Her exhaustion was evident in the soft curve of her shoulders and the way her body seemed to mold itself to her chair. They were not very comfortable chairs, but she looked as if she could stay in hers all night. There was nothing I wanted to do more in that moment than carry the weight of her responsibilities for her.
“Why don’t you let me take care of everything?” I offered.
She glanced at me sharply. “I can’t let you do that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“It is too much. I barely know you. I could not impose on you.”
I thought of all the young ladies who had hardly known me in London but had no hesitation imposing on me. I was easily one of the most imposed upon bachelors in England right now. But I wanted every imposition Marianne would give me.
“It’s not too much, and you would not be imposing,” I said. “How would you go about it on your own? You probably don’t even know where you are, do you?”
She shook her head.
“Let me help,” I said cajolingly, wishing I could reach out and smooth the worried lines from her brow.
“I can manage on my own.” Her tone was firm and dismissive.
Ah. So she was not so young and helpless a trapped animal as I had just been thinking she was. My respect for her grew, but so did my exasperation. This argument could go on all night, it seemed. Yet, as much as I would have enjoyed the mental fencing, it would be better for both of us to give up this point so we could move forward.
“I have no doubt you would be able to manage, Marianne, considering what I have seen of you tonight.” I loved saying her name, and this time she didn’t scowl at me. That was an improvement. “But I would like to be of service to you.”
“Why?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion.
Why? Because simply looking at her, tired, bruised and pale, fragile, soft, and feminine, awakened every noble feeling within my breast. I was raised to rescue damsels in distress. It was just as much my inheritance as my title and land were—greater, even, for it was embedded in the makeup of my being, both as a Wyndham and as a gentleman. And here was a damsel in distress that I actually wanted to help and a real, not a manufactured, distress. In short, serving Miss Marianne Daventry was what I was born to do.
“Isn’t that what a gentleman does?” I asked. “Rescues a damsel in distress?”
Any other young woman would have smiled and agreed. But Marianne laughed and said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I am not a damsel in distress.”
“But I am trying to prove I am a gentleman.” I wanted her to let me prove that her insult was wrong, that the heart she had laid bare was not my true heart or my true self, that I was better than she had supposed.
She looked into my eyes for a moment, as if searching for some clue there, and then understanding dawned on her face. With a look of gentle compassion she said, “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
She was impossible. She would tear my heart open, show me the beast I had become, refuse to allow me to prove myself a gentleman, and yet she would look utterly sweet and compassionate about it. Fate had truly cursed me this evening, after all.
I looked heavenward and sighed in resignation. “Are you always this stubborn?”
After a pause she answered, “Yes, I think I am,” with a note of surprise in her voice.
I looked at her, with her dirt-smudged cheeks and her wayward, amber hair, and the funny tilt of her surprised smile. The fire lit up her long lashes and outlined the slope of her brow and hinted at a hidden dimple in her cheek. I wanted to laugh with her again. I wanted to catch her up in my arms and kiss those maddening lips. I wanted to argue with her all night long. I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg for the privilege of serving her, even in some small way.
In the end, I did none of those things. I simply laughed reluctantly and said, “I relent. You will never say something predictable. But I do agree with your plan. You should get some sleep and worry about all of this in the morning. It will all wait.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right. I think I will take your advice.”
“Good.” Finally, an end to that argument. I smiled at her and asked the question I had been wondering about for the past twenty minutes. “Can you make it up the stairs on your own?”
“Of course,” she said with a little scoff. But instead of standing, she said, “I fainted on the stairs earlier, didn’t I?”
I nodded.
“And then what happened?” she asked, her eyes large and worried.
“I caught you and carried you here.” It was all I could do to not smile at her discomfort. What an innocent! I could see her battling with the idea of being scandalized by a strange man carrying her. I wanted so badly to tease her and watch her blush again. And then I caught her staring at my shoulders and chest through lowered lashes, and her face grew pink without my having to say a word.
