After lengthy deliberation, he decided not to tell Mary until he could show her. If he could make enough progress to stand before her as a man, then he could reveal the surprise. In the back of his mind, Duncan also worried that telling her too soon could raise her hopes for nothing, but that was not a thought he wished to entertain in the light of such recent success. He was hesitant, even, to pen a letter to Dr. Knowlton this soon. Just a little more progress.
Guiding Caesar with reins, not yet brave enough to try signaling with his legs given how delayed their responses, he slowed to a trot, the lake in sight. His groom accompanied at a respectable distance. From beyond a dip in the terrain, Duncan spotted Mary, looking splendid even from afar, her groom following at an increasingly slower pace, likely having seen Duncan approaching. He sighed. Gone were the days of their unchaperoned, clandestine meetings. Though to say such a meeting as this met the standards of propriety would be laughable.
Like the lovesick fool he was, he smiled as she slowed to a walk.
Athena, he recalled her horse being named. The mare was a thoroughbred beauty, sleek chocolate with a distinct white star on her forehead. She was quite the contrast to his pearl Andalusian. Patting Caesar’s neck, he paused near the willow. He burrowed into his greatcoat, the breeze frosty.
Mary returned his smile, pulling up alongside him. She wore the same habit as last time, its style surprisingly similar to his regimentals, though she looked far more attractive than any Light Dragoon he had ever met. A vague memory tickled his conscience. Had she not worn this same habit in one of his laudanum dreams? Try as he might, he could not form a complete image of the hallucination. There was only a fuzzy recollection of her riding alongside him in a military uniform not unlike this riding habit. Curious.
“Shall we ride?” she asked without additional greeting.
“Let’s.”
Not another word was spoken before she cantered away from him, looking back only long enough to laugh before signaling Athena into a gallop. Though Caesar aimed to keep up, before long, Athena ran circles about them. Saucy minx.
Duncan slowed to a trot, Mary slowing to ride alongside him.
“Is your lower half tingling?” she asked.
Askance, he cast her a seductive smile and waggled his eyebrows. “Always when I see you.”
“Naughty!” She swatted at his sleeve, her half-lidded gaze belying her pleasure.
They fell into easy conversation, much like old times. It began with a discussion of her pastimes, including embroidery, which surprised him since he recalled her love of archery. To think of her doing needlework was a side of her he had never known or considered, a new dimension. The conversation turned to each of their favorite sweets and savories. And finally, to poetry, her appreciation of his poorly penned sonnets the opener.
“How can you favor that dried windbag Donne?” he asked, incredulous.
“Dried windbag! Have we read the same works? I ask you, how is ‘The Flea’ not a work of art?”
“Anything about a flea is not art,” he protested.
She laughed. “As good of a confession as any for not having read it. Have you actually read Donne? I believe you have some studying to do before we can be friends. ‘The Flea,’ I’ll have you know, is a naughty little poem about coupling, a persuasion to couple. I would recommend you read it to brush up on your rusty flirtations.”
He flinched dramatically. “Harsh words, my lady. First you accuse me of ignorance, if not outright illiteracy, and then you insult my prowess with romance. You may not realize this, but I’m considered the catch of the village. Girls were swooning to see my flexing pectorals when I first tried the new chair. Even as an invalid, they want me.”
“Try as you might to flirt through jealousy, it will not tempt me. What are the desires of villagers to a noble? A keen mind is what I desire. Someone who will recite witty rhymes from horseback.”
Clearing his throat he said, “‘For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout, My five grey hairs, or ruined fortune flout, With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place, Observe his honor, or his grace, Or the king’s real, or his stamped face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love!’”
“Oh, bravo. So, you do know Donne, or at least one stanza. You’ve yet to woo me, but you’re closing in.”
“Accuse me of being all brawn and little brain if you will, but I have a verse or two stored for your wooing pleasure,” he said, tapping his forehead.
“What I really want is a skilled horseman. Prove yourself, Sir Duncan!”
He studied her for a moment, trying to devise a plan of action. Caesar was a warhorse, after all, not a racehorse. Jumping hurdles was the first idea that sprang to mind, but he was not at all confident that was the best course of action in his present state.
Ah, he had it.
Curling his forefinger for her to come hither, he said, “A little closer, my dear, for I’ve a secret to share.”
She obeyed, none the wiser.
As she leaned towards him, Athena flanking Caesar, Duncan reached over and unseated Mary. He wrapped strong arms about her waist and hoisted her off her horse and onto his with little more than a grunt. She squealed and tried to flog him with her riding crop. Undaunted, he pulled her sidewise to nestle between his legs, and held her steady with one arm, while the other cupped her cheek to pull her lips to his.
As soon as their lips met, her crop went limp. She leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her lips were as he remembered—full, moist, yielding. Teasing the seam with the tip of his tongue, he slipped inside the warm haven of her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers in a fierce battle of wills. Caesar pranced beneath him, rocking Mary’s curves against his body. When he released her lips and gazed down, his heart pounded to see the raw passion in her eyes.
