“May I be excused, Papa?”Rollo asked.“Cook has made a mild chicken broth, and I would like to feed it to Willoughby myself if he is able to stomach it.”
“As long as you let me hug you first, my darling.”Dabbing his mouth, Papa gave him a weary smile.Tiredness etched his usually flawless skin.Willoughby’s near-death experience had taken its toll on all of them.As Rollo sank into him, for the millionth time he tried not to cry.
“He’s going to live, my darling, and everything will return to normal.You’ll see.I will not allow it any other way.”
*
“WHAT DAY ISit, Rolly?”
“Tuesday, my love,” answered Rollo.“And if you’re very good and swallow five more mouthfuls, I’ll even tell you which month.”
Attempting to shift in the bed, Willoughby groaned.“It hurts so much, Rolly.Everywhere.I want to close my eyes again and do nothing but sleep until I feel better.”
“You’ve been employing that strategy remarkably well.”
Obediently, Willoughby opened his mouth for the spoon.“I’ve been out of it quite some time, haven’t I?”
“A sennight,” Rollo agreed.“Give or take.”
“My last memory is grass, bramble, stars, and then blackness.”Willoughby huffed a dry laugh, then winced.“I was an idiot, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, but you weren’t to know that the loudest thunderclap the heavens have ever cobbled together would choose to unleash its demonic powers over Rossingley at the precise moment you took your jump.”
“Is Papa dreadfully cross?”
“Dreadfully,” teased Rollo.“As soon as you are well enough, he will have you writing out one hundred times:I must not lead my trusting and impressionable younger twin into trouble.I must not lead my trusting and impressionable younger twin into trouble.”
“That was the first time in our entire history,” scoffed Willoughby.“And you know it.”
Rollo adjusted the pillows behind his back.“Of course he’s not cross.He’s hardly slept with worry about you.None of us have.”
“You do look awful,” his brother remarked.
“Thank you, you are too kind.But a damned sight better than you.For a moment there, I was in line to be the next earl, and frankly, I don’t have the time or the patience for it.”
He kissed Willoughby’s forehead.“Ugh.Your poor skin is terribly dry.I must find a salve.”
Willoughby rolled his eyes.Rollo fed him more broth.“How is Bunty?She hasn’t been punished, has she?”His eyes darkened.“Or injured?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.She’s tough as iron.And being treated like the pampered queen she is.Though she’s missing your ministrations.Kit and I are poor substitutes.”
“You have to kiss her nose twice every evening and treat her to half a carrot chopped into batons, otherwise she won’t settle.And if that doesn’t work, you must stroke the soft tufty bit between her ears and sing her a lullaby.”
“Do I look like the sort of chap who’d singlullay, mine liking, my dear heart, mine sweetingto a damned nag?”
Rollo had finally got his hands on his papa’s chartreuse banyan, and he wore it today, paired with a delicate lace neckerchief.Willoughby regarded him solemnly.
“Don’t answer that, Willoughby.”
*
WILLOUGHBY’S CONDITION IMPROVEDin leaps and bounds over the next two weeks.As did his ability to direct orders from his sickbed, a sure sign he was on the mend.Kinglike, he demanded his pillows be plumped, then flattened, lowered then raised.Broth was too hot or too cold, the window too draughty when open, the air too close when shut.If Rollo wasn’t such a sweetheart and so relieved his brother was still sufficiently alive to bark orders, he might have snapped a few of his own in return.
“Rolly?”his twin asked weakly after Rollo’s attempts to comb and tame his brother’s knotted locks had almost resulted in fisticuffs, “Why are you still here?”
“That’s a jolly good question,” he answered sourly.For the third time that hour, he refreshed Willoughby’s water, too warm the first two times, apparently.“Would you like Pritchard in my stead?Or Dobson?”
“God, no.It’s…it’s…” Willoughby’s brows knitted together.“But don’t you have a decrepit old lover to visit?”
