Duncan did not answer.
Once at the bank, he halted, eyeing the terrain for a safe place to dismount. He needed flat ground without worry of roots, mud, or debris.
He must be mad. Not once had he attempted to dismount using his legs. It had not been a full week since first walking and only a few days since learning that the pressure and gait of the hips could guide him. Even with daily walking practice, he relied on the indoor and outdoor chairs to move about the park. The little walking he did was reserved for the drawing room, parlor, and bedchamber. And yet today, a hefty distance from the park, with only his brother present, he wanted to attempt the impossible.
As Quinn approached, Duncan said, “I need you to stand behind me in case I fall.”
He did not look back to see his brother’s expression, but he heard the hiss of a sharp intake.
“Tell me you’re not about to—”
Before Quinn could finish the sentence, Duncan swung his leg around, praying his muscles worked. His brother scrambled off his horse. Not that Duncan noticed. He was too busy memorizing the feel of his legs as they supported his weight and did all he commanded. In slow-motion he moved, delaying the inevitable loss of feeling to come.
The moment both boots met earth, tingling abated, and a numbness settled into his flesh. Alas.
Turning to Quinn, he said, “Well? How’d I do?”
“You’re mad! What if you had slipped? What if a leg gave out? What if you missed the ground? I have visions of ten different ways you could have been trampled or met with a broken neck.” Quinn crossed his arms, his face pink with anger.
“And I thought you’d be impressed.” As he spoke the words, he began to disrobe.
His brother stared, wide eyed. Looking from water to Duncan and back, Quinn finally said, “Oh no, no, no, you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do. Dismounting was one thing. You’ll catch your death!”
“No need for melodrama. We used to swim in far colder temperatures, as you’ll recall.”
“When you were ten and when I should have had more sense. What’s the meaning of this? You can barely walk. What makes you think you can swim? Now I’m going to have to go in to save you from drowning. Blast it, man!” Quinn peeled off his greatcoat, coat, and waistcoat, tugging at his boots.
Duncan did not wait for him. In tentative strides, he approached the bank. While he normally would have dived in, he was not at all sure he could propel his body in such a fashion, at least not yet. Instead, he stepped forward and tipped into the lake, smacking the water with his side.
He knew two things simultaneously. The water was an icy hell, and his legs seized on impact. His first reaction was to panic. Arms whipping the water around him, he struggled to kick out, but his legs were lead, pulling him to the bottom of the lake.
Once the initial shock of the cold passed, he schooled himself to relax. Arcing his arms in wide half-circles, he scooped the water away and inward. In seconds, he resurfaced, his arms keeping him afloat, and tread water.
“Ahh ha ha! Woo!” He screamed with a teeth-chattering laugh.
Quinn, he saw, was readying himself to dive. Hands clasped overhead, the vicar cut the water with barely a sound. In seconds, he surfaced a fair distance from Duncan and screamed a stream of curses.
“Why are we freezing to death?” Quinn demanded, his teeth chattering.
“Admit it. It’s not that cold. If the lake isn’t frozen, it hardly counts as cold.”
Duncan peered into the water every few seconds to see if his legs were working. Their limpness after accomplishing so much was both alarming and frightening, but as he calmed, so it seemed his body did also.
His legs began to respond to his commands. To say he was relieved was an understatement. He may be able to tread water with arms alone, but it had been no less disturbing to have to prove it.
“Are you intentionally avoiding my question?” his brother asked.
“I’m distracted, eh? It’s not like you have to concentrate to stay afloat. I, on the other hand, do. Although, I do have one advantage over you—I can’t feel the cold from waist down. Go on, envy me. I know you’re jealous but thinking of five verses to punish yourself for it.”
“Har har. Are we quite finished? I suppose you haven’t thought about the wet ride back.” Quinn buoyed, slicking back the hair that matted to his face. “We’ll be lucky not to freeze on the way home.”
