While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(21)

Deliveries always went around back, as with most aristocratic residences. It was tempting to drop off the flowers at the back door with a note and beat a hasty retreat, but she knew Mrs. Barclay expected a status update on the duke. In addition, the household believed she was his fiancée. It would be ludicrous to walk around to the back like any ordinary delivery person, deposit the bouquet and leave.

Still, standing there in the morning cold, waiting for the doors to open, it was hard to pretend she was anything other than ordinary. Woefully ordinary Poppy Fairchurch.

Pushing the sobering thought away, she knocked one more time on the door and risked a glance over her shoulder. A nanny was pushing a pram, passing the front of the duke’s residence.

Poppy felt conspicuous and out of place—as though a giant sign were painted on her back that read FRAUD.

At last the door opened. The footman from yesterday stood there. Before she even had a chance to introduce herself, he ushered her inside, tsking over the dastardly cold.

Out of the chill and standing in the warm foyer, the footman did not move before the housekeeper appeared.

“I thought I heard the door. Hello there, Miss Fairchurch. How good to see you again. So sorry you had to brave this bitter cold. I hope you were able to sleep last night.”

In truth, she had slept poorly and, for a change, it had little to do with Bryony’s kicking. She’d slept fitfully, half awake, half conscious. Images of the duke and a speeding carriage with wild-eyed horses and lethal hooves chased her. And then there was Struan Mackenzie. His glowering face intruded, too, hovering at the edges, threatening to take over completely and shove everything else out.

“I managed to sleep,” she lied. “Thank you.” She nodded to the flowers. “I brought these. My employer, Mrs. Barclay, made the arrangement herself.”

Mrs. Wakefield accepted the flowers. “Oh, lovely, and how thoughtful of her. I shall put them in a vase and set them in His Grace’s room so that he may see them when he wakes.”

Her heart sank. “He’s not awake, then?”

On the way over she had been hoping, praying, for a miracle. Why not? Miracles happened every day. Why could they not happen for the duke?

The housekeeper’s face settled into grim lines. “Sadly, no. No change.” She nodded with sudden cheer. “Come. This way. Perhaps now that you’re here he’ll respond.”

And that only made Poppy feel all the more wretched. There was nothing about her arrival that would bring about his swift recovery.

The duke’s bedchamber door was slightly ajar. Mrs. Wakefield pushed it fully open and motioned her inside. “Have a seat and spend some time with him. The others are still abed. Not early risers as you are, Miss Fairchurch.” She hesitated and took a breath. “If you forgive me for being so forward, I must say it’s refreshing that the duke chose you. Speaks to the depth of his character that he can see beyond rank to the heart that lies within a woman. Trust me, there has been a great deal of pressure over the years for him to marry one lady or another. And yet he chose you.”

And yet he did not choose me.

It was a rather ridiculous prospect. Something told her that if the duchess had been anyone else, anyone other than the eccentric she clearly was, she would have laughed Poppy straight out of the house yesterday.

A clatter in the distance drew Mrs. Wakefield’s attention away. “The new girl has clumsy fingers,” she muttered. “Best go see what she destroyed now. I vow I should never have taken her on, but she’s my niece. S’pose I can’t give her the sack. I’d never hear the end of it from my sister.” She shook her head ruefully. “Make yourself comfortable. I will give you some time with him.” She patted Poppy’s shoulder. “It’s right . . . for both of you.”

Then she was gone, leaving Poppy standing in the doorway and staring at the great big bed in the center of the room. It could sleep an army but only one man reclined in the center of it, as still as stone . . . much as he had been when she last saw him. He didn’t look as though he had moved, but she knew he had been tended to and must have been moved at least a fraction.

Taking a breath, she crept toward the bed, her steps a hushed whisper on the carpet.

The chair she had occupied yesterday was still there, an indentation left upon its cushion from previous occupants. She sank down onto it.

“Hello,” she greeted into the vacuum of the room. Silence greeted her back.

“It’s me again.” She winced, knowing he didn’t know her. Not truly. Weekly visits to a flower shop where he purchased flowers from her hardly constituted knowing—never mind however much she felt that she knew him from those occasions. “Not certain you remember me. I’m Poppy Fairchurch.”

Leaning forward, she started to touch his hand, but then pulled back. No one was here. It wasn’t necessary for her to perpetuate this farce. It seemed somehow presumptive to do so.

“I know you don’t know me outside of Barclay’s Flowers, and this will seem wildly, well . . . mad, but there was some confusion the day you were hurt. As it turns out . . . well. I’m your fiancée. At least that’s what your family believes.”

Continued silence.

She sucked in a breath. If that wasn’t enough to spring him from his false sleep nothing would.

She grimaced at the misplaced thought. He would wake. He must.