The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,7
one that provided the sole income for a tenant family, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work alongside his men.
Figuratively, of course. All sleeves had most definitely been down. It had been bloody cold in Sussex. Worse when one was wet. Which of course they all had been, what with the flood and all.
So he was tired, and he was still cold—he wasn’t sure his fingers would ever regain their previous temperature—and he missed his family. He would have asked them to join him in the country, but the girls were preparing for the season, and Daphne had looked a bit peaked when he left.
He hoped she wasn’t coming down with a cold. When she got sick, the entire household felt it.
She thought she was a stoic. He had once tried to point out that a true stoic wouldn’t go about the house repeatedly saying, “No, no, I’m fine,” as she sagged into a chair.
Actually, he had tried to point this out twice. The first time he said something she had not responded. At the time, he’d thought she hadn’t heard him. In retrospect, however, it was far more likely that she had chosen not to hear him, because the second time he said something about the true nature of a stoic, her response had been such that . . .
Well, let it be said that when it came to his wife and the common cold, his lips would never again form words other than “You poor, poor dear” and “May I fetch you some tea?”
There were some things a man learned after two decades of marriage.
When he stepped into the front hall, the butler was waiting, his face in its usual mode—that is to say, completely devoid of expression.
“Thank you, Jeffries,” Simon murmured, handing him his hat.
“Your brother-in-law is here,” Jeffries told him.
Simon paused. “Which one?” He had seven.
“Mr. Colin Bridgerton, Your Grace. With his family.”
Simon cocked his head. “Really?” He didn’t hear chaos and commotion.
“They are out, Your Grace.”
“And the duchess?”
“She is resting.”
Simon could not suppress a groan. “She’s not ill, is she?”
Jeffries, in a most un-Jeffries-like manner, blushed. “I could not say, Your Grace.”
Simon regarded Jeffries with a curious eye. “Is she ill, or isn’t she?”
Jeffries swallowed, cleared his throat, and then said, “I believe she is tired, Your Grace.”
“Tired,” Simon repeated, mostly to himself since it was clear that Jeffries would expire of inexplicable embarrassment if he pursued the conversation further. Shaking his head, he headed upstairs, adding, “Of course, she’s tired. Colin’s got four children under the age of ten, and she probably thinks she’s got to mother the lot while they’re here.”
Maybe he’d have a lie-down next to her. He was exhausted, too, and he always slept better when she was near.
The door to their room was shut when he got to it, and he almost knocked—it was a habit to do so at a closed door, even if it did lead to his own bedchamber—but at the last moment he instead gripped the doorknob and gave a soft push. She could be sleeping. If she truly was tired, he ought to let her rest.
Stepping lightly, he entered the room. The curtains were partway drawn, and he could see Daphne lying in bed, still as a bone. He tiptoed closer. She did look pale, although it was hard to tell in the dim light.
He yawned and sat on the opposite side of the bed, leaning forward to pull off his boots. He loosened his cravat and then slid it off entirely, scooting himself toward her. He wasn’t going to wake her, just snuggle up for a bit of warmth.
He’d missed her.
Settling in with a contented sigh, he put his arm around her, resting its weight just below her rib cage, and—
“Grughargh!”
Daphne shot up like a bullet and practically hurled herself from the bed.
“Daphne?” Simon sat up, too, just in time to see her race for the chamber pot.
The chamber pot????
“Oh dear,” he said, wincing as she retched. “Fish?”
“Don’t say that word,” she gasped.
Must have been fish. They really needed to find a new fishmonger here in town.
He crawled out of bed to find a towel. “Can I get you anything?”
She didn’t answer. He hadn’t really expected her to. Still, he held out the towel, trying not to flinch when she threw up for what had to be the fourth time.
“You poor, poor dear,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. You haven’t been like this since—”