by Julia Quinn
He looked at her in question.
She swallowed. “I was very unkind to you in the carriage.”
He started to say something, probably, “Don’t be silly,” but she cut him off.
“I overreacted. It was very . . . embarrassing, Harriet’s play. And I just want you to know that I’m sure I would have acted the same way with anyone. So really, you shouldn’t feel insulted. At least, not personally.”
Good God, she was babbling. She’d never been good at apologies. Most of the time she simply refused to give them.
“Are you joining the gentlemen for the hunt?” she blurted out.
The corner of his mouth tightened and his brows rose into a wry expression as he said, “I cannot.”
“Oh. Oh.” Stupid fool, what had she been thinking? “I’m so sorry,” she said. “That was terribly insensitive of me.”
“You don’t need to dance around it, Lady Sarah. I am lame. It is a fact. And it is certainly not your fault.”
She nodded. “Still, I’m sorry.”
For the barest second he looked unsure of what to do, then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Apology accepted.”
“I don’t like that word, though,” she said.
His brows rose.
“Lame.” She scrunched her nose. “It makes you sound like a horse.”
“Have you an alternative?”
“No. But it’s not my job to solve the world’s problems, merely to state them.”
He stared at her.
“I jest.”
And then, finally, he smiled.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose I only jest a little. I don’t have a better word for it, and I probably cannot solve the world’s problems, although to be fair, no one has given me the opportunity to do so.” She looked up with slyly narrowed eyes, almost daring him to comment.
To her great surprise, he only laughed. “Tell me, Lady Sarah, what do you plan to do with yourself this morning? Somehow I doubt your intention is to sit in the hall all day.”
“I thought I might read in the library,” she admitted. “It’s silly, I know, since that’s what I’ve been doing in my room these past few days, but I’m desperate to be anywhere but that bedchamber. I think I would go read in a wardrobe just for the change of scenery.”
“It would be an interesting change of scenery,” he said.
“Dark,” she agreed.
“Woolly.”
She pressed her lips together in what turned out to be a failed attempt to hold back laughter. “Woolly?” she echoed.
“That’s what you’d find in my wardrobe.”
“I find myself alarmed by a vision of sheep.” She paused, then winced. “And of what Harriet might do with such a scene in one of her plays.”
He held up a hand. “Let us change the subject.”
She cocked her head to the side, then realized she was smiling flirtatiously. So she stopped smiling. But she still felt unaccountably flirtatious.
So she smiled again, because she liked smiling, and she liked feeling flirtatious, and most of all because she knew he would know that she wasn’t actually flirting with him. Because she wasn’t. She was just feeling flirtatious. It was a result of having been cooped up in that room for so long with no one but sisters and cousins.
“You were on your way to the library,” he said.
“I was.”
“And you started out at . . .”
“The breakfast room.”
“You did not make it very far.”
“No,” she admitted, “I didn’t.”
“Did it perhaps occur to you,” he asked in careful tones, “that you should not be walking on that foot?”
“It did, as a matter of fact.”
He quirked a brow. “Pride?”
She gave him a glum nod of confirmation. “Far too much of it.”
“What shall we do now?”
She looked down at her traitorous ankle. “I suppose I need to find someone to carry me there.”
There was a long pause, long enough for her to look up. But he had turned away, so all she saw was his profile. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like to borrow my cane?”
Her lips parted in surprise. “But don’t you need it?”
“Not for shorter distances. It helps,” he said, before she could point out that she’d never seen him without it, “but it is not strictly necessary.”
She was about to agree to his suggestion; she even reached for the cane, but then she stopped, because he was just the sort of man to do something stupid in the name of chivalry. “You can walk without the cane,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, “but does it mean that your leg will give you more pain later?”
He went quite still, and then he said, “Probably.”
“Thank you for not lying to me.”
“I almost did,” he admitted.
She allowed herself a tiny smile. “I know.”
“You have to take it now, you know.” He grasped the center of the cane and held it out so the handle was within reach. “My honesty should not go unrewarded.”
Sarah knew she should not allow him to do this. He might want to help her now, but later that day, his leg would hurt. Needlessly.
But somehow she knew that to refuse would cause him far more pain than anything his leg could give him later that day. He needed to help her, she realized.
He needed to help her far more than she needed help.
For a moment she could hardly speak.
“Lady Sarah?”
She looked up. He was watching her with a curious expression, and his eyes . . . How was it possible his eyes grew more beautiful each time she saw him? He wasn’t smiling; the truth was, he didn’t smile that often. But she saw it in his eyes. A glint of warmth, of happiness.
It hadn’t been there that first day at Fensmore.
And it stunned her to her very toes how much she never wanted it to go away.
“Thank you,” she said decisively, but instead of the cane, she reached toward his hand. “Help me up?”
Neither was wearing gloves, and the sudden burst of warmth on her skin made her tremble. His hand wrapped firmly around hers, and with a little tug, she found herself on her feet. Or foot, really. She was balancing on the good one.
