stapleton said upon seeing her in the bedroom. "Duchess you ought not to be here. My dear!" His call, abrupt as it was, summoned his wife like a haunting wraith. "Please could you escort the Duchess downstairs?"

"Certainly," Lady Stapleton said, reaching for Theo's wrist with long, pale fingers. "Come with me, sweet thing, and we shall give you a hot cup of tea."

"He is my husband," Theo said. Of all the things in this world rocked with colour and too much noise, that was the only one of which she was certain. "He is my husband and I shall remain with him."

By now, the men had placed Nathanial on the bed. Some shouted for water. Others demanded a physician. The panic was tangible, like the tang of an extinguished candle.

He could not be dying. It didn't seem possible. Not after everything they'd been through.

Footmen hurried into the room with a bucket and fresh linen, and Theo approached the bed. Nathanial was barely breathing. The veins in his eyelids were blue, but his pulse throbbed in his neck. She watched it to ensure it wouldn't stop.

"When will the physician arrive?" she asked, her voice cool and clear .

"In minutes, Duchess," a man said. She didn't look to see which one.

"Then until he arrives, clear the room of this noise."

At a gesture from Lord Stapleton, almost all the men filed out. "You do not need to do this," he said, but she flicked her gaze to him, and whatever he saw there caused him to stop.

"He is my husband," Theo repeated. "And I shall tend to him."

Even the strongest stomach could not have felt nothing when Theo removed the makeshift bandage from Nathanial's chest. Blood oozed from a wound so jagged she thought she might be sick from the horror of it all.

But his heart was beating, she told herself. There was hope as long as his heart continued to beat.

"Tell me," she said to Lord Stapleton, who hovered by the door like a particularly troublesome fly. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know," he confessed, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. "One minute everything's going smoothly, the next he's on the floor with a hole punched in him. Begging your pardon, ma'am."

Theo's hands trembled as she pressed linen against the wound and the blood—so much blood. "From which direction did this shot come?"

"It's hard to say, Duchess. We were so concerned with getting him back to the house as soon as possible, we hardly knew."

Theo stared at the red stain on the white cloth. There was blood on her hands and dress, too, but that hardly seemed to matter. All that mattered was that Nathanial survived.

The iron in her spine threatened to melt, and she pinned her lips together. Here, there was no one to rely on—no parent or older brother or husband who might take the burden away. Nathanial had thought them to be safe here, and he had not thought himself in danger at all, but that had been a mistake, and one he was paying for.

She could trust no one.

Her calm in danger of unravelling, she sat beside his bed and watched the movement of his chest, refusing to acknowledge the grey tinge to his skin or the shallowness of his breaths.

Her fingers were cracked with blood.

Time passed in fits and starts, and she could not have said how long she sat beside her husband, willing him with every fibre of her being to keep breathing, to stay with her, but eventually there was a call of "the physician", and the door opened to admit a portly man with a briefcase.

"So this is my patient," he said. "And his lady wife? My name is Dr Follett."

Theo stepped back to allow him room to examine Nathanial. "I am the Duchess of Norfolk, and this is my husband, the Duke of Norfolk."

"You stopped the bleeding," he said with a trace of approval in his voice. "Well done."

"Will he survive?"

The doctor removed the cloth from Nathanial's wound. The wound was not neat, but at least it was in his shoulder. If it had been further down—

Theo did not let herself think that.

"I believe we will require a surgeon," the doctor said, raising Nathanial's head and listening to his breath. "We must remove the shot as far as we can."

"Yes. Of course." Theo bowed her head, her breath shaky as she released it. "I will fetch Lord Stapleton."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Outside the room, Lord Stapleton paced, his ruddy face pale. "Well?" he demanded when he saw her. "Is there news?"

"The doctor would like to see you. I believe he wishes to summon a surgeon. "

"A surgeon?" Lord Stapleton's jaw dropped before he recovered himself. "That is to say—of course. I will send for one right away." He rubbed a large hand over his head as a maid approached. "Ah, Miss Finch. Show Her Grace to her room." His voice lowered as he looked at her. "I thought you may wish to clean up, Your Grace."

Theo did not have the energy to do so much as smile as she followed the sharp-faced maid down the hall and to a new room. She took in none of the furnishings as she clasped her hands tightly, interlacing her fingers until they ached. "Thank you," she said. "I will ring when I require Betsy."

"Very good, ma'am." The maid curtsied and left the room with a click of finality, and Theo was alone.

Alone.

Merely a few rooms away, the physician was doing all he could to save Nathanial's life, and she wasn't there. She was here, in this room, alone, with no way of knowing if he lived or died, with nothing to aid her but prayers that had never yet been answered.

Her hands shook, and she pressed them to her chest, above her heart. It seemed impossible that anyone could have survived something like this. He had been shot .

