Chapter 13
Dace studied the Folly’s towers from the south lawn. The beauty of the roof took his mind off the water dripping from his clothes and the squelching of his boots. “How is Angel?” he asked Rax.
“Says he is waiting for you to return, but I think he can’t bear the thought of having his guts searched by the surgeon. Do you know, it’s not certain there is anything in there to find? Might just have healed wrong or healed twisted. Poor fellow, he is in awful pain.”
“I keep hoping he will recover without an operation.” Dace pulled off his boots and left them on the grass. “I’ve promised to kill him rather than let him suffer, if the wound festers after they cut him.”
“You couldn’t do it!” said Rax, aghast at the thought.
“Might have to, I promised.” Not that Dace had worried about it, he’d never expected to survive the war. Yet here he was in England, with the air soft and warm about him, with no more than a badly bruised shoulder to ail him.
They climbed the stairs in silence. The doors swung open as he approached them. Charles and Arthur stared at his wet condition, only the house steward’s presence stopped them from commenting.
“Gordon!” Dace called to the old man. “Send a maid with some clothes for Lady Felmont. She fell in the lake and is waiting at the dower house.”
The old Scot hurried over, disapproval written on his wrinkled countenance. “You never threw her in again?” he cried in disbelief.
“Fell on her. It was an accident. Damn it, Gordon! Quick, before she takes a chill!” Dace wondered at his own relief at Lizzie’s reaction. She had laughed. Giggled like a child. That was twice he had made her laugh.
Was inept clumsiness the key to her heart? He had never thought of himself as a clown, but if it pleased Lizzie to view him like that, he’d take it over her fear and loathing any day.
Rax followed him up the stairs to his rooms. Dace threw his waistcoat on the hallway floor. His shirt followed. A maid came out of his wife’s bedroom door, took one look at him and stood rooted to the spot, staring with delight at his naked chest while she blushed pink. He wasn’t sure which one she was, but the pretty maid was either Sarah’s aunt or her cousin
He fled into his bedroom to strip off the rest of his wet clothes. Would Lizzie ever look at him like that if he strolled into her bedroom shirtless? He went into his dressing room to remove the wet bandage covering his shoulder. It didn’t look too bad. He’d known better than to complain of pain lest it tempt the army surgeons to remove his arm. The brand on the back of his shoulder had healed.
Dace bathed quickly, while Rax lingered in the hallway to flirt with the maid.
It was just the sort of behavior that could set Angel off.
Dace had grown up knowing all the local girls. He’d played tricks on them, had let them take their revenge on him. He saw maids as people. If he didn’t know them, he knew their families and knew their morals. Pregnancy meant marriage. Molly had been a few months gone when she married her William. Ma had been the same. A tradition unbroken by generations of women of that class.
Not like Rax’s morals. He’d set up at least one maid from his mother’s household in a small place on the fringes of Bloomsbury. The house deeds had been earned by that lovely woman over a year or two. And she was a beauty, no one could say Rax didn’t have taste.
Dace toweled his hair dry with one hand. How was he going to get Lizzie to Mayfair? He couldn’t go without her, doubted she’d still be at the Folly when he returned—not if she thought he’d gone off to indulge himself in the fleshpots of London.
“Rax!” he shouted through the door.
His friend entered with an apologetic cough. “Just thought I’d calm her, you know. Couldn’t leave her all a twitter after seeing you.”
“Don’t even think it, Rax,” warned Dace. “And don’t flirt with the maids in front of Angel, he’d probably ask me to dissuade you. Don’t think I wouldn’t do it.” He gave a Felmont stare to emphasize his words.
“Never dreamt of it! I’m in a permanent state of frustration and dare not do anything about it for fear he’ll find out. He’s worse than my mother. I wouldn’t let Lady Felmont near him, if I were you. He keeps trying to pick fights. You’d best tell him what happened. Not that you’d get much sympathy, but you might keep breathing for a while longer.”
Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1) Page 15
