She wobbled. As his arm swept around her again, she leaned on Lord Windham, not caring that such intimacy was being forced on her when her senses might vanish anew at any moment. She must not surrender to the raw agony rollicking through her in an obscene quadrille.
“Hamilton,” urged the voice she knew belonged to Mr. Windham, “we can’t delay. We must get her back to Bath. Help her up, and—”
“How can she ride?” came Lord Windham’s impatient voice. “Good God, Philip, she can’t stand. Ride to town and get the carriage. The only way we can get her back to Bath with her reputation intact is in it. She can’t be seen sitting across my knees as if she was in her infancy.”
“I can get a doctor, and—”
“Just go and get the dashed carriage!” he interrupted again. “We can worry about a doctor later.”
The sound of hoofs disappearing in the distance pierced Nerissa’s pain. Grasping onto the even rhythm, she used it to pull herself out of the void. She gasped and clutched at Lord Windham’s lapels as he lifted her into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she cried, then wished she had remained silent, for the sound ached within her head.
“Miss Dufresne,” he said in his impatient voice, “I’ve sent my brother at top speed to get the carriage. We wish to safeguard your reputation. You can’t believe I wish to ruin it before the dust of Philip’s passage settles to the road again.”
“No, I suppose not.” She looked at the rigid line of his jaw.
She could tell Lord Windham was furious. At her? She had done nothing wrong, but to have the misfortune to be in his way. Her right hand clenched on his wool coat. These dashed lords believed the world was theirs to do with as they pleased. Pity those who got in their way. Her gaze rose along his sternly carved face. She tensed as she was captured by his grey eyes. Seeing exasperation there, she realized it was centered on himself. She chided herself for her unflattering thoughts. Lord Windham was as distressed by this episode as she was. She wondered if he had been out to enjoy the peace of the Bath countryside as she had. Not that it mattered now. The peace was gone, lost in a detonation of pain.
Nerissa was pleased when Lord Windham set her with care in the lush grass beneath a tree on a hillock a short distance from the hedge. The cool shade offered comfort, and she found the quivers of fear fading. She was glad to be away from the hedgerow, although she knew it was unlikely a second rider would come vaulting over it.
When the viscount offered her another drink from the canister of brandy, Nerissa said, “My head is spinning enough already, my lord.”
With a shrug, he took a deep drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mayhap, but you look to be in pain. The brandy will ease that. Take a drink.” He put the bottle on the ground next to her. His eyes narrowed when she did not reach for it.
“You are being most kind, my lord.”
“Fiddle! I’d do the same for any bedraggled kitten brushed by Cirrus’s hoofs.”
Nerissa bristled at his curt retort. He was high and mighty! “I retract my Spanish coin, my lord. I vow you are a regular ramshackle.”
“What a mull!” he grumbled. Sitting next to her on the hillock, he leaned against the tree. His arms folded over his chest, the motion straining the seams at the shoulders of his coat. “Pray do not take umbrage, Miss Dufresne. I meant you no slight, and I am sure you … in your generosity … meant none to me. I suspect you are not at your best.”
Touching her straw bonnet’s cracked brim, she looked away. Heated tears welled in her eyes again. She did not want to weep before this hard-spirited man. She would not! Yet her head ached; her left arm was aflame with pain; and, with every breath, her body remembered her impact on the earth. Too easily she recalled the sight of the horse soaring toward her and the grass clutching at her silk slippers as she tried to flee.
“Forgive me anew,” Lord Windham said in a softer voice. “I do not mean to be uncivil, but I own to being a bit unsettled as well.”
Nerissa looked at him. She had accused him of being rude when she was allowing herself to forget he had been a victim of this accident also. “You are right. I’m not at my best.”
“How do you feel?”
“I have no need of you quacking me. I am a bit battered, but that is all.”
“Is your brain about you now?”
When she smiled, her surprise was mirrored in his wide eyes. “The world isn’t as skittish as it was.” Her smile faded as pain throbbed along her left wrist. The buttons on her gloves strained against the swelling. She cradled it in her other hand and clenched her teeth. She had not guessed anything that had not been broken could hurt so severely.
