A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  And the longer Papa remained in London, the harder it became for Gus to deny that his trust also had a tinge of neglect to it. His letters to her were brief and apologetic, ending with paternal promises of love and devotion, but no mention of when he’d return home. Gus was sure that Julia did take considerable watching, but she also suspected that Papa was having every bit as good a time as Julia was, drinking and dining with his friends, going to cockfights and horse races. He never would have dared leave Julia alone with Harry, even with a broken leg. With Julia, such unattended proximity would have been unthinkable and scandalous, yet clearly not even their own father could imagine Harry taking an inappropriate interest in Gus.

  But he had. He had.

  She glanced up from her needles, past the folly’s stone columns and back to the house. The windows on the west corner belonged to Harry’s room, and she could just make out the curtains fluttering at the open casements. She could imagine him there, sitting in the bed and holding court with his visitors. Both Sir Randolph and Dr. Leslie were there with him now, consulting together on the state of Harry’s leg and offering their combined opinions to his cousin, who was there, too.

  She had pointedly not been included. There was, of course, no real reason she should have been. She was not a member of Harry’s family, she was not a surgeon, and, most of all, she was not male. The simple fact that she had been at his bedside, holding his hand, from the beginning did not matter, especially not to His Grace the Duke of Sheffield.

  Because His Grace did not approve of her. He’d done his best to charm her last night as the three of them had dined awkwardly together: he’d praised Mrs. Buchanan’s meal and told Harry again and again how, if he’d had to fall off his horse, he’d be fortunate to do so where Miss Augusta could find him.

  But as flattering as all this was, she sensed that, deep down, he found her wanting. She could tell by how he’d look at Harry with genuine fondness, and concern as well, and then how his gaze would cool when he looked at her, as if he couldn’t imagine the two of them together. It wounded her, that coolness, because she understood it entirely. He was simply thinking the same thing that everyone else did, and he believed that Harry needed rescuing from her unworthy self. As the evening had worn on, she’d said less and less, and she’d felt herself shrinking shyly into the shadows, not eating, not drinking, not laughing, not enjoying the performance the musicians had given after supper, almost as if she was determined to prove she deserved His Grace’s low estimation.

  For his part, Harry could not have been more loyal or attentive, striving to include her and asking her opinions. But it was painfully clear to Gus that the world he and his cousin inhabited was a far different place from her own, and if their London had been on a faraway star, it could not have been more removed from her own little world here in Norfolk. Just as she felt herself vanishing, Harry, too, was slipping away from her, back to the family and friends who so clearly adored him, and where he belonged.

  She bowed her head over her knitting, struggling to find peace in the rhythm of making perfectly looped stitches slide from one needle to the other. Since the moment she’d seen Harry weeks ago, lying pale and in pain in last summer’s leaves, she’d fought the temptation he’d presented, and she’d resolutely told herself over and over that he could never be hers.

  Last night, when he’d told her she was the best thing to come into his life, her hopes had soared to giddy heights, and she’d shoved aside the guard she’d so cautiously built around her dreams and set them free. He’d said glorious things to her, things only he could say and only she could hear. She’d kissed him and he’d kissed her, and she’d imagined herself in his arms forever, and it had been perfect.

  But it wasn’t, because His Grace had come, and that . . . had been that.

  She tried to focus on her work, on the yarn slipping over her finger and around the needle, dip and catch and slip a new stitch, again and again and again. Her mother had taught her that there was peace to be found in the repetition of needlework, that by keeping her hands busy, her thoughts would settle on their own.

  “Miss Augusta?”

  As much as she’d believed her mind had been wandering, she started at the footman’s interruption. “Yes, Price, what is it?”

  “If you please, miss,” he said, “his lordship and the others wish you to come join them.”

  She was up in an instant, stuffing the half-knitted stocking into her workbag as she hurried along the garden path and into the house. She tried not to run, but she couldn’t help it, and by the time she reached Harry’s room, she was breathless and her heart was racing wildly.

