A Royal Likeness Read Online Free PDF

engulfed the shop as she realized they were gone and she was hurling epithets at the empty space. Breathing heavily from her effort, she grasped the edge of the counter.
    Did I say all of those things? I must have been possessed. Oh dear God, Nicholas.
    She ran to where Nicholas lay on the floor, his torso engulfed in blood. She dropped to her knees next to him and threw herself on his chest.
    “Oh no, Nicholas, no, sweetheart, can you hear me, please say something, I love you so much, darling, please say something, are you breathing, Nicholas?”
    She lay atop him utterly still for a moment, and was rewarded with the sound of raspy breathing. She sat up and looked at him.
    “My love, are you awake? Can you hear me?”
    His eyes fluttered open and focused on her with difficulty.
    “Quite a … show … you were very brave, my love.” He coughed, screwing up his eyes from the pain.
    “I was just senseless for a moment. Nicholas, I’m going to find a doctor for you now, to come and tend to your wounds. You’ll be fine in no time at all.”
    “You must continue to be brave … not going to be fine … love you, Marguerite … sorry we do not have a child to carry on … shop … you’re my fiery little rebel.” He tugged at a pin in her hair and released her tresses.
    “Nicholas, stop. Stop it this instant. Your wounds can be mended. You just need a doctor’s attention. I’ll run out now—”
    With a surge of his hidden strength she knew so intimately, he grabbed her arm. “Don’t leave … won’t do any good … stay with me. Stay here with me. Here.” He tugged at her arm.
    She yielded to his pull and lay at his right side, his good arm wrapped around her and her right arm over his oozing chest.
    He turned enough to kiss her forehead. His lips were dry and coarse. He murmured “I love you” once more before falling into a labored sleep, his breaths sharp and uneven.
    Much as she wanted to run out to seek a doctor or do something—anything—to help, she lay still next to her husband. His tight grip on her probably would not prevent her leaving anyway. As his breaths became shallower, she splayed her hand across his chest to ensure she could feel every motion of his upper body. Her hand became sticky with her husband’s blood. She glanced downward and saw that her own clothing was as stained as his.
    How can it be that last night I made love to my husband, and tonight I am lying next to his dying body?
    His breaths were now not only shallow but irregular, and he emitted a faint rattle. Marguerite nearly stopped breathing herself, fearful of making any movement that would disturb her husband. The metallic odor of his profuse bleeding caused her forgottennausea to make an inconvenient reappearance, but she swallowed hard and mentally forced it away.
    And then with a great
whoosh
Nicholas’s breaths stopped altogether and he released his firm grasp of her. Was he …?
    She labored up onto one elbow. Nicholas’s eyes remained shut, but now he appeared to be resting peacefully. She pressed her hand—the blood on it now dry—gently against his chest.
    Nothing.
    Nothing at all.
    A long and piercing wail escaped her chest and yet again she had to suppress an overwhelming desire to retch. She lay back down next to her husband, exhausted, but determined to stay with him until she was certain his soul had departed for good.

2
    Hevington, April 1803.
“Lady Greycliffe, would you like to wear your lavender silk or your gold-threaded ivory gown to supper with Lord and Lady Balding?” Claudette’s maid asked from the doorway of the library.
    Claudette Greycliffe looked up from where she was arranging flowers in a vase while her husband sat reading a book on the classification of clouds in his favorite chair, a copper-colored leather cover over an old Jacobean frame that had faded and cracked exactly along the lines of William’s sitting position. It was the only piece of furniture in Hevington that looked as