“Philip will return in only a few minutes with the carriage. Do you live in Bath?”
“Yes.”
What he thought of her terse answer, she could not guess. Nor did she care. She simply wanted to be home. There she could surrender to the tears pricking the back of her eyes.
“Are you in much pain?” Lord Windham leaned forward to look at her wrist.
Nerissa pulled away, overwhelmed by his strong shoulders that blocked her view of her aching arm. She gasped as she discovered how precarious her hold on her senses was. The sound became a moan as she was swept by new waves of undulating pain. Again the powerful arms surrounded her, but, as he tried to keep her from crumpling to the ground, the viscount’s arm brushed her left wrist. Agony enfolded her, sweeping her into darkness.
Chapter Two
“I will be fine,” Nerissa assured Lord Windham as he handed her from the curricle. She looked past him to the welcome façade of her home. Its greyish-brown stone front was as smooth as the walkway in front of it. Pediments topped the door and the first-floor windows. The ground-floor windows and those on the upper floors were devoid of any decoration. A wrought-iron fence connected the railing by the few stone steps to the next house.
“Miss Dufresne, I can—”
“I shall be quite fine,” she said again, not caring that she interrupted the viscount. The rattle of other vehicles along the street nearly drowned out her soft voice. Maybe if she repeated the refrain that she was fine enough times, she would believe it.
“Are you sure?” he asked. He kept one foot in the road as he assisted her onto the walkway, but she still had to look up to meet his eyes. No expression marred the marble coolness of his face, and she found it difficult to believe this was the same man who had been so solicitous while they had waited for Mr. Windham to return with the carriage. “You still have very little color in your face. Philip may have been right. Mayhap we should have stopped at the doctor’s.”
“I shall be all right once I am inside and am able to rest.” Struggling to smile, she kept her hand under her left wrist. It pounded with continuous pain. She included Mr. Windham in her weak smile. “Thank you so much for bringing me home.”
“I shall help you in if you wish.”
Lord Windham’s deep voice drew her eyes back to him. If the situation had been different, she would have enjoyed admiring his strong jaw or trying to decipher the emotions in his volatile eyes. Today, she just wanted to rid her life of him and the pain he had caused.
“That’s unnecessary, my lord, but thank you again.”
He tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “As you wish, Miss Dufresne. I bid you a good afternoon. I leave you with the hope that tomorrow will be a less adventuresome day for you.”
“I pray you are correct.”
Nerissa fought to keep her pace even. She tried not to think that anyone looking out of a window on the opposite side of Laura Place would guess Miss Dufresne was out of sorts. She lurched forward to grasp the newel post on the steps as if she had been tippling more than a few swallows of brandy. When Lord Windham offered again to assist her, she struggled to laugh aside his concern. The sound was pathetically feeble.
To be honest, she felt completely corkbrained. Her head was too light. Hoping Lord Windham would believe her, she said, “’Ti
s nothing but a bit of dizziness.”
Foolishly she looked back as she spoke. Seeing his narrowed eyes and tight lips, she was sure he found her words the skimble-skamble they were. She feared he thought she found his assistance abhorrent. That was not true, but she had no stamina to explain she wanted to escape from Lord Windham and this whole bizarre experience. Then perhaps the debilitating pain would disappear, too.
Nerissa’s feet were weighted as she labored to lift each of them to the first riser. Gripping the rail, she was able to climb the few steps to the door without collapsing. Even so, she was cautious as she faced the carriage to bid the gentlemen a good day. She gasped when she discovered Lord Windham standing directly behind her, his hands outstretched to catch her if she had fallen. Her sigh reverberated excruciatingly through her, adding to her annoyance with the viscount who ignored her wishes.
“I told you I could climb the steps alone, my lord,” she whispered, not daring to speak louder, for she feared her head would explode with agony. She would have scowled, but every motion hurt.
