Page 68 of The Duke and His Jilted Bride

“Hold him steady,” Moore said.

Frederick made a sound then, low and involuntary, which meant he was somewhere close to the surface even if he wasn't awake. Evander tightened his grip and said, “I've got you. I've got you, Freddy. Stay still, you’ll be all right.” But he brother kept shaking, beads of sweat running down his face.

Frederick's brow creased. His eyes stayed shut. His brother really was beautiful, even then, even when the worst had almost happened. The happier brother. The better brother. What was Evander? What was Evander when Frederick was–

“The leg is shattered,” Moore said, cutting through his thoughts. “I won't know the full extent until the swelling comes down, maybe I am wrong. The bleeding is manageable but the skin…” He paused in a way that Evander did not like. “There may be other damage. I cannot say tonight.”

“What kind of damage?” Evander said, still holding onto Frederick even when Poole and Howes had stepped away, looking pale.

Moore looked at him then. “The kind that takes time to assess, Your Grace. He took considerable weight on him in the fall and must have fallen on something for his leg to end up like this. We will know more when he wakes.” There came another pause. “I want to be honest with you, Your Grace. The leg concerns me less than what else may have been injured. And the risk of mortification…”

Poole made a sound behind him, a stifled, guilty gasp. “He wants to take the leg.”

“No.” Evander grit his teeth and said, “He has not even awoken yet, and you are telling me this. I do not want to know. Only do what needs to be done. But leave him intact.”

Over the next hour, they managed to stop the bleeding and try to set the leg. It mostly seemed like a lost cause. Frederick cried out once, then went silent. Evander stayed for all of it. He stayed because Frederick had nobody else in the house he could trust.

He had ridden Evander's horse. That was the detail that kept returning. Poole had told him in the intervening hour: Frederick had taken Matchem because his own horse had thrown a shoe that morning. Matchem was a strong horse, a good horse, but he was Evander's horse, and he did not know Frederick's hands. He had gone too hard at a jump in the woods, laughing, and Matchem had unseated him and come down on top of him. Poole had heard it all, then doubled back and found them there.

Howes said the horse was fine. Spooked and cut, but otherwise sound. Evander did not care about his beloved horse at that moment. Not about the house. Or the women. Not about anything except his brother.

When Moore had finished and Frederick was bandaged and his breathing had steadied into something regular, the doctor left instructions with Poole and said he would return in the morning. Evander saw him out and came back to the drawing room. He pulled the chair to the side of the sofa where they had laid Frederick and sat in it indecorously, feeling the weight of his brother’s life on his shoulders.

The room was quiet. Poole had gone to deal with the horse with Howes, and speak to the staff. It was just Evander and his brother's calm but ashen face.

“King of fools,” Evander said quietly. “Taking my horse… What were you thinking?”

Frederick did not respond.

“If you had asked I would have given you another. There are eight horses in that stable, and you took the one that doesn't know you at all and is only loyal to me.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “That is so like you. I don't know why I'm surprised.”

He swallowed back the thickness in his throat and let his head hang forward in shame. The sun was setting outside, the room growing dimmer by the minute.

“I'm not cross with you,” he said. “Not about any of it. I was very angry for a long time, yes. But I'm not anymore.” He looked at his brother's face and his eyes smarted. “I just want you to be all right. That's all I want.”

Frederick breathed, shallow but even breaths.

“I should have told you more often that I loved you,” Evander said. “I know I didn't. I know I sorted things and stepped in when you needed it, and I thought that was the same as love, but it isn't.” He reached over and took Frederick’s cold and bandaged hand. “I'm sorry, my brother.”

A log shifted in the grate, and Evander hissed at the sound. He sat up slightly, patting his brother’s hand gently.

“Whatever else is true, you are worth ten of her and twenty of me. Don't let her convince you otherwise.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sat up straight.

He did not say anything else for a long time. At some point he stopped sitting upright and let his head fall back against the chair. The room was quiet and lonely, and he had been awake since before dawn. Without meaning to, he slept beside Frederick. He saw him in his dreams – but he didn’t remember them by the morning.

He woke in the early hours. The fire had been banked, meaning someone had come in to check on Frederick. It was cold, but Frederick was still breathing, the same steady rhythm. His colour was marginally better than it had been, or Evander was willing it to be. Moore had said the night was the most important time, and he had made it through.

Evander stood slowly. His back had rebelled against a night spent in the chair. He stretched slightly, looked at his brother's face for a moment, and went out into the corridor to find water or something close to it - and someone to check on Frederick with him again.

The house was entirely quiet. The kind of quiet that only existed in the hours between two and four, when even the staff were asleep and the dogs had given up for the night and settled wherever they pleased.

He turned the corner without thinking, dizzy and bleary-eyed. But he saw her. Aurelia. She was sitting on the floor outside the drawing room door, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up, her coat laying across her legs and a tray of uneaten sandwiches beside her. Both dogs were with her. She had her head back against the wall and her eyes were closed. She must have just drifted off, because she opened her eyes when he came around the corner and sucked in a breath.

It stopped him dead in his tracks.

He thought about the trunk before he thought about her sitting there – the half-packed trunk, and the coat she was wearing when he came through the door, and then all the things he had not had a chance to say since the library. He didn't know where to start.

Twenty-Five