CHAPTER 96: CARCEL’S POV

The rain hammered against the windowpane of the small, temporary manor Carcel had purchased in haste. It was a relentless, gray downpour that turned the world outside into a blurred painting of mud and water. Inside, the air was cold and gloomy.

Carcel sat on the edge of the bed. He wore a loose silk robe, his chest bare, his hair uncombed. He looked like a man who had gone twelve rounds with a prize-fighter and lost.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"The doctor is here, Your Grace," said Lloyd, Carcel’s aide. Lloyd stood by the door, his face a mask of professional neutrality, though his eyes flickered briefly to the bruising on his master’s face.

Carcel sighed. The movement made his jaw ache.

"Send him in," Carcel said. He stood up, his body stiff, and moved to one of the high-backed velvet chairs near the fireplace. He wanted to look somewhat dignified, even if he felt like a wreck.

The door opened wider, and a small, gray-haired man bustled in, carrying a heavy leather bag. He looked nervous. Treating a Duke was always stressful; treating a Duke who looked like he had been in a tavern brawl was terrifying.

"Good day, Your Grace," the doctor said, bowing low.

"Good day, Dr. Tyler," Carcel replied. His voice was rough. He hadn’t spoken much in days.

Dr. Tyler wasted no time. He set his bag on the table and pulled out a small, bright lamp and a magnifying glass.

"If you could please tilt your head back, Your Grace," Dr. Tyler requested softly.

Carcel complied. He leaned his head against the chair. He hissed in pain as the doctor’s thumb gently pulled down his left eyelid. The light from the lamp was blinding, piercing through the fog in his vision.

"Hmm," Dr. Tyler murmured. He shifted the light. "Open wide, please. Look up. Now look down."

Carcel gritted his teeth. "Well?"

Dr. Tyler clicked his tongue. He stepped back, extinguishing the light.

"Um, it is called Hyphema, Your Grace," the doctor explained, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Hyphema," Carcel repeated. It sounded like a curse.

"It is a collection of blood inside the front part of the eye," Dr. Tyler said, trying to sound reassuring. "It happens after... blunt trauma." He glanced at Carcel’s knuckles, which were also bruised, but he didn’t ask who had thrown the punch. He knew better.

"Is it serious?" Carcel asked.

"It is not a big problem, thankfully," Dr. Tyler said. "The bleeding has stopped. That is the good news. So, the blood will naturally be absorbed by the body over time."

Carcel frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that phrase.

"Naturally, over time?" Carcel asked, sitting up straighter. "How long will it be?"

He had a wedding to plan. He had a fiancée to court. He had a brother-in-law to appease. He couldn’t be a recluse forever.

The doctor hesitated. He fiddled with the clasp of his bag.

"I am going to change the medication," Dr. Tyler said, dodging the question at first. "I am not sure, you see. It hasn’t shown any improvement since I saw you last week. The swelling is still quite severe."

"Doctor," Carcel said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding tone. "How. Long."

Dr. Tyler swallowed. "With this new medication... if it heals fast, the redness could fade in a week."

Carcel nodded. A week. He could do a week.

"But," the doctor added, wincing slightly, "if it is slow... it could take about a month."

Carcel froze.

"A month?" he repeated.

The silence in the room was heavy.

"A month," Carcel said again, his voice rising in disbelief. "You are telling me I will look like a monster for a month?"

The doctor nodded sympathetically. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, brown glass bottle. He dropped the medication on the table with a dull thud.

"This should be taken every day," Dr. Tyler instructed. "Morning and night. For two weeks. Do not skip a dose. And try to keep your head elevated when you sleep."

He picked up his bag, eager to leave the presence of the angry Duke.

"I will be back after two weeks to check on your progress," Dr. Tyler said, bowing quickly.

Lloyd, who had been standing silently in the corner, stepped forward. "This way, Doctor."

Lloyd saw the doctor out. The door clicked shut, leaving Carcel alone in the dim room.