“You must forgive me for not wanting to see you take another tumble.” She appreciated that he answered lowly. Again he tipped his hat to her. “I bid you adieu once more. If you need anything—”
“Goodbye,” she murmured. She was being ill-mannered, but she didn’t want to continue this encounter.
Lord Windham’s pleasant expression faded. He set his hat more firmly on his head as he strode to the curricle. Walking around the vehicle, he untied his white horse. He mounted with an ease that bespoke many hours in the saddle. He nodded coolly toward her before he slapped the reins against the side of the horse’s neck and rode away at a speed seldom seen on the sedate street.
Mr. Windham smiled an apology, but said nothing as he gave an order to the horse pulling the carriage. Only when it had rattled away along the street toward the Pulteney Bridge did Nerissa turn to where her front door was opening. She steeled herself for the task of climbing the final step. When her head continued to spin madly, nothing could be managed without all her concentration.
“Miss Dufresne, this is quite the kickup! What have you done now?”
At the sharp voice, Nerissa raised her eyes to meet the sunken ones in the household’s butler’s narrow face. She had not expected compassion from Hadfield, and she received none. The man, who was as lanky as his face was long, regarded her with distaste. That was no surprise either. He seldom failed to find fault with some aspect of her clothing or her mannerisms, and delighted in each opportunity to acquaint her with her latest shortcoming.
“As you can see,” Nerissa retorted with uncommon heat, “I was in a bit of an accident. I am also—although it may strike you heart-deep to hear the tidings—relatively unhurt. If you would be so gracious as to step aside, I would prefer to sit.”
“Yes, do step aside, Hadfield,” came a seconding order in a warm, contralto voice.
Seeing Mrs. Carroll’s wrinkled face, Nerissa managed to smile. Unlike the butler, from the moment of Nerissa’s arrival, the housekeeper had made her feel welcome in the house on Laura Place. Mrs. Carroll was thin, almost as thin as the butler, who resembled a death’s-head on a mop stick. She could have been a long, grey bird, twittering about, chiding the lower servants, seeing to every detail of the household.
“La! Lamb, you have been hurt! Are those bruises on your face?” Mrs. Carroll tipped Nerissa’s face, and choked back a cry when the younger woman was nearly rocked from her feet by the faint motion. “What …? No, share the details with me later. First, tell me where you’re injured.” She aimed a glower at the butler. “Go and alert Mr. Pilcher. He will have sympathy for poor Miss Dufresne.”
“Mr. Pilcher said he had no wish to be disturbed this afternoon,” argued Hadfield in his most haughty voice.
“He will make an exception when he hears of his sister’s accident.” Putting her hands on her narrow hips, Mrs. Carroll snapped, “Don’t act so high in the instep with me, Hadfield!”
The butler grumbled as he walked away. The only word Nerissa understood was “stepsister”. Hadfield was correct. She was his master’s stepsister, but the butler’s attempts to create a gap between her and her brother had failed … Nerissa forgot him as she strove to ignore the torrent of torment along her arm.
Mrs. Carroll whispered, “Lamb, where are you hurt?”
“My left wrist.” Nerissa lifted her arm which seemed as heavy as her ironbound legs.
The grey-haired woman urged Nerissa to sit on the padded bench next to the tall-case clock at one side of the foyer. It was harder to move than Nerissa had expected, but easy to sit, sinking into the cushion hidden beneath blue velvet.
The housekeeper took Nerissa’s left hand, placing it judiciously on hers. Pain scored Nerissa. The foyer threatened to become a blur of dark wood and the white and black of the checkered floor. She heard Mrs. Carroll order her to take a deep breath. She obeyed and nearly gagged on it as the housekeeper began to undo the buttons along her glove.
“No!”
“Lamb, I must—”
“Just wait a moment,” she begged through the agony. “Give me just a moment.” She could not battle the pain and Mrs. Carroll’s good intentions at the same time.
Mrs. Carroll halted with a soothing coo. “The glove must be cut off. I shall hurt you too much if I try to ease it off.”
“You can’t cut it off. These are my second-best gloves, Mrs. Carroll.”
