“I know who you are,” he said, his voice low and deep, his breath warm on her cheek. “You’re Henrietta Rolland. Does Jack call you Hetty? Yes, I remember that he does. May I as well? Of course I already have, haven’t I? Hold on, I know the pain is unbearable, but the laudanum will soon ease you. Soon now, very soon. Just listen to me, try to focus on my voice, all right?”
“All right,” she whispered, her hand now clutching his as if her very life depended on it.
“You are just as I imagined you would be when I met you at the Ranleaghs’ ball. Do you remember how I thought I was rescuing you from that drunken buffoon? You let me know that I wasn’t at all necessary, that you would have taken care of him had he persisted. I thought you full of bluff and bravado. Now I know that you would have probably slit his throat had he continued with his foolishness. Do you remember how well we waltzed together? That’s right, squeeze my hand. Do you remember? Just nod, that’s good.”
As the laudanum began to dull the pain in her side, she felt a dull pounding against the side of her head. She tried to focus on this new pain and moaned deep in her throat.
“I know you hurt. Soon you’ll sleep. We’ll sort everything out when you’re better. Yes, you’ve a lump and a bruise over your left temple. When you fell, you hit the only rock within twenty feet. Now, breathe deeply, that’s right. Just listen to me talk and soon you’ll be asleep. That’s right.” He paused a moment, studying her face. He saw that her blue eyes were vague, that the laudanum was taking effect. About damned time, he thought.
“Now, I will tell you that I visited your lodgings when I found out you’d been with Melissande. Your valet, Pottson, nearly dropped dead of apoplexy when I marched in, murder in my eye. I wanted to wring Lord Harry’s neck for poaching on my mistress preserves. Do you know what happened? I went into Lord Harry’s bedchamber and found a gown. I thought Lord Harry was a complete young rakehell. I thought there must be a young girl, quite naked, hiding in the closet. But it was your gown I found, Henrietta. When I waved it in his face, Pottson held firm. He has guts, that valet of yours.”
She was asleep. He had no idea how much she’d heard. At least for a while she was free of the god-awful pain. He gently replaced the covers over her and straightened. He dipped a strip of linen into the basin of cool water atop the commode and lightly bathed her face. The deep purple bruise above her temple was now ugly and swollen.
She whimpered, jerking upward, then falling back again. He froze above her. She quieted again and he drew a breath of relief and he straightened over her bed. Actually, it was his bed. He hadn’t really thought about it. He’d simply carried her to his bedchamber, a huge dark room with a bed that could hold a drunken battalion.
He found himself staring down at her, his eyes searching her pale face. It was such a young face, and vulnerable, with all the lines and expressions of Lord Monteith’s hatred and anger smoothed away. Vulnerable bedamned. He saw again the naked gleam of purpose in her eyes when she’d lunged at him again and again, until, through his own blundering, the tip of her foil pricked at his chest. He’d felt her hatred in that moment, a hatred so deep he couldn’t begin to understand it, to fathom what he’d ever done in his life to deserve such hatred, then her indecision. He felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck, uncertain now if he would have been able to wrench the foil from her hands. He didn’t know. He remembered Julien shouting at him to do it, but he’d just stood there, held by the naked torment in Monteith’s eyes. Yes, that was it, the boy had looked tortured in those few moments. No, he thought, not boy, she was a girl, very much a girl. What the devil had he done?