Page 50
Oh, no. She would not let him hide from her the entire day. If she had to wait one minute longer, Honoria felt she might burst.
She rushed toward his bedchamber and paused outside the wide-open door.
It’s now or never.
She crossed the threshold, her hand hovering over the door jamb to alert him of her presence, but paused mid-air.
He sat in front of the looking glass, applying something to his face, an alcohol bottle open at his side. He hissed under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” she called, concern overriding her frustration in an instant.
He turned, revealing a bruised face and a split lip, the skin around his left eye already darkening to a mottled purple.
She rushed to him and took his face in her hands, tilting it toward the light streaming through the window. Her fingers were gentle against his skin. He tried to pull away—his fingers warm against her wrist—but she caught sight of the knuckles on his right hand. They were bleeding, raw, and angry.
“What the devil happened?” she asked, her voice rising in horror. Her heart raced with the worst possible imaginings. Had he been attacked? Robbed?
“Nothing really. I went to Johnson’s Boxing Academy. Just a friendly sparring match,” he said dismissively, but winced as he spoke, his lip reopening.
“Friendly? I shudder to think what an unfriendly one would do.” She stepped back, folding her arms across her chest to hide their trembling. Seeing him injured stirred something fierce and protective within her.
“I just hadn’t practiced in a long time. To be honest, I’m a much better shooter than a boxer…” He paused, gaze dropping. “Or I used to be, before my eyesight turned for the worse.”
“Why in the world did you go boxing?” she demanded, unable to comprehend what would drive him to such an activity. The Caldwell she knew preferred quiet pastimes—reading, studying beetles, tending flowers, and the occasional swim. She took his wounded hand into hers and clucked her tongue. The skin was angry, red, and swollen.
“To get some exercise,” he replied with a shrug, his tone casual.
“If your inability to swim as often in London bothers you, I’m certain there are less violent sports that might suit your interests. Like riding.” She sounded like a governess scolding a disobedient boy, but she couldn’t help herself—she was worried and more than a little bewildered. “Wait here. I’ll get some salve. This wound could get infected.”
She turned to leave, already mentally cataloging the medicines in the household stores, everything she had meant to say to him forgotten. Now is not the time.
“Don’t worry, I poured some alcohol on the wound,” he called after her, a hint of stubbornness in his voice.
She turned back, an exasperated sigh leaving her chest. “That is not enough. It needs to be kept clean and bandaged properly. I can’t believe you’d risk damage to your hand, knowing how much you need it for all your hobbies and interests.”
“That’s why I have you.” A slow, mischievous smile crept across his face. “You’re my right-hand man—ahem—woman. If I lose a hand, you’ll have to do all the handy work for me.”
She met his eyes, startled by the playfulness in his tone. Was he flirting with her?
A warm flush crept up her neck.
His smile faded as quickly as it came. “Except you’ll be leaving soon.” He grimaced. “Never mind.”
“Actually—” This was the perfect opening to confess that she wasn’t leaving after all, that she’d decided to stay, and that he was the reason. But the words refused to leave her lips. Her thoughts jumbled again, her courage vanishing. “Let me get the bandages.”
She fled the room, grateful for the excuse to compose herself.
Her heart hammered as she gathered the necessary supplies from the stillroom. What is wrong with me? She had faced far more daunting challenges in her life than confessing her feelings to a man. Yet here she was, trembling like a green girl at her first assembly. Perhaps because never before had so much been at stake—her heart, her future, her happiness—all hanging in the balance of his response.
She returned to his room, supplies clutched in her hands like a shield.
“Turn this way.” She leaned her hips against the desk and bent toward him, applying salve to his cheek and his lip, the smell of herbs filling the space.
She swallowed, acutely aware of the scant distance between them.
Taking his hand, she applied salve to his knuckles, then wrapped his hand carefully with strips of clean linen.
She was so close to him that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of bergamot that clung to him, hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.