A moan burst from her lips, and her trembling knees refused to hold her upright any longer. She sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands.

Nathanial couldn't die. He couldn't . Not when they had only just reconciled.

Not when she had only just realised she loved him.

Life would lose its sweetness if she was forced to go through it alone. And no matter how many people she surrounded herself with, if she didn't have Nate, she would be alone. He was her sun, and she kept orbit around him in breathless circles.

She needed him .

He couldn't die.

The last of her control snapped, and she dug her nails into her skin as she wept. Grief surged through her with unrestrained clamour, and her prayers were disjointed, a mixture of pleading and bargaining. If pledging her eternal soul would guarantee he would survive, she would do it. She would do anything to keep him alive, even if that meant she couldn't be with him.

The world could not stand to lose him. And neither could she.

When at last she rose, she was hollow. Ribbons of pain wrapped around her chest; they were the things that held her together and broke her apart all at once. She still had Nathanial's blood on her hands, so she made that her first task. Wash, scrubbing with soap until every last hint of red had been dug from under her nails.

Splash cold water on her face, soothing her swollen eyes and tight skin.

Ring the bell pull and summon Betsy to her, to release her from a gown that felt as though it was constricting her. Let it pool around her feet as she stepped out. Allow Betsy to pick out a new dress, and stand mute, like a doll as she was dressed.

Betsy touched the cold skin of her arm. "Ma'am?"

Theo blinked, looking once more at the figure in the mirror. She didn't recognise the woman standing there, with such emptiness in her eyes, her skin pale, regal despite the crippling weight on her shoulders.

"He will be okay," Betsy said, though her voice trembled. "The surgeon has been."

"He's been and left?" Theo asked, her voice suddenly sharp. How long had she been sitting on the floor? "And? Do you know anything?"

"Nothing, ma'am—just that the Duke's condition is stable. "

Stable. Nathanial was stable.

As soon as Betsy was done buttoning her dress, she turned for the door. "Thank you, Betsy. I'll see His Grace now."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Theo nodded, and after a tiny hesitation, swept from the room. Fragile calm suffused her, but it would be the work of a moment to destroy it.

"Ah, Duchess," Lord Stapleton said, meeting her in the corridor. "I see you've had time to change."

"How is my husband?" She didn't recognise her voice, so low and steady was it.

"He is as well—as well as can be expected. Come, you must see the physician. I was on the way to fetch you, as it happens."

Theo accepted his arm and they went together to Nathanial's room. The door was open and the physician was standing in front of the bed, watching his patient critically. On the bed, Nathanial was covered by the sheets, but the torn remnants on his shirt were on the floor, along with the bloody water she had used. There was a little more colour in his cheeks.

She felt the breath whoosh from her lungs.

"Your Grace," the physician said, finally turning and giving her a perfunctory smile and nod of the head. "Apologies for sending you from the room earlier."

"How is he?"

"You got extremely lucky. The wound is severe, but not, I trust, life-threatening. There was no exit wound and the bullet has been removed. He has lost a lot of blood, naturally, but he is stable."

"Will he make a full recovery?"

"I am hopeful, though nothing is certain at this stage. I have recommended a draught for him to take when he wakes, and I suggest he avoids red meat until he has recovered." The physician took another look at Nathanial. "It's possible he may become feverish. As I say, the wound is severe. If that happens, send for me at once."

"Would he survive if he did?" Theo dared ask.

"I could not say," Dr Follett said bluntly. "It is too soon for certainties."

Her prayers so far had been answered. Nathanial was still alive, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Her offers of pledging her soul had worked; she would keep bargaining, keep promising Heaven her eternal servitude if only he would be well.

"He cannot be moved, of course," the physician said. "Not for several weeks."

"His Grace is welcome here as long as he wishes," Lord Stapleton said hurriedly. "As long as he needs. And you, too, of course, Your Grace."

"Thank you," Theo said.

"I will come back tomorrow, unless his condition changes," the physician said. "If you're concerned for his welfare, send for me, no matter the time."

"You're very good," Theo said, inclining her head. The physician bowed and left the room with Lord Stapleton, leaving her at liberty to take the seat beside her husband. Beside Nathanial. She took his hand, pressing her fingers against his fluttering pulse. Not strong, but present. Alive.

When they had come here, he'd presumed the person behind her poisoning had been a woman, but he had been shot, and she was certain it was no accident.

There were no women at the hunt today.

The culprit was a man. And he was here. The only thing she knew was that Sir Montague was not one of the party; he could not have been behind the gun unless he entered the land illicitly. Theo did not know how possible it was for someone to do that. Given the size of Lord Stapleton's estate, she did not think she could discount it .

"They shall not win," Theo whispered to Nathanial's still, waxy face. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and she brushed it back. "You shall live."

He made no sound but the breaths that whispered from between his lips.