  The scene was exactly as she’d expected. Harry was sitting in the middle of the bed, holding court as usual. The two surgeons and their assistants stood on one side of the bed, near Harry’s splinted leg, while Sheffield stood on the other, with Tewkes hovering nearby. The only surprise was that Harry was wearing a dark blue silk brocade dressing gown over his nightshirt, which she supposed Tewkes must have insisted upon in deference to all the company in the room.

  “Thank you for joining us, Miss Augusta,” the duke said gravely. “I had rather hoped this conversation would be taking a different turn today, but the medical gentlemen have another idea.”

  Immediately Gus feared the worst. Swiftly she glanced from one male face to the next, eager for any hint of what was coming, and found none.

  “Is there something amiss, Your Grace?” she asked anxiously, looking not at him, but at Harry, who wasn’t betraying any more than the others. “A complication, or a setback?”

  “We must do what is best for his lordship, Miss Augusta,” Sir Randolph intoned. “That remains of utmost importance, and we must—”

  “Everything is fine, Gus,” Harry said, at last breaking into an enormous grin. Excitement and the blue silk made his eyes even brighter. “My infernal leg is healing better than either of these learned gentlemen thought it would. I’ve been given leave to begin lifting and working it, with the hope of standing—standing, Gus!—a week from today.”

  “That is excellent news, my lord,” Gus said, not wishing to rejoice too exuberantly before His Grace. “When I saw such long faces, I feared otherwise.”

  “It is not all good news, Miss Augusta,” the duke said, his disappointment clear. “I’d hoped to relieve you of my cousin’s care and take him with me back to London, but according to these gentlemen, he is still not fit for a journey.”

  “The jostling of a carriage could undo everything,” Sir Randolph said. “I believe in a cautious approach. Great care must still be taken, and his lordship must not let his enthusiasm overcome that caution.”

  “Hang caution,” Harry said. He threw back the coverlet with all the pride of a conjurer revealing his latest trick. “Look, Gus. They’ve changed that ghastly fence post of a splint for this more modest version.”

  There was in fact a new, smaller splint bound to his leg, the twin leather pieces now stopping short of his knee. But with more of his leg revealed, what struck Gus was how wasted the limb itself had become. In the weeks he’d been bedridden, he’d lost considerable flesh and muscle, and she knew from having seen others cope with similar wounds that his recovery was not going to be an easy one.

  “I’ve been granted permission to sit on the edge of the bed with my knee bent,” he said with unabashed excitement. “I wanted you here to see the momentous event. True, it’s only my first effort, but mark it now, Gus, so you can remember it when I’m dancing again under the stars at Vauxhall Gardens.”

  Gus smiled, keeping her misgivings to herself. She understood the silk dressing gown now: He’d had Tewkes prepare him for this brief venture upright, even though it was, really, no more than a first step in a long recovery. His eagerness to reach so small a goal was almost unbearably poignant to her. Dancing at Vauxhall was a long, long way in the future, if it ever did happen again, but for his sake she’d smile, and pray he proved them all wrong.

  She wa
sn’t the only one. Sheffield rested his hand gently on his cousin’s shoulder.

  “There’s no need to prove anything to us, Harry,” he said. “Time enough for talk of dancing.”

  But Harry only smiled, his eyes bright with determination. “I’ve done nothing but lie about for weeks, Sheffield. Now is as good a time to begin as any.”

  He meant it, too, pushing himself over to the edge of the bed. The surgeons and their two assistants both hurried over, ready to assist, and Gus retreated out of their way.

  But Harry wanted no help, and waved them away. He managed to swing his good leg over the side of the bed, and paused, marshaling his strength for the real challenge.

  “I don’t need help,” he said. He was already breathing hard from that simple exertion. “I can do this myself.”

  “You can’t, my lord,” Sir Randolph said quietly, coming to stand directly before Harry. “Not the first time. The muscles around your knee will be too stiff from disuse. Pray permit me to help.”

