by Erica Ridley
“You’ll kill me,” she mumbled. “I remember.”
“What the devil were you thinking?” His body still hadn’t stopped shaking. Might never stop shaking.
“It was Max,” she protested weakly.
A pathetic mewl sounded from the direction of her bodice.
“I got him,” she whispered.
“I don’t care about Max.” His body was definitely never going to stop shaking. “I’ve got you.”
“If it makes you feel better,” she said tentatively. “I think it’s a flesh wound.”
“It does not make me feel better. It makes me feel like throttling you.”
“I think I could walk. If you let go of me.”
“You are not going to walk. There is an arrow sticking out of you. I am going to carry you home and possibly everywhere else if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”
She tugged at the wooden rod.
It didn’t come loose.
Alexander’s stomach roiled.
“Stop that,” he snapped.
“It’s not deep in me,” she said. “At least, not all of the way in. I think part of it is stuck on my petticoats.”
“Don’t touch it. I’ll summon every doctor for miles and they’ll sort out the right thing to do.”
“You know...” Her voice was faint, and her head lolled against his chest. “Maybe I can’t walk.”
“Damn it, Cynthia Louise!” He held her tighter, his throat tight. “You must stop acting as though your life doesn’t matter. I have a duty to my title, but you have a duty to the entire world. We would all be much poorer without Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.”
He lifted her up and stumbled down the road toward his cottage with half of the village trailing close behind.
“What about the skis?” she murmured.
“I don’t give a damn about the skis.”
The arrow wobbled with each step, making Alexander’s stomach churn in protest. It was not protruding from her chest, as he’d first feared, but rather from her shoulder.
Blood had seeped through all her layers of clothing to blossom around the arrow like a red rose of death.
“It looks like you’ll miss tea with the duchess,” he informed her.
“Don’t worry,” she mumbled. “Carole will definitely hear this gossip.”
He didn’t doubt that.
People appeared to be pouring from their houses to fall into step around them. Oswald had the door flung wide long before Alexander lurched up the path. His footmen spilled out of the open doorway and dashed up to him with matching expressions of alarm.
They held out their arms. “Can we—”
“No,” Alexander growled, muscling past them.
All of the female guests were packed into the entryway.
His mother stood front and center.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the duchess.
“There’s an arrow sticking out of her,” he said icily. “I’m trying to stop that.”
“Where were you?” stammered one of the debutantes.
“Skating down the mountain on skis,” one of the villagers replied helpfully.
The crowd immediately began talking over each other at once to recount the vivid tale of the archery contest, and the dog, and the lady on skis, who bravely rescued the dog, and the duke on skis, who then rescued her.
“You absented yourself from your own party,” the duchess bit out each syllable, “to play on skis with... this creature?”
“He saved my life,” Cynthia croaked out. “He’s a hero. He’s still marriageable. Go back to charades.”
The duchess’s voice was glacial. “You’re in his arms.”
“Pretend this is charades?” Cynthia offered in a small voice.
“Move,” Alexander growled. “All of you.”
The crowd parted, but barely.
“He’s here!” cried a voice from just outside the door.
The lad who had shot Cynthia with his bow and arrow skidded into the entranceway, wild-eyed and breathing fast.
“He’s here,” he repeated, pointing behind him. “The doctor’s here.”
“Good.” Alexander headed into the corridor. “You two can follow me.”
Chapter 12
Lady Gertrude burst through the bedchamber door just as Alexander was easing his arm out from under Cynthia Louise so Doctor Quinney could inspect her.
“Gertie,” Cynthia croaked, her voice faint. “I got Max.”
Lady Gertrude burst into tears and crumpled beside the bed with her face pressed into the blanket.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have taken Max. I should’ve held on tighter. I—”
“It’s not your fault,” said the lad. “I’m the one who shot her.”
Lady Gertrude whirled from the bed to her feet like a wild tempest. She was across the bedchamber in seconds.
The slap reverberated around the room.
The lad didn’t dodge the blow, nor flinch when it landed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I deserved that. I didn’t see her or the dog. I was concentrating on the target, and as soon I released my arrow... She slid right into it. I wished it had doubled back and hit me instead.”
Lady Gertrude’s lip wobbled. “That’s how I felt, too.”
“Well!” The sound of the duchess’s loud sniff filled the doorway. “I don’t see how it’s at all appropriate to have not one, but two unrelated men in the sickroom whilst the doctor—”
“You,” Alexander commanded the white-faced lad. “Take Lady Gertrude to the parlor, where Her Grace is about to serve hot tea.”
“But Vale,” the duchess stammered, her eyes wide with shock. “We—”
“—will speak once the doctor has concluded his examination.” Alexander raised his brows pointedly. “A maid shall stay for propriety’s sake. As to the rest of you: Goodbye.”
Lady Gertrude hurried out of the room with the lad close behind her.
He shut the door tight.
Good boy.
“Now what?” Alexander asked the doctor.
