It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal

He slept in relaxed repose, his chest gently lifting with each even breath. She smiled, leaned over, pressed a kiss to his chest and froze. Gabriel was warm to the touch. With a frown, she assessed him keenly. His chest rose and fell evenly, he did not stir restlessly. She placed her hand on his chest, and satisfied his heart wasn't racing oddly, she removed the tangled blanket from around his legs and snuggled into his arms.

Tomorrow Gabriel would be forever hers. With a soft smile and a contented sigh, she slipped back into the welcome arms of sleep.

Later, Primrose jerked awake, disoriented, uncertain what had pulled her from rest. She pushed up on her elbows and glanced around, almost certainly an odd sound in the night had disturbed her sleep.

The fire had burned low once again, and their bedroom was cast in more shadows than light. A flash of blue light lit the room, the windowpane rattled at the crash of thunder, and the rain pattered on the roof. A garbled whimper had her shifting her gaze to Gabriel. He thrashed, and sweat glistened on his skin. Pushing back the blankets which she had pulled over her body sometime during the night, she inched closer to him.

“Gabriel?”

A gentle brush against his furrowed brows revealed that his skin was on fire. Worry jerked her heart in a fierce rhythm. He was fevered and muttering. She tried to shake him awake, but he did not budge, and fear filled her heart. Pushing from the bed, she hurriedly lit the lamp.

Dashing through the room, the small hallway, and into the kitchen, she collected a towel, and a basin, which she filled with water, moving as efficiently as possible. She made her way back to him, sat on the edge of the bed, and she sponged him down with the cold water. His thrashing ceased after several minutes of ministration, and his breathing calmed, yet still, he did not wake.

Several minutes passed before Primrose accepted something was dreadfully wrong. He muttered fitfully and thrashed about almost violently. There were moments of stillness which were more frightening than his erratic throes.

She was almost senseless with fear as she hurriedly dressed in a dark green serviceable gown. Her fingers trembled as she did up the rows of buttons at the front. They had no carriage, and there was no doctor in the village. Her course was clear, she had to summon his brother or father to their cottage. They had the means to see that Gabriel was attended immediately.

As if mocking her determination to seek help, lightning flashed across the sky, and seconds later, torrential rain gushed from the heavens, battering the roof of the cottage. Firming her lips, she laced her winter boots tightly. Then tugged on her gloves, fur hat, and coat which fluttered around her like a warm cape. A quick search did not reveal Gabriel to possess a raincoat at their cottage, and she hadn’t been able to afford one.

Primrose hurried over to him and pressed a kiss to his brow. “I’ll be back soon my love.” She grabbed a small oil lamp, lit it, and collected her parasol. Then she made her way to the front door and slipped outside into the bracing cold. She sucked a harsh icy breath into her lungs as she opened the parasol over her head, wishing she had a sturdy umbrella, instead of the fashionable puff she’d bought on impulse last year.

Primrose started her journey, heading toward the darkened woodlands which had short paths toward Sancrest Manor. She risked catching her death, but she pushed ahead, trudging through the snow and sludge. She lowered her head against the chilling rain and spurred toward her destination, grateful she had walked this path so many times. The darkness was frightful and overwhelming, but she allowed the memory of Gabriel's fevered and incoherent muttering to push her to move faster.

The gray wash of dawn arrived, allowing her to see the grand manor in the distance. A sob of relief left her dried, cracked lips. Her calves burned, and there was an ache in her side, all evidence of the punishing pace at which she'd pushed herself. Without removing her concentration from the manor house, she trudged on until she was at the imposing front door. There she lifted the knocker, slapping it against the oak door several times.

The door was flung open, and Mabry glowered at her.

“Please, fetch the viscount and the earl. Lord Gabriel is dreadfully ill and is in desperate need of a doctor.”

Everything after that moved with alarming speed. Within a few minutes it seemed as if the entire household had been roused and the countess had sent for the family’s doctor. The carriage was brought around, and Primrose was soon settled against its squab, with Gabriel’s brother, rumbling toward their cottage.

The earl too had accompanied them, but he had ridden on his horse. The viscount made no attempts at pleasantries, and Primrose was grateful for the silence, for she was too shattered with fear. How long had she left Gabriel? An hour? Two or three? Had he taken a worse turn? Or had his fever broken and her absence alarmed him?

Her torturous musings kept her company until they pulled up to their cottage. She did not wait for assistance but jumped from the equipage and hurried toward the entrance. His brother and father followed at a clipped pace. She pushed open the door and rushed to their chamber.

A cry of alarm slipped from her. Gabriel laid too still upon the bed. She rushed over, and it was then she saw the shallow rising of his chest. His skin had a gray cast, and it was then she saw an ugly, mottled purple-red bruise on his left side spreading to his stomach.

George hurried over, came down on the bed and slipped his arm under his brother’s shoulder. “We must get him to the manor as quickly as possible.”

She glanced up. “Is it safe to move him? Will the doctor not come here?”

He did not answer, and a muted fury filled her. “My lord—”

"So you are wed then?" the earl demanded harshly.

She glanced at him, heat burning through her entire body. “We…we were to marry today,” she stammered.

The earl glanced back at his naked son, the tangled sheets, and distaste curled his lips. She lifted her chin, knowing it to be a defiant gesture, but she would not be made to feel shame for their love.

“We will take Gabriel to the manor. George, get the footmen inside. We’ll move him as gently as possible.”

Primrose was then ignored as the earl’s orders were followed with all alacrity. A few minutes later, a blanket swaddled Gabriel was resting comfortably on the squabs in the carriage. Most of his body reposed on the seat, and his head was in her lap.

“He’s not even moaning,” she whispered, peering at George, who showed a stoic mien.

But Primrose saw how he gripped the edge of the seat, how white his knuckles were. Smoothing the damp curls from Gabriel’s forehead, she closed her eyes and prayed for his recovery while the carriage rambled toward Sancrest Manor, and toward a future that had suddenly become uncertain and terrifying.

Primrose’s finger beat a frantic and worried tattoo upon her thighs. She sat in familiar comfort in the smaller sitting room, drying her gown by a roaring fire, awaiting news on Gabriel. They had been back at the manor several hours now, the doctor had been summoned while the countess and the maids of the manor tended to him as best as they could. Several times she had offered assistance, and she had been coldly rebuffed.