Page 19 of Atone, Adonis

“No, Fred. We don’t need or want your charity. I can tend to Thomas’s needs myself, just as I always have.”

His eyes swept over her again, pausing, she was certain, at the purple smudges beneath her own. And at the ragged pallor of her normally warm complexion. Not to mention the ill-fitting dress, her stockinged feet, and the pin cushion she still clutched in her one free hand for no good reason at all.

“It isn’t charity.” His voice was perfectly even, which only made the whole situation feel worse. “It is a necessity.”

“Just as the physician was a necessity?”

“Yes.”

“He wasn’t. He only confirmed Thomas’s worst fears. He’s been sicker ever since, not better.”

“And he’ll be sicker still if this weather doesn’t break. Thomas needs around the clock care, which I’m certain you could provide, just as I’m certain you shouldn’t.”

Julianna went very still. Because—the issue was—he was correct. No matter how much she might wish it otherwise. Nor how much the idea of taking even a farthing from Fred made her want to gnash her teeth and rend the fabric of her gown and otherwise behave as badly as she could possibly manage.

“You have no right,” she hissed instead of saying any of those things, “to decide what Thomas, or I, might need.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I have every right,” he said finally, “as your betrothed. And no interest in pretending otherwise.”

Mrs. Sykes cleared her throat. “Miss—my lady. I’m only here to help your brother. That’s all. And I can see you need a break, if you don’t mind my saying. What can a little rest hurt?”

Julianna opened her mouth to reply, when Thomas began to cough again. And not one that could be managed with a little steam and tea. This was a ripping, violent sound that dragged itself up from deep in his lungs, as if they were trying to claw themselves free from his body.

It went on too long. And when it broke briefly, it was followed by the wet, horrible gasp of her brother trying to breathe.

Julianna’s stomach dropped. “Tom!” she called without thinking, already turning toward the stairs.

She took a few lurching steps, but the gown—her mother’s beloved, damned, wedding gown—caught beneath her feet. She tripped, listening to the sound of it ripping just as the pins buried themselves into her side in unison.

Fred caught her before she hit the ground, but not before he’d surely seen the look of panic on her face. He’d definitely heard her shriek.

“Julie-bug,” Thomas rasped from upstairs. “Don’t come running. I’m—” His sentence dissolved into another hacking fit.

“Enough,” Fred spit out, putting Julianna back on her feet. “Mrs. Sykes, upstairs. Miss Farrow, with me.”

With an apologetic glance in Julianna’s direction, the nurse rushed up the stairwell to attend to Tom. Fred watched her go, then moved toward Julianna.

She shot out a hand, blocking him. “No.”

His eyes dropped to her hand. “No to what exactly?”

“To everything. You’ve already done enough. Stay where you are until the nurse has done what she came here to do and then leave.”

“Very well.” The stare he leveled at her could probably stop a fox in its tracks, no stones needed. “I shall stand here while you bleed.”

“I am not bleeding.”

“The droplets of red against your side beg to differ.”

“I am not—” Julianna did not finish that sentence because she looked down and could see, just as well as he could, that she was, in fact, bleeding. She’d torn her mother’s wedding dress and now she’d bled on it.

And—heat flared in her face at the realization—the bodice was still gaping.

She closed her eyes, as if this whole scenario might disappear if she could no longer see it. She was not so lucky, of course.

“Perhaps,” Fred eventually said in that sneering tone she despised, “you might deign to accept my assistance?”

He closed the distance between them too quickly for her to object and plucked the pin cushion from her hand. The shawl had fallen from her shoulders when she’d tripped, so he leaned down to retrieve it, folded it briskly, and set it aside. And then the Earl of Chester knelt on the floor before her as if he were truly proposing. As if he wanted her to be his wife instead of this obligatory farce they were both performing.