He stared at the brown bottle on the table. A month.

He stood up and walked to the window. The rain was coming down harder now, washing the glass in sheets of water. The garden outside was a muddy mess. It was gloomy. It was depressing.

"It rains frequently nowadays," he whispered to the glass.

He thought of Ines. She loved the sun. She loved her garden. She hated the cold.

"I hope she is fine," he thought. "I hope she is warm. I hope she isn’t sitting in that library, staring at the rain, thinking I have abandoned her."

The door opened again. Lloyd returned.

Carcel didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes on the gray world outside.

"Have you delivered the flowers?" Carcel asked.

"Yes, Your Grace," Lloyd replied promptly. "I took the basket myself. I gave it to her maid, Edith. Lady Ines should receive it any moment from now."

Carcel let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "That is good. And the note? Was it secure?"

"It was tucked deep in the lavender, Your Grace. Just as you asked."

Carcel nodded. Lavender. The scent of France. The scent of the future he had promised her.

He turned away from the window then. He looked at Lloyd.

Lloyd was a good man. He had served the Anderson family for ten years. He had seen Carcel at his best, and he had seen him at his worst. He was the only person Carcel could trust with the truth.

Carcel stepped into the light of the fire. He tilted his face, exposing the left side.

His eye was not just black. It was a terrifying mixture of purple, yellow, and a deep, angry crimson where the blood had pooled in the white of the eye. The lid was swollen shut, a puffy, dark mass. His lip was still scabbing over.

He looked like a man who had been kicked by a horse.

"Lloyd," Carcel said, his voice quiet. "How does my eye look?"

Lloyd blinked. He looked at his master.

"Is it unpleasant to see?" Carcel asked. "Be honest."

Lloyd hesitated. He opened his mouth to offer a polite lie, to say it wasn’t so bad, that it looked dashing. But he saw the look in Carcel’s good eye. Carcel didn’t want comfort. He wanted the truth.

Lloyd sighed. "It’s bad, Your Grace."

Carcel flinched.

"It looks... painful," Lloyd added gently. "And very red. It is quite... startling."

Carcel nodded slowly. He turned back to the window, hiding his face again.

"I thought so," he whispered.

He stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the window pane. A monster stared back.

I can’t let Ines see me like this, he thought, his heart twisting.

He remembered the night in the guest room. He remembered Ines kneeling on the floor, her tears streaming down her face as she looked at his blood.

Especially after remembering how she cried over a split lip, he reminded himself. She was hysterical. She blamed herself. She thought she had destroyed me.

If she saw him now... if she saw the blood in his eye, the bruising that had turned black and yellow... she would cry again. She would think she was the cause of this ugliness. She would feel guilty.

I cannot bear her guilt, he thought. I can bear Rowan’s fists. I can bear the pain. But I cannot bear her tears.

He pressed his hand against the cold glass.

It’s been a week now, he realized. Seven days of silence. Seven days of hiding in this dark house like a wounded animal and all I can do is send gifts, he thought bitterly. Pastries. Books. Flowers. Like a coward sending tokens from a distance.

He wanted to ride over there. He wanted to storm the library. He wanted to sit in that chair and watch her write. He wanted to hear her ask him impossible, scandalous questions.

Being apart only made my feelings grow stronger, he murmured to the empty room.

It was an ache. He missed her voice. He missed her scent. He missed the way her nose crinkled when she was confused.

He looked out at the rain, slashing against the trees.

"I hope she is safe from the cold," he said softly.

He turned back to the table and picked up the brown bottle of medicine.

He would wait. He would have to heal fast because when he finally sees her again, he wants to be the man she deserves. He wants to be the handsome Duke from her novels.

"Lloyd," Carcel said, his voice firm again.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Bring me paper and a quill," Carcel ordered. "I have another letter to write."

If he couldn’t show her his face, he would show her his heart. One letter at a time.