  Harry muttered something that was likely an oath, then nodded curtly. Bracing himself on his arms, he slowly began to pull his healing leg from the bed. Sir Randolph slipped his linked hands beneath Harry’s knee while his assistant supported the leg, holding it out straight as it had been these last weeks.

  “There, my lord,” Sir Randolph said softly. “Whenever you give me leave, I will attempt to bend your leg at the knee, and I apologize in advance for the discomfort I will cause. The pressure shall be slow and steady, my lord, and it will be easier to bear if you can breathe easily, and refrain from holding your breath.”

  Harry might not be holding his breath, but Gus was holding hers, her fingers pressed lightly to her lips. She remembered all too well what both surgeons had said after the accident, how they’d worried that there’d been more damage inside Harry’s leg beyond the broken bones—muscles and tendons torn and never to mend.

  They’d said then that only time would tell if he’d ever regain true use of his leg. That time had now come. Did Harry know it, too? Was he aware of how significant this simple exercise might be?

  “Please try to relax, my lord,” Sir Randolph said. “I’ll begin whenever you wish. Steadiness, not haste, will best answer the task.”

  Harry nodded, his expression full of resolve. He took three deep breaths to steel himself. “As you wish, Peterson.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” With almost imperceptible pressure, Sir Randolph began to bend Harry’s knee for him at the joint, taking care to put no stress near the break.

  Harry grimaced and swore, clearly surprised by both the effort and the pain. At once Sir Randolph stopped.

  “If it’s too much to bear, my lord—”

  “It is not,” Harry said firmly, taking another deep breath. “Proceed, if you please.”

  This time Sir Randolph continued slowly bending the knee until it formed a right angle, and then just as slowly once again straightened it. As he did, Harry closed his eyes, his face tense and hard as he fought against the pain, his fingers digging deep into the mattress.

  “Well done, my lord,” Sir Randolph said after he’d repeated the process three times. “That’s sufficient for the first day.”

  “No, it’s not,” Harry growled. Beads of sweat clustered along his hairline, and he swiped his sleeve over his forehead to wipe them away. “Not at all.”

  “Harry, please,” Sheffield said with concern. “Listen to Peterson. You can’t rush this. You’ve nothing to prove to anyone in this room.”

  “Damnation, I must prove it to myself,” Harry said. He looked up, past Sheffield to find Gus. “Gus, here, give me your hand.”

  She stepped forward and he seized her hand, his fingers linking instantly into hers. There wasn’t a question of her giving him her hand; he claimed it for his own, holding on as tightly as a drowning man might. Perhaps in a way he was that desperate. When she gazed down at him, she could see the mix of emotions behind his eyes, determination and suffering and fear of the future all mingled together.

  In response she quickly curled her fingers more closely into his, forgetting all the others around them. He flashed a quick, small smile of gratitude and understanding, just for her, then looked back to Sir Randolph.

  “I am ready, Peterson,” he said. “I’ll ask you to remove your hand, and let me try the knee myself.”

  Sir Randolph frowned. “Oh, my lord, I do not know if that is wise.”

  “Is there any chance that I could injure myself further by performing the same motion that you just did for me?”

  “It will be extremely taxing, my lord,” Sir Randolph said, “and there is the chance that—”

  “That if I cannot do it now, I may never be able to do so on my own again?” Harry said. “That’s what you’re not saying, isn’t it?”

  Sir Randolph sighed, nearly a groan. “Yes, my lord,” he admitted unhappily. “There is that unfortunate possibility.”

  “Then I would rather know now,” Harry said firmly, “than continue to grasp at an empty hope. I’ll ask you to take your hand from my knee, Peterson, so the test is a fair one.”

  “My assistant must remain to support your lower leg, my lord,” protested the surgeon. “A sudden movement could still disrupt the healing.”

  “I do not believe I could make a sudden movement with that leg if my very life depended on it,” Harry said. “But I shall take care.”

  Sir Randolph shook his head. “You will do this against my advice, my lord,” he warned. “Nor will I be responsible if the results are not what you desire.”

  Harry smiled, but this smile had little humor to it.