“Well, thank you,” she said in an uncomfortable voice.
My face hurt from the effort of hiding my smile. “My pleasure,” I murmured.
“I believe I can make it upstairs by myself,” she said. “I’ll not be needing any more of your services tonight.”
I was very doubtful. “Stand up then.”
She made a small effort to move in her chair and then sank back against the cushion in defeat.
“Just as I suspected,” I said, chuckling. I stood and held out my hand. She placed hers in it, and before I could consider doing something rash like kissing it, I pulled on it to help her up.
Her hand flinched in mine, and she sucked in a hiss of pain as she stood.
I lessened my grip immediately, then turned her hand over and tilted it toward the firelight. Her palm was raked with raw, torn flesh. For a long moment, anger burned hot within my chest, and it was hard for me to breathe. Nobody should have had the opportunity to hurt this girl. She was priceless and deserved to be protected as such.
“I thought you said he didn’t hurt you,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. I was tempted to leave the inn tonight, find the highwayman who had done this, and whip him myself.
“He didn’t,” she said, rubbing her other hand over her eyes. “It was the reins, mostly. The horses were spooked, and I’m not accustomed to driving four of them. And then I fell when I was trying to hurry, and James was so heavy . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked at me.
I could hardly believe what I had just heard. In fact, I must have misunderstood her. “You lifted your coachman?” I asked with great incredulity.
“Well, my maid helped,” she said, shrugging, as if that explained everything. As if that could explain how this small, soft lady who had certainly done no hard labor in her life and so did not have the strength to lift a man like that could have accomplished such a feat, even with the help of another girl who was close to her build and size.
“I saw him,” I told her, still reeling with disbelief. “He is more than twice your size. And I also saw your maid. I wouldn’t think it possible.”
She shrugged again. “It had to be done. I couldn’t leave him there.”
I gazed into her eyes and saw more strength and steel and moral conviction in their depths than I had seen in any woman. And mixed in with that steel was innocence and intelligence and wit and vulnerability and humor and more I had not even guessed at. A trap closed around my heart, and in that moment, I was helpless. Whether she loved me for my money or myself, whether she loved me at all, whether her heart was even available for the winning . . . none of it mattered. I was smitten to the core.
I looked down at her hand, still resting in mine. It was such a small hand. I lightly ran a finger over the injured palm, wishing my touch could heal, and murmured, “You brave girl.”
She pulled her hand away from mine and looked around, utterly weary to the point of confusion.
“You must be exhausted,” I said. “Come.” I took her elbow and steered her toward the open door, noticing as I did that the top of her head did n
ot even reach my shoulder. She stumbled more than she walked, and a few times I had to stop myself from just scooping her up in my arms and carrying her upstairs. Once I saw her safely to the door of her bedchamber, I bade her goodnight.
“Good night,” she said, swaying slightly. “And thank you. For everything.” Her smile was sweet. I could not tear my gaze away until she turned and opened the door to her bedchamber.
“Lock your door before you go to bed,” I warned her, with the overwhelming surge of protectiveness that had been growing within me all evening.
Then I went downstairs to start making the needed arrangements. There was the doctor and innkeeper to pay. I would need to find someone to nurse the coachman back to health. And then there was transportation to arrange for both her and her servants. An hour later I wrote a letter detailing all I had done to serve her and smiled at myself as I signed it “Your obedient servant.” I would have loved to see her reaction when she read it, after her stubborn arguing against my help. Then I spent a sleepless night guarding the door of her bedchamber and slipped out of the inn just a little before sunrise.
I should have been exhausted as I galloped back to Edenbrooke, but my heart was alive with a bright, unexpected dawn. I smiled the entire way home.
THE END
More by the Author
Edenbrooke
Blackmoore
Edenbrooke and Blackmoore are available at Deseret Book, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.
Heir to Edenbrooke Page 6