proper discretion at all times, and always remember where your loyalty lies. Take your pick of whoever tickles your fancy, my boy, but mind this: save your romantic feelings for your wife.”
Henry knew, without a doubt, that his father would not have approved of his arrangement with Christopher Redford. The old duke would have told him to end the arrangement when the year was up.
But Henry wouldn’t be doing that. He couldn’t. The thought of never seeing Christopher again made him feel physically ill. And the thought of Christopher with anyone else was… well, it was intolerable.
By now Henry was nearly home, turning onto Curzon Street and walking towards his own house. As he approached, the lock scraped and the door swung open, a sleepy footman stepping aside with a slight bow to let Henry pass.
Henry nodded a greeting.
“Your grace,” the man murmured. Henry handed off his hat and cane then headed upstairs to bathe and change into fresh clothes.
His bedchamber was dim and shadowy, thanks to the thick drapes that kept out the morning light. He crossed to the window and yanked the drapes aside, only to startle when he turned around and realised there was a person lying in his bed, sleeping.
Caroline?
She never came to his bedchamber—and it had been several years since he’d visited hers—but here she was, a small, slight figure in the middle of the mattress, her long, loose hair covering her face.
Puzzled, he approached the bed carefully, sitting down gently and reaching out to carefully comb her hair back from her face.
She stirred and turned her face, and he saw it was blotchy and swollen from what must have been recent tears. His gut hollowed with dread.
Please, don’t let it be one of the children.
Caroline blinked her eyes open. There was a long moment when she seemed entirely normal, entirely well. And then some horrible realisation seemed to come over her, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
“Henry,” she gasped. “Oh God, Henry.”
She scrabbled up onto her knees and launched herself at him, burying her face in his shoulder as she began to cry in great wrenching sobs that sounded as though they’d been dragged from the depths of her soul. Henry stared at her in shock for a moment before folding his arms around her and pulling her trembling body close.
“What’s wrong?” he said urgently.
She felt both familiar and strange in his arms. It had been so long since they’d touched each other like this. The rosewater scent of her soap was like an old memory.
She pulled back and met his gaze, her face wrecked by tears.
“What is it?” he breathed, terrified.
She didn’t say anything, only reached for his hand and lifted it to her breast, guiding it with her own. Pressed his fingers against the soft flesh.
When he felt the lump, he understood, and their eyes met.
“What’s that?” he breathed, but he knew—he could feel it, under his fingers.
“Just like Mama,” she said thickly, and now Henry felt tears spring to his own eyes. Caroline’s mother had died a few months after he and Caroline had married. It had been shockingly quick, and Caroline had been distraught.
“I can’t bear it!” she half-sobbed. “The children are so young. You are going to have to be everything to them, Henry. From now on.”
“Don’t talk like that!” he exclaimed. “How do you know? Have you even seen the doctor yet?”
“Of course I have!” she cried, and she pressed his hand against her breast again, forcing him to feel the hard, uncompromising lump.
He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat, fighting for control. When he felt he could speak again, he said as calmly as he could, “Was it Doctor Jenkins? He’s not the only one—”.
“I’ve seen two,” Caroline interrupted dully. She closed her eyes briefly, gaining control over herself, before she added quietly, “Dr. Jenkins and another man he called for. They both said the same—they believe there is little they can do, other than provide pain relief.”
“But surely there’s something, some treatment—” Henry said, his voice cracking with disbelief. After a moment’s hesitation, he added weakly, “Surgery?”
Her mother had undergone surgery—to no avail—and it had been agonising.
Caroline shook her head swiftly.
“We’ll get another doctor,” Henry interjected desperately. “My dear, you can’t give up. The children—”
“I know!” she broke in, her voice low and fierce. “You think I don’t know, Henry? The thought of leaving them breaks my heart!”
And then she was crying again, and so was he. Till he had no tears left