“Thank you,” she said again, somewhat alarmed at how breathless she sounded.
Wordlessly, he held out the cane, and she took it, curling her fingers around the smooth handle. It felt almost intimate, holding this object that had practically become an extension of his body.
“It’s a bit tall for you,” he said.
“I can make do.” She tested out a step.
“No, no,” he said, “you need to lean into it a bit more. Like this.” He stepped behind her and placed his hand over hers on the handle of the cane.
Sarah stopped breathing. He was so close that she could feel his breath, warm and ticklish on the tip of her ear.
“Sarah?” he murmured.
She nodded, needing a moment to find her voice again. “I-I think I have it now.”
He stepped away, and for a moment all she could feel was the loss of his presence. It was startling, and disconcerting, and . . .
And it was cold.
“Sarah?”
She shook herself out of her odd reverie. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Woolgathering.”
He grinned. Or maybe it was a smirk. A friendly one, but still smirkish.
“What is it?” She’d never seen him smile like that.
“Just wondering where the wardrobe was.”
It took her a moment—she was sure she would have got it instantly if she’d not been so befuddled—and then she grinned right back. And then: “You called me Sarah.”
He paused. “So I did. I apologize. It was unconsciously done.”
“No,” she said quickly, jumping atop his final words. “It’s fine. I like it, I think.”
“You think?”
“I do,
” she said firmly. “We are friends now, I think.”
“You think.” This time he was definitely smirking.
She tossed him a sarcastic glance. “You could not resist, could you?”
“No,” he murmured, “I think not.”
“That was so dreadful it was almost good,” she told him.
“And that was such an insult I almost feel complimented.”
She felt her lips tighten at the corners. She was trying not to smile; it was a battle of the wits, and somehow she knew that if she laughed, she lost. But at the same time, losing wasn’t such a terrible prospect. Not in this.
“Come along,” he said with mock severity. “Let’s see you walk to the library.”
And she did. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t painless—truthfully, she shouldn’t have been up and about yet—but she did it.
“You’re doing very well,” he said as they neared their destination.
“Thank you,” she said, ridiculously pleased by his praise. “It’s marvelous. Such independence. It was just awful having to rely on someone to carry me about.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is that how you feel?”
His lips curved in a wry expression. “Not exactly.”
“Really? Because—” Her throat nearly closed. “Never mind.” What an idiot she was. Of course it hadn’t felt the same for him. She was using the cane to get her through the day. He would never be without it.
From that moment forward she no longer wondered why he did not smile very often. Instead, she marveled that he ever did.
Chapter Thirteen
The blue drawing room
Whipple Hill
Eight o’clock in the evening
When it came to social engagements, Hugh never knew which was worse: to be early and exhaust himself having to rise every time a lady appeared, or to arrive late, only to be the center of attention while he limped into the room. This evening, however, his injury had made the decision for him.
He had not been lying when he told Sarah that his leg would most likely pain him that night. But he was glad she had taken the cane. It was, he thought with a surprising lack of bitterness, the closest he would ever come to sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to safety.
Pathetic, but a man had to take his triumphs where he could.
By the time he entered the large drawing room at Whipple Hill, most of the other guests were already present. About seventy people, if he judged the crowd correctly. More than half of the so-called caravan were being lodged in nearby inns; they frolicked at the house during the day but were gone in the evening.
He did not bother to pretend that he was looking for anyone but Sarah the moment he limped through the door. They had spent much of the day in quiet companionship in the library, occasionally chatting but most often just reading. She had demanded that he demonstrate his mathematical brilliance (her words, not his), and he had complied. He’d always hated “performing” on demand, but Sarah had watched and listened with such obvious delight and amazement that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to feel his usual discomfort.
He had misjudged her, he realized. Yes, she was overly dramatic and given to grand pronouncements, but she was not the shallow debutante he had once thought her. He was also coming to realize that her earlier antipathy toward him had not been entirely without merit. He had wronged her—inadvertently, but still. It was a fact that she would have had that first season in London if not for his duel with Daniel.
Hugh would not go so far as to agree that he had ruined her life, but now that he knew her better, it did not seem unlikely that Lady Sarah Pleinsworth might have nabbed one of those now legendary fourteen gentlemen.
He could not, however, bring himself to regret this.
When he found her—it was her laughter, actually, that drew him to her—she was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room with her foot propped up on a small ottoman. One of her cousins was with her, the pale one. Iris, her name was. She and Sarah seemed to have an odd, somewhat competitive, relationship. Hugh would never be so bold as to think he understood more than three things about women (and probably not even that many), but it was clear to him that those two carried on complete conversations with nothing but narrowed eyes and tilts of the head.
But for now they seemed to be having a jolly time, so he made his way over and gave a polite bow.
“Lady Sarah,” he said. “Miss Smythe-Smith.”