“And this is your very best left wrist.” Her voice gentled. “Come into the parlor, Miss Dufresne. The light is better there. Let’s see what we can do about your glove and—more importantly—your poor arm. You can stand, can’t you?”
“Of course.” Nerissa’s words mocked her, for she was not able to set herself on her feet. Grateful for Mrs. Carroll’s assistance, she limped into the second largest room on the ground floor. Only her stepbrother’s book room was grander.
Easing around a pair of rosewood chairs, Nerissa rested her right hand on one curved back. She needed a minute to gather her senses about her. She gazed across the blue Oriental rug toward the painted sofa with its brass feet, which shone like beacons in the sunlight pouring through the two windows. It urged her forward, but she could not manage to walk the few paces. She dropped into an upholstered chair, her back to the pier glass between the windows, so she did not have to see the damage inflicted on her by a man who had been trying to save her life.
As Mrs. Carroll bent to check Nerissa’s wrist, heavy footsteps raced into the room.
“By all that’s blue!” came the squeaky, tenor voice that belonged to Nerissa’s stepbrother Cole Pilcher. “What adventure have you muddled into this time?”
“Hush, Mr. Pilcher,” the housekeeper chided. “Miss Dufresne has been bumped a bit. Come and sit with her.”
“Bumped a bit? How did you do that, Nerissa?”
She considered laughing at her brother’s outraged dismay. When the ache escalated across her head, she lost her amusement. Through the flood rushing in her ears, she heard Mrs. Carroll whisper she would fetch her scissors.
“I said no!” she gasped, then moaned as her protest hurt her skull.
“The glove must be cut off. I won’t cause you more pain, Miss Dufresne.”
Nerissa noted the stubborn set of the housekeeper’s chin. Mrs. Carroll seldom argued with her, but, when she did, Nerissa had learned to accede to the housekeeper’s wisdom. “As you wish.” As dear as every copper had become in their household, she wondered when she could replace the glove and her ruined bonnet. Her spenser could be mended easily … again. Leaning back in the chair, she let its softness surround her as she gazed at the iron grate in the fireplace on the opposite wall.
Never had the chock-full room seemed so dear. The collection of furniture had been taken from their country home before she had arranged for Hill’s End to be offered for sale. Running her fingers along the worn mahogany arms of the chair, she took a deep breath of beeswax. The scent belonged
both to the past and the present. So little connected the two parts of her life. This should not have been a part of her life, but, when Cole’s father died, she had come to Bath to oversee her stepbrother’s household. She had been alone since her mother had been buried almost a year before her stepfather cocked up his toes, so Nerissa had been delighted to have a chance to be with family again—no matter how tenuous the connection was.
She also had tired of being in dun territory with the odious creditors lining up outside Hill’s End’s front gate. Although she had promised her mother she would endeavor to hold onto the lands which had belonged to Nerissa’s father’s family for centuries, the upkeep had become too prohibitive. She had found it easier to obtain an agent to attempt to sell it. Certainly their purse-pinched days would be behind them once the agent found a buyer.
If her stepfather had left them a respectable jointure, she and Cole would not be forced to play nip-farthings. She was bothered more by their dire circumstances than Cole, for her brother usually thought less about money than he did the hour of the day. In that way, Cole could not have been less like his father, for Mr. Pilcher—she never had and never would think of him any other way—had been obsessed with wealth. It had done him little good, for, despite all his boasting about grand plans, he had left his heir with nothing to run the house in Bath that he had inherited at Nerissa’s mother’s death.
Nerissa sighed. A visit to grassville, with the green aroma that reminded her of Hill’s End, always brought forth her frustration with memories that were better forgotten.
“No brandy,” Nerissa whispered to contradict her brother’s order. Tearing herself away from her discouraging thoughts, she forced a smile. “I may be a bit the worse for the wear, but I shan’t drink spirits at such an hour. Tea, Mrs. Carroll, if you will. And please have Frye come down. I may need her assistance to get up the stairs.”
The Fortune Hunter Page 2
