While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(22)

“I know I should have corrected the misapprehension by now, and I will. I promise. Just as soon as everyone wakes today.” She moistened her lips.

More silence.

“It’s just . . . well, this is rather mortifying to admit, but I’ve never been betrothed before.” She glanced down at herself in her plain pinafore that hid only a plainer dress. Her gaze caught on the toes of her scuffed boots. “Not such a surprise.” She released a pained laugh that she felt to the depths of her.

“There was a time when I came close,” she admitted. “It’s strange to think about that now. To consider how, if my life had taken a different turn, I could be a married woman now. Perhaps even a mother. But that’s neither here nor there.” She took another deep breath. Talking about this, saying the words that needed to be said even to an unconscious man, was more difficult than she expected, but now that she had started it was as though a dam had been opened. She couldn’t stop. The words surged forth in a torrent. “The fact is . . . I’ve never been truly betrothed to anyone. Almost doesn’t count, does it? But when I imagined myself married . . . when I imagined myself with the man of my dreams . . . he was always you.” She felt the heat of her blush score her cheeks. “At least ever since I met you.”

She was wringing her hands so tightly now she hardly felt them anymore. The blood had ceased to flow, but she couldn’t help herself from squeezing. It was a strange echo of another time when she had sat vigil at the bedside of her father. When she wasn’t holding Papa’s hands or wiping his brow or forcing sips of broth or water past his lips, she had squeezed her hands to the point of numbness. As though the force of her own grip could imbue fresh life once again into her sire and bring him back to her.

Shaking off the memory, she reached for the cup of water near the bed, glad for something to do. A cloth sat beside it. She picked it up and dipped it inside. Without wringing out the fabric, she brought the wet end to his mouth and dribbled water between his lips. He wouldn’t last long if he didn’t have water and sustenance. Mrs. Wakefield seemed sensible and attentive, but Poppy didn’t know how experienced she was with nursing the sick. She would ask if he had taken any broth. She might as well impart what knowledge she possessed. Her father had been beyond saving, but the verdict was not yet decided for the duke. Despite what the physician said, he could yet wake. As long as he didn’t starve in the interim. She wasn’t giving up on him.

“There you are now,” she crooned approvingly. “You must think me daft. Infatuated with you when you’ve given me no encouragement other than treating me with kindness and respect each time you came into the shop. That can’t be common for a nobleman of your rank though.” She hesitated. “You always made my heart a little lighter . . . brought a little happiness into my day. For that, I’m grateful. I won’t abuse your kindness. I promise to straighten this mess out soon.”

After several minutes of feeding him slow sips of water, she put the cup and cloth down.

She swallowed against the sudden dryness of her throat.

The full impact of her admission sank in like a slow-sinking rock in her stomach. Even unconscious, she had just confessed her infatuation to the object of her . . . infatuation. She had never imagined such a mortifying thing occurring.

Her hands resumed their death grip. “I know it’s impossible. Naturally, I understand that. Someone like you could never love someone like me. You’re a duke. I’m a shopgirl. But I want you to know that I don’t admire you for your rank. I would have admired you even if you were naught but a man.” She gave her head a small shake. “A baker. A blacksmith. From the moment you entered Barclay’s, everything about you charmed me.”

More humming silence, and that only seemed to compel her to talk more, to fill the awkward quiet.

“Of course, you’re handsome, but you’re kind, too. The way you thoughtfully consider all of the flowers, ask questions and listen to my suggestions. I know you purchase flowers for different ladies and that you’re not devoted to any one of them. Some might say you’re a rake.” She shrugged. “But you care enough to send flowers and you put thought into the cards you write. You extend courtesy to everyone . . . from a lowly shopgirl to the boy with barely enough coin in his pocket. Do you remember that? I do. The boy came into the shop to purchase flowers for his ailing grandmother. You told me to put the flowers on your account.”

Again. Silence.

“Forgive me for blathering on. It’s nice to actually talk to someone for a change . . . even if you can’t talk back. You’ll wake up. I don’t know how I know it, but I just do. You’re strong and young and your time on this earth isn’t over yet.”

She sat in her chair, wrapped up in the silence of the room, gazing at the beautiful duke with a yearning in her heart that was twofold. Yes, obviously she wanted him to recover and wake up. But there was still the old selfish longing, too. For love and acceptance and companionship—somehow in her mind he had come to represent all of that to her. Despite her avowal to let go of that longing and focus on rearing her sister, that indomitable craving crept in again.

Lifting one hand, she brushed a lock of chestnut hair off his brow, unable not to touch him. Just this once. Just to see. To feel. The lock rebelliously bounced back into place. Oddly, she felt nothing at the contact and she frowned. No ripple of awareness. No zing along her nerves as she always imagined she would feel at first contact with him. His hair merely felt like . . . hair. Likely it would be different if he was awake and hale and inviting her touch. A sigh welled up and escaped her lips.