Ignoring him, Duncan propelled himself through the water. He could not feel his legs to know if they kicked, but given the speed and success of his swim, he assumed they did. A few times, the swim slowed, and he felt as though he dragged his lower limbs behind him, but just as soon as it happened, his body seemed to right itself.
When he surfaced after several laps, he said to Quinn, who bobbed in the water, “I have no way to exercise or strengthen my legs, at least not until I’m more confident with their reliability. Swimming seems a perfect solution, does it not? Today was a test. Now that I’ve done it, I want to swim once a day until it’s too cold to do so.”
“It’s already too cold, you imbecile.”
“You’ve gotten stodgy in your old age. Has Miranda ever told you?” Duncan baptized the vicar with a mighty splash.
As his brother made to return the favor, Duncan dived into the water, pumping his legs, a freeing experience since he was not worried about falling or tripping or making a fool of himself while swimming.
Burrowing into the blanket, Duncan wrapped his trembling hands around a cup of tea, warming limbs inside and out after the vigorous workout. However long it had taken him to dry and warm, the swim had been worth it. He felt renewed. The onset of winter would cramp his recovery, but he would make the best use of autumn while he had the chance. Every day that it did not rain, he would ride and swim, anything to exercise his legs and revel in the feel of returned sensation, regardless of how dull and intermittent.
The peculiar part of the day, he thought as he watched the flames lick the logs in the fireplace, had occurred ten minutes into his swim, moments before he returned to the bank. His right knee sensed an icy coldness. His imagination? Possibly. But he would swear on his brother’s bible that he had, for a brief moment, felt the water against his knee.
That evening he drifted to sleep with the fantasy of normalcy. Everything was happening just as Dr. Knowlton promised, though not as quickly or as suddenly as the physician had expected.
Soon Duncan would be back to his old self as though nothing had happened. His first task to celebrate would be to make love to Mary from noon until night. Never would he take for granted the ability to walk, feel, or love. Sleep overtook him as he envisioned her beneath him, her voluptuous curves bared to his touch, her eyes dark with desire, her passion uninhibited.
She was moaning his name when he jerked awake. A fierce wind howled, the sound not unlike a moan, the patter of rain a mimicry of the rhythmic thumping of his headboard. Groaning, he turned on his side, wanting nothing more than to return to his dream.
He could not immediately will himself back to sleep. The fire had long ago died to ember glow, leaving the room chilly. Nestling further into the bedding, he pulled his knees to his chest. His body thrummed with longing. His upper body, that was. As usual, he felt nothing below, but the rest of him pulsed from the dream. Come, sleep, he coaxed. Return me to my lady.
If he thought the knee incident had been peculiar, it was nothing to what happened next. Duncan tucked a hand between his knees to warm his fingers. When his forearm brushed against a hard, protruding shaft, he tossed off the covers and sat up in haste.
Breath held, fingers stretched, he reached for himself.
And there it stood, upright and hard. He wrapped a hand about his manhood. The skin was fiery hot, and the muscle flexed in response to the touch.
By Jupiter! He wanted to cheer into the night. For day
s, for weeks, for however long, he had not even been able to will himself to attention, a serious barrier to his matrimonial pursuits. And now, in a single moment, his future shifted.
The frustration in the elation stemmed from the realization that though his hand could feel his erection, his erection could not feel the hand. Much like with his regaining of mobility, albeit by slow measure, the muscle was responding but without nerve sensation.
Well, devil take it. What good did this do him if he could not feel anything?
Laying back, he pulled the bedding to his chin, burying himself into the warmth. It was a long time before he could find sleep again.
However freeing it felt to walk, it was far more fatiguing than Duncan would wish. When walking, his full concentration had to be centered on the feel of his hips. In time, he should become accustomed to the movement, but given it had been only a week, progress was slow and frustrating.
