[Rynthall Estate—Duke's Private Bedchambers, Late Morning Madness]
Lucien lay in bed.
Swaddled in silk robes, hair a tragic opera of tangles, eyes glazed like a pastry left out too long. His legs were stretched awkwardly, one arm tossed over his forehead like a fainting widow, and the other gripping the bedsheet with righteous fury.
At the foot of the bed, Fredrick, the duke's personal physician, sat on a velvet stool—stone-faced, professional, and very clearly trying not to look at the suspicious bite mark peeking out from Lucien's collar.
Fredrick gently withdrew the stethoscope and sighed like a man who had seen too much.
"Thankfully," he said calmly, "the child is safe and well. No harm done. Strong heartbeat. Miraculously untouched."
Lucien collapsed backward onto the pillows like a dying duchess. "Oh, thank the gods. I was sure Wobblebean was going to file a domestic complaint from inside the womb."
