Page 24 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

He curled his fingers into fists, the whites of his knuckles showing. No matter his calm, she suspected that underneath, he was not calm at all.

“And because William is… precious,” he added.

Jessamine nodded. Yes, William was precious indeed.

She watched the way Andrew carefully placed the wet rags on William’s stomach, handling him with inordinate care. Then, when he turned the boy over, she asked to have a go, and wrung the wet cloths out carefully before placing them on William’s skin.

He screamed even harder, and she slid her finger into his tiny hands, letting him grasp as she murmured reassurance to him.

“It’s all right, my beautiful boy,” she told him. “Everything will be all right now, I promise you. All we have to do is get you cooler.”

Her heart hurt. This could not be happening. When she’d been attempting to get him to sleep before, she had thought perhaps this was nothing, a figment of her imagination born from a lack of sleep and such endless worry.

So many things happened to infants before they had the resilience to survive. And if something happened to William, she would never forgive herself.

The maid arrived with tea, and Andrew handed her some. “Drink,” he said curtly. “It will do you good.”

“I feel as though⁠—”

“I will hold him,” Andrew said, picking the child up and gently placing him in his arms. “You may drink. Then when you are done, we will trade.”

Jessamine took the proffered cup and sipped, watching the stiff way Andrew held William. He was certainly not used to the feeling of such a small boy in his arms. But he held him with determined patience, pacing about the room with him.

“Speak to him,” she said. “I won’t ask you to sing.”

Andrew glanced at her. “I believe he would like that even less than the fever.”

A joke? That didn’t seem to be real, but Jessamine couldn’t deny the half-lift of his lips, as though he wanted to smile but didn’t. The expression soon left his face, however, replaced by that familiar tightness. Worry, written in his eyes like the night stars.

Soon, it was Jessamine’s turn to hold William, and she did, letting him press against her skin, letting him know that she was there, and he was safe. He would be safe.

“More cold water,” Andrew decided once he had finished his tea, and they replaced William’s rags.

Then, because Jessamine could not bear to allow William to go long without the comfort he so desperately needed, she scooped him back into his arms and held him. Sometimes she paced, sometimes she sat in the one armchair in the room while Andrew stood by the window, looking out into the night.

Hours passed. She felt delirious with exhaustion, but although Andrew looked almost as tired, he made no complaint, and neither did she. In truth, it was comforting to have another person with her, his calmness allaying the worst of her fears, although she doubted he truly was as calm as he suggested.

She wondered what had happened to him to make him so alarmed when he had confessed to having some experience with fevers in the army. Illness, then. Or perhaps children.

The death of a child—of anyone—could blight a person’s entire life. Andrew, she presumed, was not immune to that very human of feelings.

As dawn finally cracked the sky, William’s crying settled into a murmur, and he finally drifted into sleep. Jessamine stared at Andrew in wonder, her entire body aching at having held the small child for so many hours. Her arms, her shoulders, her back. Heavens, her back.

But it was worth it. He was asleep.

Andrew approached them both, and with the back of one finger, tested William’s stomach again. His face was taut with concentration, and Jessamine held her breath, afraid to move in case she should wake the child, and scared that after all this, they would conclude that William’s fever was worse than ever and this was the inevitable decline before he passed.

But Andrew’s face cleared, and his lips curved upwards, ever so slightly. It was the closest thing to a smile Jessamine had seen him give, and it was one of the most unexpectedly marvelous sights she had seen.

She had to be delirious, utterly out of her mind, because at the sight of his eyes crinkling softly, she felt her stomach flip with—something, anyway. Nerves, excitement, anticipation.

He looked like a different man entirely, all the harshness of his expression wiped away into something entirely more sincere.

This was the man she fancied he could have been, if things in his life had been different.

“He’s cooler,” Andrew whispered, and motioned for her to place the baby in the crib. “Let him rest.”

Jessamine didn’t want to. She wanted to hold him tight, close to her, for as long as possible. She never wanted to let him go, in case something terrible should happen to her.