Page 57 of The Not So Perfect Duke

As soon as Damon dropped off the doctor, he was returning to Cleveland Street. Damon wanted to be there for Althea. As strong as she was, he would offer his support.

Once he saw Buchanan off, he banged on the roof, and the window slid open. “Back to Cleveland Street, Dawson. And be swift about it.”

“Right away, Your Grace.”

The whole way there, Damon recalled his conversation with the doctor. It was entirely possible Althea would turn him away, and that would be her right. But he wanted at least to offer comfort and sympathy. Emotions that, in the not-so-distant past, were utterly foreign. But not as far as Althea was concerned.

When he arrived at Althea’s, Mrs. Bartle answered the door.

“Miss Althea Galway.”

“She’s in her room; she said she’s not feeling well, Your Grace.”

“And I know why she said that. I am going upstairs to her room. I hope you will not stop me. I have no nefarious purpose except to offer my support,” Damon declared in an empathetic voice.

The housekeeper was clearly grappling with what to do.

“You have my permission to bash me about the head with your trusty broom if I act the cad,” he added, giving her his best charming smile.

“I will follow you upstairs, and if Miss Althea agrees to see you, you can stay.” Mrs. Bartle stepped aside to allow him to enter.

“Stay put, Dawson,” Damon called over his shoulder.

They climbed the stairs, and Mrs. Bartle knocked on the closed door. “His Grace, the Duke of Chellenham, to see you. Do you want me to send him away?”

Damon could hear sniffling behind the door, and his heart ached at Althea’s anguish.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bartle. He can come in. The door is unlocked.”

Damon turned to the housekeeper. “Can you fix a tea tray?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Damon waited until the housekeeper descended the stairs, then turned the handle and entered. Althea was lying on her stomach across the bed, her eyes red, holding a handkerchief clutched in her trembling hand.

“Oh, Damon,” she cried.

He ran to her side, gathering her up into his arms. “My sweet, not all is lost, and it may not be as bad as you think.”

Althea grabbed his coat lapel and buried her face into his cravat, her shoulders heaving.

Damon held her closer, smoothing her hair. “Cry it out, love.”

“H-h-hold me?”

“For as long as you need and longer. For the rest of my life.”

Althea cried, and he rocked her slightly, whispering words of encouragement. A knock sounded at the door.

“It is Mrs. Bartle with a tea tray. Do you want her to come in?” Damon asked, his voice soft.

Althea shook her head. “Not now.”

He stood, reached into his pocket, and handed her a fresh handkerchief.

“Yours is positively drenched, my darling. Here, dry your eyes, and I will fetch the tea.”

He opened the door partway and held out his hands to take the tray. Mrs. Bartle looked worried. “It will be fine, Mrs. Bartle. Althea has had a shock. She will tell you when she is ready.”