Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,30

Tell me to keep my hand to myself. Tell me to get out of your room. Tell me to—”

This time he could no longer hold back his tears. And with them came words that he’d never been able to say to her his entire life. “I love you, Helena. I have always loved you. Wake up and let me prove it to you.”

Twenty-four hours later, she was still unconscious.

The bruises on her face had turned purple and green. The swelling had gone down, but her cheeks and firmly closed eyes were beginning to look sunken—they’d not been able to feed her much, not even water.

She’d always been slender, but there had been an energetic strength to her—a presence that was greater than her size. Now, for the first time since he’d met her, she looked frail, as if she might float away without the bedcover keeping her in place.

Hastings stood in a corner of the room, his arms crossed, one shoulder against the wall. He’d finished reading her book on publishing. He’d read the entirety of the day’s newspaper. He’d grown quite weary of the sound of his own voice.

Venetia was out in the passage, weeping in her husband’s arms. Fitz’s eyes were red-rimmed, as were Millie’s. Hastings hadn’t cried again, but he had taken to drinking quantities of strong spirits out of Fitz’s view—Fitz had warned Hastings not to bring a bottle near him, as he hadn’t been so tempted in years.

More of London’s best physicians had been in to see her, as well as the expert from Paris. They all said the same thing: The family must wait and see. Lexington had summoned another expert from Berlin; Hastings doubted the fellow would have a different diagnosis to offer.

From time to time she shivered and mumbled, and they’d all rush to the edges of her bed, calling her name in unison, willing her to awaken. But invariably, as if caught in the sticky grip of a nightmare, she’d sink back into the void that incarcerated her. Ice and heat had both been tried. Venetia and Millie rubbed her hands and forearms. Once, Venetia, feeling desperate, even slapped Helena, only to burst into tears herself.

Miss Redmayne had pulled the family aside and spoken to them of the need to start tube feeding her, should her coma persist. Hastings had listened with what had seemed to him tremendous stoicism. Only later did he realize he had been shaking.

He’d known a few medical students during his time at Oxford. On long-ago nights of drinking and merrymaking, they used to regale him with the more outlandish aspects of their knowledge. Tube feeding involved the insertion of a tube lubricated with glycerin inside the patient’s nostril. He’d laughed then at the oddity of such a procedure; now the thought of it terrified him.

Because she would be terrified. And she had to know, somehow. Imprisoned inside her mind, she must be beating at the bars to get out, to be once again mistress of her own fate.

And while they could keep her alive, her muscles would waste away from inactivity. She would become a breathing corpse, someone whose biological functions persisted even though the spirit had fled.

Out in the passage Lexington was gently calming Venetia—persuading her to take a few hours of rest, if only for the sake of the baby. And she was reluctantly agreeing. Inside the room, Fitz and Millie sat shoulder to shoulder on a small chaise, holding on to each other.

Hastings’s own fear was riddled with regret. No more. No more lies. No more cowardice. No more hiding his true sentiments behind mockery and derision. If she’d only awaken, he would become a man worthy of her.

If she’d only awaken.

He read her Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and gave each character a different voice.

The White Rabbit babbled in a high-pitched squeak. The Cheshire Cat purred languorously. The Queen of Hearts brayed with impetuosity and high passion. Alice herself he made impish, with a touch of both bravado and naïveté.

He didn’t know why he bothered. Helena had shown no sign of having heard a single word he’d uttered. But he did it all the same.

At the end of a chapter, Fitz asked, “Are you not tired, David? Your voice must be worn-out.”

His voice was worn-out, but he shook his head. “I’m all right. I don’t want her to feel as if we are sitting here in a silent vigil.”

“We have not been a cheerful bunch, have we?” Fitz sighed. “Thank you, David. None