The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 13

Winter tightened its grip around Southdale Estate, the chill seeping into every corner of the grand house, as if mirroring the dread that had settled over its inhabitants. The corridors, usually filled with the clatter of servants and the sound of laughter, now lay in mournful silence, broken only by the quiet rustling of skirts as maids hurried past with worried expressions. In the master bedchamber, darkness and light fought for dominance, the curtains drawn to block out the harsh white of the snow beyond, but parted just enough to allow slivers of pale daylight to fall across the bed.

Vincent lay still as stone, his face gaunt and pallid, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline. The bullet had been removed, but an infection had set in, dragging him to the brink. Despite the physician’s best efforts, his fever raged on, growing worse with each passing day. Constance sat beside him, her hand never straying far from his. She was unyielding in her vigil, forsaking sleep to watch over him, her heartache growing with every shallow breath he took.

“Why don’t you rest, my lady?” whispered Mrs. Crawley, the housekeeper, who stood near the door, a tray of fresh linens in her arms. “You’ve hardly closed your eyes in days.”

“I cannot leave him,” Constance replied, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. “If I close my eyes… if I leave his side for even a moment…” She broke off, not daring to finish the thought. Her gaze returned to Vincent’s drawn face, her fingers brushing lightly over his brow. His skin burned beneath her touch, as if consumed by a fire from within.

Despair had gripped her heart with cruel talons. Yet beneath it stirred something deeper, something urgent. A realization that had struck her with the force of a blow—she could not, would not lose him. She loved him. How could she have been so blind to it before?

The confession had slipped from her lips in a moment of helplessness, her voice a trembling whisper as she leaned over him. “I love you, Vincent,” she had breathed against his ear, her tears falling unchecked. “You must fight, do you hear me? You must come back to me.”

But no answer had come, only the ceaseless rise and fall of his chest, each breath more labored than the last.

Determined not to let despair claim her, Constance rose from her chair with sudden resolve. There was one last thing she could try. She remembered the stories her grandmother had told her as a child—of healing herbs and poultices, old remedies passed down through generations of women. She hurried to the library, where an ancient book of her grandmother’s, filled with herbal lore, lay forgotten on a dusty shelf.

The pages were yellowed and brittle, but the knowledge they contained was precious. She read feverishly, her eyes scanning each passage, her hands trembling as she marked the herbs she needed. Soon, she was mixing tonics and preparing poultices with the same precision she had once applied to her embroidery, praying that her efforts would not be in vain.

For days, she tended to Vincent herself, bathing his fevered brow with herbal infusions, whispering words of love and encouragement into his ear even when his eyes remained closed. She coaxed drops of healing tincture between his lips, her heart pounding with every swallow. She was not a skilled healer, but she was driven by something far stronger than mere knowledge—love.

“I won’t lose you, Vincent,” she vowed as she laid a fresh poultice across his chest, her fingers lingering over his skin. “You belong to me, just as I belong to you.”

The days crept forward, marked by sleepless nights and quiet prayers. The estate staff dared not speak of the master’s condition, but a pall of fear hung over the household. Yet Constance refused to give in to despair. She would fight for him, even if it meant sacrificing every last shred of hope she possessed.

Then, on the night before the New Year, something changed. It was a subtle shift, a quiet easing of his breath. She felt it as she held his hand in hers, her cheek resting against the back of his palm. His skin was cooler than it had been, the fever that had tormented him for so long seemed to be breaking. She dared not move, dared not breathe, lest the fragile change slip away.

Midnight arrived with the tolling of the estate’s clock, its deep chimes ringing out over the silent grounds. As the twelfth chime echoed through the air, Vincent stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and for the first time in days, his eyes opened, weak and bleary, but unmistakably awake.

“Vincent?” Constance gasped, sitting upright, her heart pounding in her ears. “Vincent, can you hear me?”

His gaze found hers, and though he was still pale and drawn, a faint smile curved his lips. “Constance,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but undeniably alive. “I… am here.”

A sob of relief escaped her as she threw herself over him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face in his shoulder. “You came back to me,” she cried, her tears spilling freely. “Oh, Vincent… I love you. I love you so much. I was so afraid I would lose you without ever telling you—”

“Hush,” he murmured, his fingers reaching up to stroke her hair with a tenderness that sent shivers through her. “You will not lose me, my love. I would fight my way back from the very gates of hell to be with you.”

His words broke the last of her composure. She wept openly, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. Yet within her tears lay a joy so profound, it seemed almost otherworldly. She drew back just enough to look at him, her lips trembling as she tried to form the words she had longed to say.

“I wanted to tell you… there is another reason you must stay,” she whispered, her voice catching on the tremor of a sob. “You will be a father soon, Vincent.”

His eyes widened, his hand tightening around hers with renewed strength. “Constance… are you…?”

She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “Yes. You have given me a child.”

Though he was still weak, the news seemed to revive him, and with a groan, he reached for her, pulling her close to him. “Then I have more than enough reason to live,” he breathed against her lips. “I shall not let this world take me from you. From our child.”

With the taste of her tears mingling with the warmth of his kiss, Constance felt a heat build between them, one born of relief and passion, and a desire that flared despite his weakness. As he lay back, she climbed atop him, her heart swelling with gratitude that he was still here, still hers. Even in his fragile state, they shared a moment that transcended mere survival—a union that affirmed life in its most primal and intimate form.

As she moved above him, his hands settled upon her hips, guiding her gently, their breaths mingling as their bodies sought comfort in each other. The night, though fraught with recent pain, blossomed into something beautiful and sacred as they whispered promises and confessions in the quiet of the room.

And when at last their passion ebbed, she lay in his arms, her head resting against his chest, listening to the strong and steady beat of his heart. It was a rhythm that told her they had won, that love had triumphed over despair.

Vincent pressed a kiss to her hair, his voice a faint murmur in the darkness. “We shall have a New Year filled with blessings, Constance. I vow to be the husband and father you deserve.”

With a smile, she nestled closer, her hand drifting to her belly. “And I shall love you, always. For you are the miracle I never knew I needed.”

As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, a new chapter began for them, one born from the ashes of adversity and written in the language of hope and love. And for the first time in many weeks, the house was filled with peace.