Both ladies smiled and greeted him in return.
“Won’t you join us?” Sarah said.
He sat in the chair to Sarah’s left, taking the opportunity to extend his leg in front of him. He generally tried not to draw notice to himself by doing this in public, but she knew that he would be more comfortable this way, and more to the point, he knew that she would not be shy about telling him how he ought to sit.
“How is your ankle feeling this evening?” he asked her.
“Very well,” she answered, then wrinkled her nose. “No, that’s a lie. It’s fairly dreadful.”
Iris chuckled.
“Well, it is,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I reckon I overexerted myself this morning.”
“I thought you spent the morning in the library,” Iris said.
“I did,” Sarah told her. “But Lord Hugh very kindly lent me his cane. I walked all the way across the house on my own.” She frowned at her foot. “Although after that I did absolutely nothing with it. I’m not sure why it’s being so wretched.”
“This sort of injury takes time to heal,” Hugh said. “It may have been more than a simple sprain.”
She grimaced. “It did make an awful sound when I twisted it on the step. Rather like something tearing.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful,” Iris said with a shudder. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Sarah just shrugged, and Hugh said, “That’s not a good sign, I’m afraid. It’s certainly nothing permanent, but it does indicate that the injury may be deeper than originally thought.”
Sarah let out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I shall have to learn to grant audiences in my boudoir like a French queen.”
Iris looked at Hugh. “I warn you, she’s serious.”
He did not doubt it.
“Or,” Sarah continued, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, “I could have someone arrange a litter to carry me about.”
Hugh chuckled at her flamboyance. It was just the sort of thing that a mere week ago would have set his teeth on edge. But now that he knew her better, he could not help but be amused. She had a rather unique way of setting people at ease. He had meant it when he had said it before: it was a talent.
“Shall we feed you grapes from a golden chalice?” Iris teased.
“But of course,” Sarah replied, holding her haughty expression for about two seconds before she broke into a grin.
They all laughed then, which was probably why none of them noticed Daisy Smythe-Smith until she was practically upon them.
“Sarah,” she said rather officiously, “might I have a word?”
Hugh rose to his feet. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with this particular Smythe-Smith yet. She looked young, still in the schoolroom but old enough to come down to supper at a family event.
“Daisy,” Sarah said in greeting. “Good evening. Have you been introduced to Lord Hugh Prentice? Lord Hugh, this is Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith. She is Iris’s sister.”
Of course. He’d heard of this family. The Smythe-Smith Bouquet, someone had once called them. He could not remember all of their names. Daisy, Iris, probably a Rosehip and Marigold. He dearly hoped none were named Crocus.
Daisy bobbed a quick curtsy, but she clearly had no interest in him, for she immediately turned her curly blond head back to Sarah. “Since you cannot dance tonight,” she said bluntly, “my mother has decided that we shall play.”
Sarah blanched, and Hugh suddenly recalled that first night at Fensmore, when she had started to tell him something about her family’s musicales. S
he had been cut off before she could finish. He never did learn what she was going to say.
“Iris won’t be able to join us,” Daisy continued, oblivious to Sarah’s reaction. “We have no cello, and Lady Edith wasn’t invited to this wedding, not that that would have done us any good,” she said with an affronted sniff. “It was very unkind of her not to let us borrow her cello at Fensmore.”
Hugh watched as Sarah threw a desperate glance at Iris. Iris, he noted, responded with nothing but sympathy. And horror.
“But the pianoforte is perfectly tuned,” Daisy said, “and of course I brought my violin, so we shall make a duet of it.”
Iris returned Sarah’s expression with one of her own. They were having another one of those silent conversations, Hugh thought, untranslatable by anyone of the male sex.
Daisy soldiered on. “The only question is what to play. I propose Mozart’s Quartet no. 1, since we do not have time to practice.” She turned to Hugh. “We performed that earlier this year.”
Sarah made a choking sound. “But—”
But Daisy was brooking no interruptions. “I assume you remember your part?”
“No! I don’t. Daisy, I—”
“I do realize,” Daisy continued, “that there are only two of us, but I don’t think that will make a difference.”
“You don’t?” Iris asked, looking vaguely ill.
Daisy spared her sister a fleeting glance. A fleeting glance, Hugh noted, that still managed to imbue itself with an astonishing degree of condescension and annoyance.
“We shall simply go forward without the cello or second violin,” she announced.
“You play the second violin,” Sarah said.
“Not when there is only one violinist,” Daisy replied.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Iris put in.
Daisy let out a highly aggravated puff of air. “Even if I play the second part, as I did last spring, I will still be the only violinist.” She waited for affirmation, then plowed on anyway. “Which therefore will make me the first violin.”
Even Hugh knew it did not work that way.
“You cannot have a second violin without a first,” Daisy said impatiently. “It is numerically impossible.”
Oh no, Hugh thought, she is not going to bring numbers into this.
