My Fake Rake

She fought down a wave of impatience. “You attended my birth, Dr. Campbell, so by now you should know I have no delicate temperament.”

“He suffered a collapse less than an hour ago,” the physician said after a pause. “After examining the earl, I suspect it was angina pectoris.”

Cold sheeted through Grace. God—when her father had fallen ill, she’d been at the library, nattering on about her fascination with Mason.

“I bled him,” Dr. Campbell continued, “but in order to have a full recovery, he must have rest and peace of mind.” He stared at her meaningfully, as if she planned to bang a kettledrum beside her father’s bed.

“Yes, I understand.” She released her grip upon the physician’s sleeve.

“I’ll call tomorrow to check on his progress.”

She gave the physician a distracted nod before heading into her father’s bedchamber. The curtains had been drawn, shutting out the last of the day’s light, with the fire and a lamp casting flickering illumination on the too-still person in the bed and the figure seated beside him.

Her mother’s face gleamed with tears, and as Grace moved closer, the countess half rose from her chair with a choking sob. “Oh, Grace.”

“Mama.” She rushed forward to embrace her mother. The countess felt so frail and delicate, her bones as breakable as a dried reed, and for the first time, Grace truly realized that both of her parents were mortal and finite. A shudder ran through Grace’s body. “Why did no one fetch me from the library when it happened?”

“There wasn’t time. One moment, we were having tea, talking about dining with Lord and Lady Pugh, and the next, he was on the floor, face white as paper, and his hand clutching his chest, and I . . . and I . . .”

“Shh.” Grace rocked her mother, painfully aware that their roles had reversed and it was she who now offered comfort. “Dr. Campbell said he can recover with good rest.”

“Easy for him to say.” Her father’s alarmingly thin voice came from the bed. “He’s not engaged to play cards with Lord Liverpool tomorrow night.”

“Papa.” Grace released her mother to kneel at her father’s bedside. She clasped his hand in hers, and he weakly squeezed in response. The sleeve of his shirt had been pushed up to reveal a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his arm.

He was terribly pale, his gaze faintly unfocused as he looked down at her. “Come, now, there’s no need for tears.”

She brushed her fingertips across her face and discovered they were wet. “Is there anything I can do?”

He was silent for a moment. “There is one thing.”

“You’ve but to name it.” She sat up straighter, relieved at being able to take action.

“What I want will help both of us . . .”

“Go on,” she urged.

“I want you to marry.”

She laughed, and then realized that he wasn’t jesting. Abruptly, she let go of her father’s hand. “Sir?”

“Hear him out, Grace,” her mother said as she lowered herself to her chair.

Grace could only stare back and forth between her parents. Clearly, they’d spoken to each other about this. That couldn’t be good.

“I worry about you, my dear,” her father said softly. “Your Seasons have been . . . less than ideal.”

Another sudden, startled laugh broke from Grace’s lips. “Disastrous, more like.”

“We knew you were not quite an Incomparable.” Even in his weakened state, her father spoke with a hint of wry humor. “Still, we’ve held out hope that you might find a man who understood your . . . peculiarities. We’ve hoped, but each year the possibility has grown more and more unlikely.”

Grace pressed her lips together. Having her parent articulate her failings as a Society debutante was a sharp needle piercing between her ribs. True, her parents had been tolerant of her studies, but that was not quite the same as having her work—and her—celebrated.

Her father went on, “My little health episode makes me think about what will happen to you when I’m gone. That time may come sooner than any of us expect.”