Page 43 of The Duchess’ Little Miracle

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Seraphina blurted out, her face instantly flushing pink. “That is utter nonsense. You are a man of science, Doctor Croft. You ought to return to your medical treatises and research this properly rather than making absurd leaps!”

Before Croft could answer, a knock sounded at the door.

The door swung open, and William stepped into the room. He was fully dressed for the morning in a blue riding coat.

“Ah,” William said, stopping as he noticed the physician by the bed. “Edward Croft. You’re here. How is she doing? Is she fit to leave her bed?”

“Her Grace is in good health,” Dr. Croft reported, bowing. “Her pulse is steady, her lungs are clear, and her fever has vanished. I find no physical reason why she cannot resume her normal routine, Your Grace.”

“That is wonderful news,” William said, a smile breaking across his face. He looked directly at Seraphina. “Which means we can resume our dancing lessons immediately.”

Seraphina stiffened, shooting a glare at the physician, who merely offered her a serene smile in return.

William turned back to the doctor. “Would you give us a moment? I would like a word with my wife.”

The word wife sent a traitorous skip through Seraphina’s chest. While Croft bowed low and stepped into the adjoining morning room, Seraphina subtly brought a clenched fist to her sternum, tapping her chest twice in an effort to force her erratic heart back into order. The physician was undeniably, completely wrong. This was not some foolish, sentimental agitation of the spirits. It was an uncatalogued physiological glitch, a medical anomaly that the doctor lacked the foresight to properly diagnose.

Once they were alone, the atmosphere in the room quieted. William stepped closer to the bed, resting his hands lightly on the bedpost.

“I came to tell you something,” William said softly. “Regarding Alice.”

Seraphina paused, her posture softening. “What happened?”

“She came down for breakfast this morning,” William said. “She walked right into the dining hall, pulled out her chair, and sat down at the table.”

Seraphina’s breath caught. “She did?”

“She did,” William confirmed, looking at her intently. “She did not say a word, of course, but she sat across from me, ate her toast, and stayed for twenty minutes. It is the first time she has willingly joined me for a morning meal since she arrived.”

Seraphina felt a swell of warmth in her chest, entirely separate from her phantom fever. “That is wonderful progress, Your Grace.”

“William.”

Seraphina’s eyebrows lifted, her speech momentarily faltering. “I beg your pardon?”

“William,” he repeated gently, watching her closely. “I have been thinking, and it occurred to me that you have never once called me by my name. If we are to convince society, and this household, that we are true partners in this marriage, it would be far more believable if you refrained from addressing me as though I were a stranger in a parliament chamber.”

Seraphina quickly looked away toward the window, adjusting the lace trim of her sleeve. Rationally, his logic was sound. A husband and wife of their standing calling one another by formal titles in private would certainly draw unwanted speculation from observant servants. It was a perfectly practical, reasonable adjustment.

But before she could articulate her agreement, the mattress dipped.

William had walked around the edge of the bed and sat down right beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his riding coat.

“Let me hear you say it,” he said, his voice low.

Seraphina turned her head back to him, her eyes wide. “Say what?”

“William,” he murmured, eyes holding hers captive. “My name. Address me by my name, Seraphina.”

Seraphina swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat working against a newly found dryness. She drew a breath, attempting to project absolute composure.

“That is wonderful progress... William.”

The moment the words left her lips, her body betrayed her once more. It was not merely the flutter in her pulse this time. A sensation erupted in the pit of her stomach, one remarkably like a vast swarm of bees, buzzing in a frenzied rhythm, humming in her lower stomach without a single sting.

The doctor was wrong. He had to be. Her illness was an advancing, highly volatile medical anomaly. A terrifying thought struck her in that moment. What if she was the first documented case of a new, unrecorded disease? History was filled with tragic medical firsts, individuals who contracted rare pathogens before science could give them a name or a cure. What if she was destined to be recorded in medical journals as the first documented case of this bizarre, localized condition?

Should she be concerned for her life?