Dr. Winters sighed, and for the first time since he’d entered the room, he looked tired. “One is never certain in medicine, my lady. I would that were not the case.” He looked over at the window, whose curtains were pulled back to reveal the endless green of Fensmore’s south lawn. “Perhaps someday that will change. But not in our lifetime, I fear. Until then, my job remains as much of an art as a science.”

It was not what Honoria had wanted to hear, but she recognized it as the truth, and so she gave him a nod, thanking him for his attentions.

Dr. Winters returned the courtesy with a bow, then gave Honoria and her mother instructions and left, promising that he would return later that night. Lady Winstead escorted him out, leaving Honoria once again alone with Marcus, who lay terrifyingly still on his bed.

For several minutes, she stood motionless in the center of the room, feeling strangely limp and lost. There really wasn’t anything to do. She had been just as scared that morning, but at least then she had been able to concentrate on treating his leg. Now all she could do was wait, and her mind, denied of a specific task, had nothing but fear to fill it.

What a choice. His life or his leg. And she might have to be the one to make it.

She didn’t want the responsibility. Dear God, she didn’t want it.

“Oh, Marcus,” she sighed, finally walking over to the chair at his bedside. “How did this happen? Why did it happen? It’s not fair.” She sat and leaned down against the mattress, folding her arms and resting her head in the crook of one elbow.

She would, of course, sacrifice his leg to save his life. That was what Marcus would choose if he were sensible enough to speak for himself. He was a proud man, but not so much so that he would prefer death over handicap. She knew this about him. They had never talked about it, of course—who talked about such things? No one sat at the dining table talking about whether to amputate or die.

But she knew what he would want. She had known him for fifteen years. She did not need to have asked him the question to know his choice.

He would be angry, though. Not at her. Not even at the doctor. At life. Maybe at God. But he would persevere. She would make sure of it. She would not leave his side until he . . . Until he . . .

Oh, dear God. She couldn’t even imagine it.