“Skilled enough?” he asked, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb.
“I, oh, yes, quite. Oh my.” She stared at him, dazed.
“With that proven, let’s get you back to your horse before Caesar boots us both off.”
Blinking the stars from her eyes, she glanced around, as though only now recalling she was not atop her own horse. Athena remained flanked, her only signs of annoyance a pawing of the ground, punctuated with a snort.
“Shall I lift you back on the saddle?” He offered.
“No, thank you. That sounds as startling as being lifted off in the first place. I’ll mount Athena myself, thank you very much.”
“Oh, ho ho, this I have to see. I didn’t think a woman could mount a side-saddle without assistance.” He teased.
“Watch me.”
Challenge accepted, she slid off Caesar, hoisted her skirt in a flirty way that revealed a hint of stockings above her half-boots, hiked her foot into the stirrup, and in one leap, spun herself backwards onto the saddle where she could hitch her leg over the top head. Sorting out her skirts, she made herself comfortable, smirking at Duncan the whole time.
“Tell me you don’t do that in front of anyone but me.” Duncan was still staring at the skirt where the glimpse of leg had teased him.
“Wouldn’t you feel charmed if I concurred?” With a wink, she turned Athena around to head back to the lake.
Chapter 14
Duncan stared at his prone legs, a fresh candle at his bedside, a manuscript of Lord Rochester’s poetry open on the sheets. In many ways, it had been a perfect day. First, the progress with his legs. And then Mary. The feel of her in his arms had thrummed his blood for the rest of the afternoon. Had he been unencumbered, had there not been grooms nearby, had life played fair, he would have tossed his greatcoat to the ground, dismounted his horse with Mary cradled in his arms, laid her on the greatcoat, and taken her in a moment of uninhibited passion.
Now, when he was su
pposed to be working his legs, he was fantasizing of her lips and how her body had formed to his. The lewd poetry was intended to enhance his fantasies.
There was nothing more vulgar than Lord Rochester’s verses. They had circulated through the camps, helping officers more easily recall their beloved back home. However much it worked at the time, it did not work so well this eve.
Sneering, he glanced down to the poem he had been reading.
Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace
He looked away from the page midline. He could not get past the references to liquid raptures without feeling ill. Regardless of Mary’s curves, of his desire, of his mental readiness, his body was not responding. He had been ready for love the moment her lips touched his. The rest of him lay silent. Even now, despite his best efforts, nothing happened. He supposed it did not matter if something did considering he could not feel anything below the hips anyway, but some sign of life would be encouraging.
Here he was wanting to court and ultimately marry her, but he could not bed her. What sort of marriage was that? Yes, he could think of a dozen other ways to pleasure her, but in the end, he could not consummate the marriage properly.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the pages off the bed in a flurry of paper, growling in anger as they fluttered down, littering the bedchamber floor. A rhythmic knocking filled the room as he beat the back of his skull against the headboard. Useless, useless, useless.
Snuffing the candle, he slipped into a dreamless slip, not bothering to work on his legs. After all, what was the point?
By the time he awoke, he felt refreshed and far from morose. He even smiled to realize he was awake at dawn, the coffee at his table steaming hot and fresh. Pushing himself to a seated position, he surveyed the room to see the pages neatly stacked on the low table in the snug. Chagrined, he wondered if whoever had picked them up had read the words.
The coffee, black and searing, remained cradled in his hands as he flexed his legs. He experimented while he sipped. There was far more movement than yesterday. Both right and left legs lifted against gravity, bent at the knee, and rotated on command. Every move was sluggish. Every move half his desired goal. But everything was moving.
Gulping the rest of the liquid and returning the mug to the table, he scooted off the bed to practice standing, just as he had done the day before. Curious, he tried to stand up on his own from a seated position.
Hands against the bed, his soles met the floor. With one deep breath, he pushed himself from the bedding, expecting to rise to his feet. Alas, it all went wrong. His knees bent rather than straightened and collapsed beneath him, bringing him to the floor with a thunk and a curse.
Undaunted, he climbed back onto the bed and used the bedpost this time, as he had done before. It was easy work. Easier than yesterday. He pulled himself into an upright stance by grasping the post, holding his weight with his upper body. Steadily, he positioned his feet and released his hold. His legs held. When he attempted to sit back against the bed, his knees bent at an awkward angle, crumpling him against the sheets, at least a soft landing this time.
He practiced for well over an hour, testing himself time and again, his aim to rise and sit on his own. All efforts failed. But pulling himself up became smoother and easier, and each time the legs held his weight. Steps were another issue.
Both of his legs lifted on command, even if the movements were measured. He could not, however, walk forward or balance without a hand to the bedpost. The motions were jerky, his hips thrusting with each step, as if the legs refused to move of their own volition. Progress was progress, so who was he to complain? The true accomplishment of the morning was in taking three steps forward, all while holding onto the post. He wagered he could have made it further if his legs had not begun to shake and if he had something else to reach for past the edge of the bed.
