It had started with the fever.

Fever dreams, half-conscious tea drinking, shivering despite three woolen blankets, sweating through three woolen blankets, too much sleep but not enough.

Lecia had expected the fever to be the worst of it. Rather, everyone else expected that for her. However, once the fever broke and she could lift the teacup for a sip with her own hands, it became worse yet. She had been given some bread to soak up the misery in her stomach—which it had—but two hours later all contents were ejected, posthaste.

For days it went on, a plate of toasted bread for breakfast, a pot of foul vomit for lunch.

It took the assistance of both the Marchioness and the physician to convince the Duke that Lecia was in need of fresh air and exercise. Reluctantly, Vaughan relented. His permission was conditional, though, requiring that he be the one to escort his wife out of bed, and brisk winter air was to have no part in the endeavor.

She was a shadow swathed in a silk dressing gown as she waited for him, seated at the foot of their bed—though he had moved himself to the chaise the last week to give her space to be ill. Lecia was impatient. Invalidity did not suit her.

Her heart leapt at the sound of the opening door. Harry—who had grown quite large by now—barreled in first, tongue flapping from his mouth, and greeted the Duchess with a violently wagging tail. Vaughan could not hide his smile as he slipped in the room, admiring the revitalizing effect the creature had had on his wife. If only it weren't too cold for a ride, he frowned.

"Are we ready?" the Duke asked, holding out his arm for Lecia.

Ignoring his offer, she stood without assistance and said, "Yes."

"Lecia," he sighed, lowering his arm as he fell into stride beside her.

"I'll never recover if I'm forever treated as a patient," she said.

"You could have died," he insisted, "and you're not yet entirely well."

"Hm," she dismissed.

They meandered through the halls of Brahmsboro in heavy silence. Frequently, Lecia stopped to admire a painting or some sort of decoration. This, Vaughan suspected, was likely because she was easily winded and required a break to catch her breath, not because she was actually fascinated by a carving Ezekiel's great-grandfather had done as a child. The Duke did not admit to knowing her secret, but Lecia knew he did.

When they reached the library, Lecia neatly folded herself into a chair. Harry had been weaving himself in between the Duke and Duchess the entire trip, but it was Lecia's lap he climbed into when they finally stopped. He was hers as she was his, and he had missed her when she had been asleep.

Vaughan took in the sight before him. His vibrant wife had dwindled to a silhouette, fading amongst the towering bookshelves and beneath the splay of freckles on the young dog. She was nodding off already from exerting herself. It pained him to see it.

"Lecia," he hesitated, "what do you need?"

She rolled open her eyes.

"I need to go home," she told him. She'd been tempted not to call it her home, but, despite the hurting he had caused her, Martis was her home now and forever.

"That can be arranged," he breathed.

"Of course it can," she said cruelly. Vaughan flinched.

"What is this?" he begged to know. Why did she need to keep wounding him this way?

"You tell me," she growled, lifting herself out of her seat. Harry dropped to his feet and waited to follow. There was rage in her gaze as she met Vaughan's eyes. Something was wrong.

"What?" he was helpless.

"I'm not sure what you expected from your—how did you say it?—biggest regret," she spat. She was struggling to catch her breath, her chest was heaving, but she would not let him see her cry and rushed out of the room. Maybe she could make it back to bed, or maybe she would have to find an alcove first. Harry trotted after her.

"I—"

Vaughan could not speak, nor could he get air into his lungs. How? How had she heard him? Why had he even said that terrible thing? It wasn't true. At least, most certainly not true in the way she must think. He did not even think it was true in the way he had meant it. Not anymore. He did not regret her, he relished her. Needed her. Wanted her. Loved her.

What had he done?

He regretted himself.

A braver man would have gone after her. There was nothing to hide and not rushing to tell her the truth made it seem like there was. But she wouldn't listen. He wouldn't if it were him.

Did this mean that she really did care for him, then? Or was it something else?

Without pause, Vaughan planned Lecia's return to Martis. It was all of the penance he could afford. Instructions were given to the footman, his aunt, and the palace staff in regard to Lecia's care; he was to be contacted at the first sign of suspicious behavior.

He removed himself from Brahmsboro immediately. He was a coward and he was ashamed.

The first night back at Martis did not go as Lecia had planned. She had unpacked in her own apartment, bathed in her own tub, and climbed into her own bed. But as Harry's even breaths attempted to lull her to sleep, she could not fall. It was an uncomfortable mattress, her blankets were not warm enough, and there simply were not enough pillows. The room threatened to collapse on her, barren and cold though she'd decorated them herself. Furthermore, the unopened letter he had addressed to her burned a hole through any shroud of rest that could have comforted her.

She did not sleep. She would not sleep. It was a choice. Two things would have allowed dreams to take her. First, she might have read his letter. Second, she might have gone to his bed. Both things she wanted more than anything, but would not allow herself to have them.

Drowsily, she climbed out of bed. Harry followed. Fresh bread laid waiting for her on a small table in her salon. Satisfied with the night's rebellion, she plucked the letter from her desk and collapsed with it on a chaise. Tearing it open, she nibbled on a thin slice of breakfast.

It struck Lecia then that she had never truly seen her husband's script. His hand guided ink in a fascinating dance of loops and beauty that she had not expected from a boy who'd been raised on a farm.

Fy Cariad,

There was a time that I thought you might be my biggest regret. You are not. Certainly, my biggest regret is ever having uttered those words.

I am a fool and a coward to have sent you away without a proper farewell, but my shame is apparent and my heart could not bear to have you look on me that way.

By now I should hope that you know how very much I adore you. There is not a world in which I would like to live apart, and I very urgently need you to hear that I do love you.

Yet I fear that you do not share these sentiments, thus have felt regret for having imprisoned you with our vows. I had promised you freedom, and I should like to uphold that pledge should you desire. Above all else, losing your companionship would please me least. Whatever I must do to maintain it, I shall, you need only ask.

Perhaps it is untimely and unfair to beg forgiveness. Nonetheless, I ask that you consider my apology for causing you pain. Hurting you was and is the farthest thing from my intentions.

Yours,

Fychan

Certainly, it was not the most romantic of letters. It was, however, an unquestionably Vaughan-like gesture. Lecia's bread was forgotten and then discovered by Harry. She'd begun to cry, but couldn't be sure when it had started.

He didn't think that she loved him. How could he think that she didn't love him? After all that she had done and said, what had she left out? She wanted him to come home to her. She felt childish.

The second night, Lecia slept quite soundly—aside from the bouts of sickness that would wake her. She scattered pillows around the bed so that she might pretend Vaughan was beside them. His room cloaked her in his scent and in fond memories of better days, and his mattress was much more to her satisfaction.

Despite everything, she did not ask him to come back to her. He was in London for work, and when that work was done, he would return. It was something she would eventually have to accept as a part of their marriage. When business was finished, she would be here waiting. Until then, Harry would keep her company.