“Now we cut away these clothes.” Doctor Quinney sent Cynthia an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, young lady. The arrow is stuck. Besides, I cannot take the risk of your wound ripping worse just to save garments that are already ruined.”
Stuck arrow.
Wound ripping.
Alexander sat down hard on the dressing stool. The guest chamber went gray at the edges of his vision.
Doctor Quinney kept up a cheerful patter as he sliced through Cynthia’s layers to expose her shoulder. He paused before he cut over her chest.
“Shall we ask His Grace to exit the room?” he asked softly.
“He can stay,” Cynthia croaked. “I was going to show him my bosom anyway.”
Alexander covered his fire-red face with one hand.
“She’s jesting,” he assured the doctor.
“You slid down on skis a second time.” She gave Alexander a wobbly smile. “I promised you’d earn something.”
“Whereas you,” said the doctor, “took an arrow for your efforts. Fortunately, the trajectory was impeded by your thick coat and so many layers. The arrowhead came out cleanly, and the torn flesh will only require a few stitches.”
Arrowhead.
Torn flesh.
Alexander dropped his head between his knees and tried to breathe.
Cynthia’s tremulous voice sounded amused. “Is the big strong duke afraid of a little bit of blood?”
“I never was before,” he mumbled. “But when it’s you...”
“A funny phenomenon that happens all of the time,” said the doctor with a chuckle. “Nurses who tend horrific battle wounds discover they cannot withstand the tiniest cut on their child’s finger, all because it’s someone they love.”
All because of someone they love.
“No,” Alexander rasped. “Dukes are not ruled by romantic emotions. Mayhap I�
��ve just turned into a coward.”
Cynthia Louise closed her eyes.
“Mayhap you have,” replied the doctor cryptically. “Will you ring for boiling water and fresh towels? I have needle and thread in my satchel.”
Needle and thread.
Alexander sprang up from the dressing stool and dashed to the wall to tug the bell pull.
It was answered immediately.
“Your Grace?”
“Boiling water,” Alexander barked. “Fresh towels.” He suddenly remembered Max. “And... a hot bath and clean blankets.”
The maids nodded and bobbed and scurried away.
He approached the bed with caution.
Doctor Quinney was holding a thick square of gauze to the wound, hiding it momentarily from sight.
Alexander lifted the wet, shivering lump of fur from the middle of the bed.
“Max is sorry, too,” Cynthia said. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”
“I’m going to give him a bath,” Alexander said gruffly. “And then perhaps Doctor Quinney can glance over him once he’s finished attending you.”
A knock sounded at the door.
When Alexander answered, maids poured in with fresh towels and boiling water for the doctor, followed by a pair of footmen carrying a hot bath for Max. Another maid hurried in behind them bearing soap and blankets.
“Thank you,” Alexander said before shooing them all back out.
Attending Max would give him something else to concentrate on besides Doctor Quinney’s needle in Cynthia’s arm.
“The duchess is upset,” she said.
“Don’t talk to me while he’s sewing you,” he answered.
Barely a heartbeat passed before she spoke again.
“I’ll tell her you weren’t with me.”
“Doctor Quinney can hear you conspiring.” Alexander gently soaped Max’s fur in the warm water. “And everyone saw you with me. As my mother pointed out, you were in my arms.”
“But I didn’t begin that way. Everyone saw that, too. I’ll say you rescued me while I was out with Gertie. They’ll have no problem believing me a terrible chaperone. Today needn’t interfere with your plans of finding a respectable bride.”
He ground his teeth.
She was right. He needed a respectable bride. His duties to his title and his mother and his future heirs had not changed.
But what he wanted was someone like Cynthia Louise.
“No,” he said. “You were brave and heroic and I’m not going to hide that.”
“And foolhardy?” she said timidly.
“And foolhardy,” he agreed. “I am still going to throttle you.”
“No throttling,” said the doctor. “Those stitches must remain clean and safe for a fortnight.”
“And then I can throttle her?” Alexander said with amusement.
“By then, you won’t remember you wanted to.” The doctor crossed the room and held out his hands for the puppy. “Let me see this fellow.”
Alexander placed the blanket-clad puppy in the doctor’s arms and hurried to Cynthia’s side.
“You were going to show me your bosom?” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered back. “It was an empty bribe to lure you down the hill.”
“You didn’t tell me the bribe,” he pointed out. “I don’t think it was empty at all. I think there was a bosom in my future, until that blasted puppy ruined the moment.”
She batted her eyelashes. “You’ll never know.”
Yes. That was exactly the problem.
Now he’d never know.
“Well, your puppy is bruised and sore,” announced the doctor, “but he’ll be fine. As for you, young lady, I’m leaving a few drops of laudanum in a small bottle on the table. Keep the wound clean and dry, and only take the laudanum if you must. If you return home before the wound has healed, please have a doctor attend to the stitches.”
She nodded.
Alexander stood. “Thank you, Doctor Quinney. I’ll see that you’re well compensated for this visit.”