By that evening, he was at it again. This time, the room was ready for him. He had requested tables, chairs, anything sturdy, be lined from the bedpost to the far window. His room looked somewhat like a child’s nursery game, he mused. As long as it worked, who cared? All evening, he practiced cruising. With a hand gripping, steadying, and even taking some of the weight at times, he could move one leg forward and then another. This could hardly be called walking, but he was unsure what else to call it. It was not something he wished to do in front of another person, not yet at least, but it was closer to walking than he had dreamt possible.
One pivoting hip after the other, his legs dragged forward, trembling after three steps, then five steps, then ten steps. The more he worked, the longer he could walk before his legs gave in.
By the next morning, he was exhausted from a sleepless night of practicing, but ready to go again.
He cruised from his bed to the window and back. The trouble was, in addition to having to hold on to something to help steady himself, he also had to look down to watch his feet move. Without being able to feel when foot touched floor, he had no way of knowing if his ankles were straight or if he had even made contact with the floor. If he misjudged its proximity, the result was a hard stomp or an equally hard fall.
The more memorable occasions of these disasters occurred within the same roundtrip. Duncan looked up to reach for a chair only to think his foot had made contact when it had not. Vaulting forward with a crack of his elbow against the chair leg, he learned not to take his eyes off his feet. Unfortunately, he forgot this lesson moments later when reaching for the bedpost. He stomped too hard on the floor, sending a jolt reverberating through his body.
How the devil was he to make use of his progress if he could not walk without looking down and could not walk without bracing against something?
By that night, one part of the problem resolved. His legs could hold his weight and move forward without his gripping an object for balance. Staring at his feet, he took one mindful step after another, walking from bedpost to window and back.
He was walking.
“Peter!” he cried out at the dressing room, hoping the valet had not yet retired. It had been less than half an hour since the valet had readied Duncan for bed.
The valet rushed in, ready to assist.
“Peter.” Duncan repeated. “Watch.”
With a shaky step, he moved his right leg forward, and then his left. After five such steps, he looked up to his valet.
“Well done, Sir Duncan. Well done!”
“Wait there. I’ll come to you.”
Duncan was still smiling at his valet when he took his next step. He realized his mistake immediately. With a cry, he careened to the floor, his ankle turning under.
Peter was at his side in seconds, checking the ankle. “Does it hurt, sir?”
Despite the anger and humiliation he felt, he barked a laugh. “Of all the things I feel, pain is not one of them. No, Peter, I cannot feel my ankle to know if it’s damaged or not. I suppose if I attempt to put weight on it and it angles again, we’ll know it’s in need of a physician’s touch.”
Nodding, the valet leaned into Duncan, wrapping an arm about his master’s back while Duncan supported himself on Peter’s shoulders. With a heave, Peter helped Duncan back to his feet, bearing the brunt of the weight until Duncan could test the ankle.
There was no pain, but there was a distinct wobble when he attempted to lean on the leg.
“I believe I’ve turned it. This is my punishment for boasting. To the bed, please.”
A rough night he spent fretting about his ankle.
To the dower house she went. Again. Summoned to see her mother an hour before she was set to leave for tea with Mrs. Starrett did not bode well. Mary was already dressed
in a warm visiting dress, braced for the chilly carriage ride to the park, her hair turbaned, her cheeks rouged, her hands muffed. On her schedule before the tea was not a visit with her mother.
Bundled in a fur-lined pelisse, she nevertheless shivered her way to the dower house, crunchy leaves underfoot. Each day was colder than the one before it. Except for a few sunny hours that warmed the air, it had been grey skies for days.
As soon as she stepped into the house, she knew it was bad news. However passive was Mr. Taylor’s perpetual scowl, she could detect a tell-tale smirk at the corners of his mouth. The drawing room was a true blow.
Her mother stood by the window, leaning heavily against a gold-handled cane. What caught Mary’s attention was not her mother but the table in the center, prepared for tea. Oh dear.
“Join me,” Catherine commanded, approaching one of three seats arranged at the table. “Sit.”
Mary remained standing. “However appreciative I am for such fare, I’m afraid I have other plans.”
“Nonsense. You have plans here. Sit.” She waved a hand to one of the empty chairs.
Still not moving, Mary said, “I’m to take tea with Mrs. Starrett in less than an hour. I really can’t stay, nor do I wish to spoil my appetite.”
“You’ll stay and take tea with my guest and me. That woman will make do without you.”
“She’s not that woman. She’s Mrs. Georgina Starrett, and I happen to admire her. Had you invited me in advance, I could have arranged my schedule to take tea with you both. As it happens, you did not think enough of me to consult my schedule.”
Catherine pinned her daughter with a piercing stare. “There you’re quite wrong. Mr. Taylor consulted your schedule and learned this afternoon would be a perfect time for a rearrangement of poor choices. You will be taking tea here with Lord Wiggins and me. He will be arriving shortly. He was delayed, I’m afraid, or he would have been here to greet you.” Her mother’s eyes roamed over Mary’s visiting dress and grimaced. “Not what I would have liked to see you wear to meet His Grace, but it’ll do.”
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