Page 42 of The Duchess’ Little Miracle

“Get some rest, Seraphina,” he said. “Drink some warm tea for that fever.”

Before she could form a reply, he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him, leaving her alone in the room with her heart still pounding wildly in her chest.

Seraphina pressed a cool palm to her burning cheek, taking a deep, grounding breath. The physical betrayal was unacceptable. If this feverish chill was going to interfere with her composure and sabotage her, she needed to address it with scientific efficiency. She would speak to the housekeeper immediately, summon a physician from town to examine her, and follow whatever regimen of rest and tonics was required to restore her constitution.

Whatever ailment had taken hold of her body, she would have it thoroughly treated and eradicated before morning. Next time William stepped into her space to lead a dance, her physical health would be entirely sound, leaving no room for erratic pulses, clumsy footing, or any further obstacles on her path to learning.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Well?” Seraphina demanded the second the physician lifted his thumb from her wrist. “Have you determined what is causing the fever?”

Croft deliberately snapped his silver pocket watch shut, placing it back into his waistcoat pocket before taking off his spectacles to polish them with a silk handkerchief.

“Your pulse is entirely normal, Your Grace,” he began. “Sixty-eight beats per minute. Firm, and perfectly regular.”

Seraphina frowned, leaning against her pillows. “That is impossible. It was racing violently not twelve hours ago. What of my temperature?”

“Your skin is completely cool,” Croft noted dryly, gesturing toward her forehead. “Your throat is clear, and your lungs are sound. In fact, after reviewing the various cooling teas your housekeeper administered over the last two days, I am forced to conclude that you are in magnificent health.”

“I am not in magnificent health,” Seraphina insisted. “I am fine right now because I am sitting still in a quiet room. But the moment I stand up, specifically when I am in close proximity with His Grace, my body completely betrays me.”

Croft’s gray eyebrows rose a fraction. “Betrays you? Brought on by the presence of His Grace?”

“Precisely,” Seraphina said, seizing on his words. “The symptoms are conditional, yet severe. I experience a sudden rise in temperature, shortness of breath, dizziness, and an uncontrollable rush of blood to my face. I suspect it is an environmental reaction, or perhaps an acute nervous reaction brought on by the physical exertion of learning to dance.”

“Tell me, Your Grace,” he continued. “Does this occur exclusively when you are in close physical proximity with His Grace?”

Seraphina hesitated, her gaze shifting to the embroidered canopy above her bed before she looked back at him.

“Most of the time, yes,” she admitted. “However, there are instances when I am simply lying right here in bed, completely alone, contemplating recent events... and the symptoms recur without warning.”

He raised an eyebrow again. “What, precisely, are you contemplating in those solitary moments?”

“A variety of practical matters,” Seraphina answered. “The management of the estate, my responsibilities, or... or a conversation I recently had with His Grace. The point is that the physical reaction is not strictly tied to his immediate physical presence. It can be triggered... internally.”

“A sudden racing of the pulse, a sense of breathlessness, and a surge of heat,” Croft summarized, mumbling.

Seraphina gasped, remembering something she read. “Could it not be an atypical presentation of angina pectoris? William Heberden documented it in the medical journals not forty years ago: a sudden constriction of the chest and erratic pulse.”

“Angina pectoris presents with severe, crushing pain radiating down the left arm, brought on by physical exertion,” Dr. Croft countered. “You have no pain, Your Grace, and your pulse at this very second is normal.”

“Then perhaps it is a lingering manifestation of the sweating sickness,” she suggested hastily.

“The English sweating sickness has been extinct since 1551,” Dr. Croft replied, without missing a beat. “Its victims were dead within twenty-four hours. You are currently the picture of vibrant vitality.”

“Then a localized nervous affection,” she pressed, leaning forward. “A temporary disturbance of the vascular system. Medical history is replete with diagnostic errors, Doctor Croft. For centuries, physicians believed dropsy was a disease of the blood before discovering it was an accumulation of fluid caused by the heart or liver. In the 1700s, physicians dismissed the early tremors of Saint Vitus’s Dance as mere emotional agitation until it was proven to be a neurological affliction. Medical science misdiagnoses physical ailments as mere vapors or nerves all the time until the condition turns fatal.”

Croft let out a quiet breath, temporarily lost for words.

“Your Grace,” he said gently. “I am afraid Saint Vitus’s Dance does not vanish the moment a gentleman leaves the room. I have tested your reflexes, listened to your heart, and felt your pulse. You exhibit no signs of dropsy, no neurological decay, and no fatal decline. You are in good health.”

“Then why does my heart beat so rapidly? Why do my cheeks burn?”

“Because...” Dr. Croft said softly, leaning in slightly. “Well, perhaps it is not an illness of the body at all. Perhaps it is a matter of the heart.”

Seraphina blinked, her brow furrowing. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that you might be harboring certain unresolved feelings toward His Grace. Feelings that your logical mind hasn’t acknowledged, leaving your body to express what you have not.”