Winning Lord West (Dashing Widows 3)
“That seems sensible,” Caro said.
“I mean it.”
Fenella returned to her embroidery. “Helena, nobody’s arguing with you.”
Helena made a disgruntled sound and leaned back in her chair. “I have this awful feeling you’re both trying to manage me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hel. You’re more than capable of steering your own life,” Caro said cheerfully. “You don’t need us.”
“That’s right.” She winced as she heard the unnecessary emphasis she gave the words.
So did Caro. Her lips curved into a smirk.
Helena’s scowl deepened. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Caroline Beaumont.”
“I wouldn’t be so bold.” Her smirk became a giggle.
“Caro,” Helena said in a warning tone.
Caro returned her cup to its saucer. “It’s just…” She took a breath to steady her voice. It didn’t make a noticeable difference. “I know West is frightfully ill, and it’s been a dreadful night, and you’re worried sick about him, but…” Another gurgle of laughter escaped. “But I can’t help seeing Lord West staggering out of the shadows, wearing only a sheet. It was like…like Caesar’s ghost had come to haunt the house.”
She went off into whoops, and Fen started to laugh, too. Helena glowered at them. How could they laugh when West was so sick?
Then she recalled that odd moment, horrendous at the time, now strangely comic. She remembered West’s clever, but unlikely claim that he was sleepwalking. And she burst into laughter herself.
***
The morning of Caro and Silas’s wedding dawned bright with sunshine, as if even nature blessed this union. As West dressed, he glanced out the window at the pristine beauty of fields and hills. It had snowed, and pure sparkling white changed the Nash estate from a familiar landscape into the setting for a fairy tale.
As soon as he regained his senses, he’d sent for his valet from London. The man fussed around him now, smoothing out any wrinkles bold enough to mar the perfection of his dark blue coat and cream silk waistcoat.
This bout of fever had been bad, and chafing at the inactivity, he’d spent most of the last four days in bed. He’d managed to make it downstairs to dinner the last two nights, but the effort had exhausted him.
Enforced rest had left him with far too much time to think. And the thoughts hadn’t been congenial. At times, he’d wished he was still out of his head.
West had always enjoyed rude good health. When he’d first contracted this damned malady, he’d assumed it would prove a brief inconvenience, then become an unpleasant memory.
That, it turned out, had been optimistic ignorance. For six months now, he’d suffered regular bouts of appalling physical misery. After this latest attack, he couldn’t avoid the bleak fact that his illness had become a permanent part of his life.
And he loathed it.
“Am I discommoding your lordship?” Cooper asked nervously, straightening West’s snowy white cuffs.
Distracted from gloomy musings, West glanced at the valet. “No. Why?”
“You looked rather fierce, sir.”
West’s thoughts had trended toward grimness since he’d collapsed into Anthony Townsend’s arms, wearing nothing but a sheet. “No. I’m fine.”
Except he wasn’t.
As he stood before the mirror, his legs wobbled, and he felt alarmingly lightheaded. But damn it, he’d get through this wedding ceremony, or he might as well put a bullet through his brain.
***
The ancient village church was packed, and a crowd formed outside, despite the snow. Lining the pews were local friends, privileged villagers, and various Nashes who had arrived over the last few days. Silas was well loved, and everyone was delighted that he and his bride were so devoted.
West and Silas had driven up in an open carriage. Silas claimed he wanted to arrive in style, but West knew it was to save him from making the short walk. He’d wanted to snarl at his friend that he wasn’t a bloody invalid. Until he admitted the unpalatable truth that even such an easy stroll was beyond him.