Everything acted as an impediment to success. The grass was slippery, the gravel loose, the steps uneven. The wheeled chairs were his dearest friends throughout each day, but he could not reside in them forever—if he did not practice even the most arduous of tasks, he would never succeed. What he wanted, but would not voice, was to awaken to the return of his full range of motion and sensation. He might celebrate with a run should that happen.
His goal of making it to church was delayed for another week. As much as he wanted to go, he did not want to go without Mary on his arm, nor did he want the villagers to see him walking before Mary did. And so, he found himself on this fine day on the doorstep of Lyonn Manor, having handed his card to the butler.
Caesar would be disappointed to learn Duncan had taken the carriage instead of riding him, but on such a day as this, he could not arrive smelling like a horse.
He realized only after giving his card that he needed to order new cards. These did not reflect his baronetcy, though that hardly mattered when the duke knew, but it was still something he ought to do. Tonight, he could send a note to Mr. McLarren; how important it felt to have one’s own steward.
Duncan fiddled with his cravat and tugged at his shirt points. They felt too tall, too starched, and too tight.
Never had he been to the manor. Intimidating was putting it mildly. It was a palace. How she must have laughed when she first saw Cois Greta Park. And how might Sidwell Hall compare to this? He could not imagine the hall being large, likely not even of equitable size to his parent’s home. And she still claimed to want him after living here? Humbling.
Tapping his heeled shoes, he watched in fascination how the narrowed tips of sky blue lifted and lowered with each tap, just as they should, just as though he were normal and healed.
When the door opened, Duncan’s pulse raced, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He could scarce hear for the sound of trepidation in his ears.
“Follow me, sir,” said the man.
They spent only enough time in the foyer for Duncan’s coat, hat, and gloves to be removed and disappear around a corner. The foyer was the size of his bedchamber. Busts on pedestals stared at him, judging. He tried not to gape.
The butler led him around a curved, grand stairwell, into an oval hall, and through a door into a study. The duke’s study. Duncan swallowed.
Shoulders back, head high, he marched into the room, stopping only when he spotted the Duke of Annick seated behind a desk, scratching with a quill across parchment. Was it too late to run? Did he dare try to run? Knowing his luck, he would trip on the rug. Though the butler announced him and closed the door, the duke did not look up to acknowledge Duncan. The quill worked. Duncan gulped.
The wait was interminable. Staring at the top of His Grace’s pomaded, black hair and watching the ringed fingers strangling the feather did not ease the tension. Duncan glanced at the clock on the mantel, the second hand ticking a death toll to the moment of judgment. Tugging at the hem of his coat, he chewed on the inside of his cheek.
Tick tock.
Scratch scribble.
At last, with a flourish, the duke signed the letter, returned the quill to its stand, and sanded the ink. Only then did he look up. When his eyes met Duncan’s, his eyebrows rose high on his forehead, one corner of his mouth inching into a grin.
“Well, what do we have here?” The duke looked Duncan up and down, a lingering stare at his feet. “I expected Mr. Hunter to wheel you in. Standing and walking again, I see.” Lacing his fingers, he rested his palms against the back of his head, leaning into the chairback.
“A new development that is not without difficulties,” Duncan said, still standing, anxious he had not yet been asked to sit.
“Not a miraculous recovery, then?”
“Depends on your definition of both miraculous and recovery. Early this week, I regained movement but not feeling, and the movement is not entirely reliable, though I will not begrudge my progress.” Duncan shifted his weight from one leg to the other, mostly to assure himself both legs worked.
“Does my sister know? Ah, never mind. If she knew, she would have told me. And so, you come to me today to share the good news and discuss the weather, I assume. Please, have a seat.”
His Grace waved a hand to the chair across the desk. Why Duncan had thought they might share a coze by the fire, he had no idea. He would take what he could get. In a few steps, he was to the chair and seated. The duke’s smile turned to a smug grin, though what there was to be smug about, Duncan could not say.
