“Poor soul. What’s happened to his arms?”
“Knocked off,” Elijah said. “He kept his fig leaf, though. A man—even better, a god—likes to keep some things covered through the centuries.”
“He looks a bit scrawny,” Jemma said critically. “I like your legs better. Who knows what’s under that fig leaf? You would need a fig leaf twice that size.”
“Hush. You’ll insult the god, and right in his own backyard. There.” He poked in a last few flowers. “I’ll have to be very lucky or Apollo will come to life and claim you for his own.”
“If you remember, Apollo had no luck with women. Didn’t Daphne turn herself into a tree rather than be with him? And now we know why. It was undoubtedly due to those bony little knees of his, not to mention the tiny fig leaf.” Jemma started to sit up, so Elijah got up and pulled her to her feet. “I am ready to return to being a duchess, if it means that my bottom can warm up.”
“I can do that for you,” Elijah said with an exaggerated leer, cupping his hand over the part of her body in question. Her skirts were soaked, and he could feel her intoxicating, soft curve. “God, I’m so lucky.”
Her eyes contained such a beautiful smile that he had to stop and kiss her. “And happy,” he said a moment later.
She leaned her head against his chest. “I love you,” she said, but not: I’m happy.
“I love you,” he said, the words rising from his heart naturally. “I love you, Jemma. I love you.”
The joy in her face shamed him. “To find all this bliss, at the end,” he said, holding her tightly. “I don’t deserve it, Jemma. God knows, I don’t deserve you.”
“Maybe it’s not the end,” she said fiercely.
“If it is, I’ve had more joy in the last week than in the rest of my life.”
Her arms tightened around him and she said something, so low he couldn’t hear. But he thought she said she loved him, and he knew that already.
He dressed, and kissed her a few more times, and they walked back to the little door where the carriage waited.
Chapter Twenty-three
That evening
Elijah had banished Fowle and the footmen, and there were only the two of them, down at one end of a long mahogany table with a great deal of silver reflecting the candlelight.
“I don’t know how to live like this,” Jemma said after a few minutes of moving her food around her plate. Every time she looked at her husband, her throat tightened and she felt ill.
“I don’t think about it,” Elijah offered.
He was eating. How could he eat? How could anyone eat, sleep, think in his situation? There had to be some way, someone, who could help Elijah’s heart.
“Have you seen a doctor?” she asked.
“There’s no point.”
“But have you seen one?”
Her annoying, stubborn husband shrugged. “Villiers dragged me to a physician who studies hearts. The man said I may live for years.”
“Or not.”
“There’s a doctor in Birmingham who’s apparently doing miraculous things with hearts like mine. Villiers sent a carriage up there to get him.”
“How uncharacteristically generous of him,” Jemma said, ringing the bell. “Fowle, send around to the Duke of Villiers and find out when he expects his carriage to return from Birmingham. Wait for a response, if you please.”
Fowle disappeared with all the efficiency of a man who recognizes a woman on the verge of hysterics.
“Darling—” Elijah said.
“Don’t. Not now.” Her mind was racing. “There must be a way to cure this. There must be. The doctor in Birmingham will come here and cure you.”
“Eat your supper,” Elijah ordered.
She shook her head. “When did Villiers send the coach? I heard of a very good doctor the other day. Siffle, I think his name was.”