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Her torturous musings kept her company until they pulled up to their cottage. She did not wait for assistance but jumped from the equipage and hurried toward the entrance. His brother and father followed at a clipped pace. She pushed open the door and rushed to their chamber.
A cry of alarm slipped from her. Gabriel laid too still upon the bed. She rushed over, and it was then she saw the shallow rising of his chest. His skin had a gray cast, and it was then she saw an ugly, mottled purple-red bruise on his left side spreading to his stomach.
George hurried over, came down on the bed and slipped his arm under his brother’s shoulder. “We must get him to the manor as quickly as possible.”
She glanced up. “Is it safe to move him? Will the doctor not come here?”
He did not answer, and a muted fury filled her. “My lord—”
"So you are wed then?" the earl demanded harshly.
She glanced at him, heat burning through her entire body. “We…we were to marry today,” she stammered.
The earl glanced back at his naked son, the tangled sheets, and distaste curled his lips. She lifted her chin, knowing it to be a defiant gesture, but she would not be made to feel shame for their love.
“We will take Gabriel to the manor. George, get the footmen inside. We’ll move him as gently as possible.”
Primrose was then ignored as the earl’s orders were followed with all alacrity. A few minutes later, a blanket swaddled Gabriel was resting comfortably on the squabs in the carriage. Most of his body reposed on the seat, and his head was in her lap.
“He’s not even moaning,” she whispered, peering at George, who showed a stoic mien.
But Primrose saw how he gripped the edge of the seat, how white his knuckles were. Smoothing the damp curls from Gabriel’s forehead, she closed her eyes and prayed for his recovery while the carriage rambled toward Sancrest Manor, and toward a future that had suddenly become uncertain and terrifying.
Primrose’s finger beat a frantic and worried tattoo upon her thighs. She sat in familiar comfort in the smaller sitting room, drying her gown by a roaring fire, awaiting news on Gabriel. They had been back at the manor several hours now, the doctor had been summoned while the countess and the maids of the manor tended to him as best as they could. Several times she had offered assistance, and she had been coldly rebuffed.
Her pride urged her to leave, but the burning love in her soul for Gabriel assured her it was necessary for her to stay, though her presence was painfully unwelcome.
A shuffle sounded, and she glanced up to see the countess entering, lines of strain around her mouth.
Primrose surged to her feet. “Is he…is he well, your ladyship?”
“That is not your concern, Miss Markham.”
“My lady?” Primrose questioned sharply, her heart jerking in alarm. “I am most anxious to know if he is well.”
It was then she saw the countess's eyes were red-rimmed from crying. "My son is fighting for his life because of you," she whispered, raw and furiously.
Primrose flinched. “My lady, I got help as soon—”
The countess waved her hands. “In choosing you, he almost lost his life. Gabriel is the son of an earl. He deserves better, Miss Markham. I hate even to say it, but this terrible moment can be seen as a fortunate turn of events. My son is still free of you. I implore you to let him go. It will take weeks for him to recover from the infection which had been poisoning his blood, and when he is well, I assure you he will marry Lady Beatrice if you are not here.”
Ice slid through Primrose's veins, and she stared at the countess mutely.
“I have no doubt he only offered for you, Miss Markham, because you had compromised his honor by giving him your virtue like a harlot. Of course, he would have tried to do the honorable thing, even if in his heart he wanted to marry Lady Beatrice.”
Primrose felt sick inside.
The countess squared her shoulders, walked over and stiffly handed her an envelope. “Take it, and leave,” the countess said.
Primrose wasn't sure why she took it, shock perhaps. With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope and gasped upon seeing the bank draft for five hundred pounds. A bubble of confusing emotions rushed through her. “Lady Fairclough, I…is this for medical expenses—”
A harsh bark of laughter cut her off. The countess sobered immediately. “Do not be naïve. The money is a…sort of thank you for what you have done for my son. Nothing more. You will take it, leave, and never darken his life again.”
Shame and rage burned through Primrose. "I've worked in this household for four years and three months. I've always been kind, and careful to teach Annabelle subjects that will educate her mind and shape her wonderful character. I've never cheated you or tried to, yet you think me so low in character I need to be paid off? What egregious crime have I committed, but to sincerely love your son? I am not of the lowest birth to be scorned so. My father was a baronet, I was afforded a quality education, and I
was raised as a lady—”
“Yet you’ve proven to only be a social climbing harlot,” the countess spat, her eyes firing with anger and an indefinable emotion.