“You’re leaving the sickroom with me,” said the doctor. “Our patient needs to rest. And it is perhaps not best for Your Grace to be alone with Miss Finch, if your bride is on the other side of this door.”
Mortifying.
And true.
The bride business was only one problem. Cynthia’s reputation was at stake as well.
She was barely accepted as it was, due to her outrageous antics, but Alexander had never heard a whisper of gossip about her allowing some cad to take liberties.
He was the cad.
The doctor was right.
It was time to go.
When he stepped out into the corridor, he expected the flock to surround him with questions at once.
No one approached.
“The patient will survive,” said the doctor. “She’ll have a nice scar, but...” His eyes met Alexander’s. “She’s free to leave when she likes.”
“I’d like to leave,” said one of the debutantes with tears swimming in her eyes. “We came here to spend Christmastide with the duke, but he’d rather not spend it with us.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Superb.
Independent of the bride hunt, Alexander had hoped to provide all of his guests a very merry holiday... and instead had ruined their Yuletide.
“Nottingvale was gone for two hours,” his sister Belle said firmly. “He has spent every other moment from dawn to... well, to dawn again, ensuring your comforts and providing your entertainment. One can hardly begrudge my brother a moment’s rest—”
“He wasn’t resting,” said one of the mothers. “He was sliding down a mountain on skis.”
Fair point.
Alexander appreciated his sister’s support, but even she had to see the gaping hole in her logic.
“We’re leaving,” said another mother. “If this is how His Grace comports himself when he’s trying to win our favor, then he is not the sort of ‘gentleman’ my daughter should marry.”
“I apologize,” he said quickly. “Nothing untoward occurred—”
“Besides spending the day unchaperoned in the company of woman who later turns up with an arrow sticking out of her chest?”
“Besides that,” Alexander muttered.
He’d never had to make excuses before. His behavior had always been perfect.
“If you two are leaving,” said another mother, “we’re leaving, too.”
Alexander’s muscles froze.
A beat of silence filled the entryway.
“So are we,” said one of the chaperones.
“Us, too,” said another.
“Ooh,” whispered one of the debutantes to her friend, “this is going to be in all of the scandal sheets by morning.”
“We’re going to be so popular,” her friend whispered back.
Wonderful.
Splendid.
Everything was going exactly to plan.
Alexander wished there were some way to begin this day all over again.
“Of course it was her who caused the trouble,” one of the mothers said with a sniff. “The moment she arrived, we should all have turned around and left.”
“Miss Finch caused no trouble,” Alexander said firmly. “Her puppy was in danger, and she saved its life.”
“The mongrel wouldn’t have been in danger,” said another, “if it didn’t belong to Miss Finch.”
“And you.” Face stricken, one of the chaperones turned toward Alexander’s mother. “Men will be... men, but one expects more from the Duchess of Nottingvale. You are the hostess of this party. Everything that occurs under this roof is your responsibility.”
“You will leave her out of this discussion,” Alexander thundered. “My mother is innocent in this matter. My actions are my responsibility alone.”
“And he didn’t do them under this roof,” Belle added.
He slanted her a furious glance to stop h
elping.
“She’s right,” said another. “Her Grace informed us you would be choosing a bride at this gathering, and clearly your attentions are elsewhere. We came here under false pretenses.”
“You came to a Yuletide party,” said Alexander. “It’s Yuletide. I host this party every year, and the primary raison d’être has always been Christmas. I do intend to choose a bride, but I did hope the festivities would be amusing for all.”
Mother’s face was pale, but she kept her spine ramrod straight and her chin tilted upward.
Alexander hadn’t just created his own mess.
He’d caused his mother’s friends to turn on her, too.
“Come along, Sally,” said one of the mothers. “We’re leaving.”
Alexander kept his spine rigid. Between his scandal and Belle’s, their once-perfect family was now a liability. This was more than just a disruption in a party. Acquaintances would now need to decide if they still wished to associate with them. Their return to London next week would be cold indeed.
“Tea will be served in the red parlor in forty-five minutes,” Belle told the dispersing guests.
“How many do you think will be there?” he asked once the entranceway had emptied.
His sister winced. “Half?”
“The worst half,” said their mother. “The grasping social climbers and grubby fortune hunters.”
Alexander frowned. “You selected the guest list. I thought all these women were your friends.”
“Not anymore,” she said bitterly. “Perhaps they never were.”
Belle looked as horrified as Alexander felt.
They had never seen their mother doubt before.
The duchess had always been strong and sure. Imperious. Occasionally terrifying.
Not... vulnerable. Hurt.
Because of something Alexander had done.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and folded her into his arms.
She was stiff for a moment, then wrapped her arms around him and held on tight.
“I never intended my behavior to reflect badly on you,” he told her. “And I know good intentions won’t bring your friends back. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“Or not,” Belle said. “It depends what you think is ‘better.’ Repairing your reputation or following your heart.”
Chapter 13