  “I won’t fault you, Peterson,” he said. “I’ve spent most of my life going against the sound advice of others, and I see no reason to change my ways now. Your hand from my knee, if you please.”

  Reluctantly the surgeon removed it, taking the place of the assistant supporting Harry’s lower leg.

  Harry nodded and glanced up one last time to his cousin. “A small wager, Sheffield?” he asked. “A hundred guineas says I can bend my own knee.”

  “You’re daft,” Sheffield said. “I won’t bet against you.”

  Harry smiled, but no one else did. It occurred to Gus, there in the middle of all these men, that turning this into a kind of challenge, a test, was a peculiarly male thing to do. Peculiarly male, and peculiarly Harry as well. Only she knew that despite his bravado, his palm was damp against hers and his heart was racing. He’d orchestrated this moment for himself to combat his own apprehensions, and now it was up to him either to follow through, or to back down.

  Gus didn’t doubt for a moment which he’d do.

  “Be brave, Harry,” she whispered, leaning close so the others wouldn’t hear, “and try. You can do no better than that.”

  He smiled at her one last time. Then he stared down at his knee, clearly concentrating, and his fingers tightened again around Gus’s. His thigh trembled from the effort, but slowly, slowly he was able to bend his knee on his own, not as far as Sir Randolph had been able to take it, but enough. Enough to prove he hadn’t lost the ability, enough to make his point, enough to make the others in the room break into spontaneous applause.

  But it was to Gus that he turned.

  “There,” he said, breathing as hard as if he’d run a race. “I did it, Gus. You saw, didn’t you? I did it.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. She didn’t know why she felt so close to tears. She should be happy for him, overjoyed by what he’d proved he could do. Besides, the last thing she wished to do was weep before His Grace and the others.

  “Pray excuse me, Miss Augusta,” Sir Randolph said firmly, “but it would be best for his lordship to rest now.”

  He didn’t wait for Gus to reply, but immediately began to guide Harry to the center of the bed. Her hand slipped free of his, and she stepped back, out of the way of Sir Randolph and his assistant.

  Harry didn’t fight the surgeon, either, gratefully sinking aga
inst the pillows. Clearly he’d marshaled all his limited strength for that single effort, and now he was markedly pale, his face taut with exhaustion. He listened, but barely replied as Sheffield congratulated him on his progress before he left the room, and as Sir Randolph and Dr. Leslie did the same. Gus hung back, waiting for the time they were all gone and she could be alone with Harry.

  Finally only Tewkes remained, but not for long. “Should I draw the curtains, my lord?”

  “Leave them as they are,” Harry said wearily, “and leave us as well. I wish to speak with Gus alone.”

  She drew the familiar armchair close to the bed, leaning forward so their faces were level.

  “I shouldn’t stay long, Harry,” she said. “You need to rest, and don’t say you don’t.”

  He sighed, and smiled. “I won’t, because I do,” he admitted. “Ahh, Gus, that did not go as I’d planned. Not at all.”

  She’d known he was tired, but still she’d expected to see more of triumph in his eyes, rather than the unmistakable despair that she found there now.

  “I do not know what you were planning, Harry, to be so disappointed,” she said softly. “What I saw you do was something close to a miracle. You were determined, and extraordinarily brave.”

  “That was hardly a miracle,” he said with a disparaging sniff. “A miracle would have had me hop from the bed and stride about the room.”

  “And I say it was a miracle,” she insisted. “Harry, I’m sure Sir Randolph told you the same as he told me, that there was a distinct possibility more of your leg was damaged, beyond the bones alone, and that you would never walk unassisted again. You proved that wasn’t the case.”

  “Sir Randolph always exaggerates,” he said. “That’s how he can command more sizable fees.”

  “He wasn’t exaggerating,” she said bluntly. “I saw your leg when they cut away your riding boot, and I watched Dr. Leslie set it. If Sir Randolph had been here then, I believe he would have taken your leg off and been done with it, and we wouldn’t be quarreling about this now.”