“Cheroot?” he asked, opening a drawer.
“No, but thank you, Your Grace.”
Closing the drawer without grabbing one for himself, the duke said, “We’ve been neighbors for years, old boy. I should think it time you call me Annick. Did you know your father taught me to shoot when I was younger?”
Duncan shook his head, stopped, then nodded. “He’s not mentioned it in years. I had forgotten, but yes, now you mention it, it was a point he brought up at many dinners.”
“I spent more time there than in my own home. That was a long time ago, certainly when you were still in the nursery.” Annick unhooked his fingers and leaned forward to the desk, propping his chin on his fist. “Despite my mother’s disapproval, I’ve always been fond of your family. You come from good stock. But then, aren’t you supposed to be the one convincing me of that fact?”
Taken aback, Duncan frowned. “You know why I’m here?”
“It’s written in the droplets of sweat beading down your face, old boy.”
Embarrassed, Duncan pulled out a handkerchief to dab his forehead. It was frigid outside, and here he was, sweating like a laborer.
“Right, well, best to it, then.” Duncan twisted the handkerchief between his fingers. “I’m here to ask for your sister’s hand.”
Annick studied him before asking, “Do you know what I do to fortune hunters?”
Duncan shook his head, clenching the linen. Not the answer he had hoped to hear. Of all the adversaries he had faced in battle, knowing it was their life or his, he had never felt this nervous.
“I snap my fingers and watch them disappear,” the duke said cryptically.
“I’ve no interest in her dowry, Your Grace.” Duncan wiped his brow. “Put it in a trust only she controls. She’ll want pin money, of course. I’ve a pension from the Army, and now the income of the baronetcy. My pocket is modest, but not empty. I ask for her hand because I’ve loved her since I first laid eyes on her.”
Annick assessed him in silence.
Tick tock.
Gulp.
Annick slapped the desk and laughed. Duncan nearly jumped out of the chair.
“Took you long enough to ask. Although, I admit, had you asked me six or even five years ago, I would have thought you a scoundrel, but you’ve proven yourself a steady and determined match. I couldn’t think of a finer fellow for my sister or better in-laws for me. Shall we talk details
first, or would you prefer I have her brought to the drawing room?”
It took nearly an hour for the two men to work up a contract. Duncan was not prepared for the assets Mary would bring to a marriage. This was all beyond his experience and bookkeeping skills. A long conversation ensued on what to do with the dowry because Annick saw no reason Duncan should not have it, but Duncan wanted there to be no question of him seeking her fortune and insisted it be placed in a trust instead. The discussion was contentious, Annick thinking him needlessly hardheaded.
At last, with all decided, Annick rang for the butler and walked Duncan to the study door.
The duke caught Duncan’s hand in his, his smile gone, his twinkling eyes turned to steel.
Gripping Duncan’s hand until the rings cut into his flesh, Annick said, “I have agreed to allow you to ask for her. Should she choose to marry you for love rather than to marry a duke as is fitting of her station, know every moment of your life what a prize you have married. If for one second you forget and she comes to me in tears, I’ll make you wish you had never been born.” As quickly as his expression altered, it reverted, the duke laughing as he pulled Duncan into a one-armed hug. “Welcome to the family. Or should I say, good luck with the proposal?”
He winked, pushing Duncan out of the door to follow the butler to the drawing room.
A married woman. In three weeks, she would be a married woman, free of her mother, free of Lyonn Manor, free. Finally, she would know love’s touch with an endless stream of kisses, hugs, and, oh, and.
Had she known what was to happen when Mr. Hunter said there was a special visitor for her in the Red Drawing Room, she would have danced down the stairs, pirouetted across the hall, and leapt into her lover’s arms. It had all come as a shock. She knew something was amiss when the butler said the formal Red Drawing Room rather than the cozier Blue, or even the parlor, but for a heart-pounding moment she worried her mother had arranged a bit of trickery.
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