“I won’t stop,” she promised.
Izzy’s heart twisted. There was something so moving about seeing a man so big, so powerful, curled up like a puppy on the floor, damp with perspiration and writhing in evident pain.
His arms laced tight about her waist.
She’d been alone for a long time. In some ways, since well before her father died. And she was well-enough acquainted with loneliness to understand that the worst part wasn’t having nobody caring for you—it was having nobody to care for.
Izzy didn’t know if these gentle sweeps of her fingertips could erase his pain—but they were dismantling the safeguards around her heart.
She soothed her touch over his brow and scalp, making shushing noises and whispering what she hoped were comforting words.
What happened? she longed to ask. What happened tonight? What happened all those months ago?
“Speak,” he said.
“What shall I speak of?”
“Anything.”
How strange. Izzy found herself on the receiving end of questions daily, but she was never asked to talk about . . . anything on her mind. Now that he’d requested it, she didn’t even know what to say.
She stroked his hair again.
“Talk of anything,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you must. One from Mudpuddlia.”
She smiled. “I’d rather not. My life’s work was helping my father. But that doesn’t mean I’m a little girl living in his tales. To be sure, I enjoy a romantic story, but I also like newspapers and sporting magazines.”
She dropped her touch to his neck and began to work loose the knots of muscle there, working in gentle circles.
He groaned.
She stilled her fingers. “Shall I stop?”
“No. Just keep talking. Which sport?”
“When I was a girl, I followed all of it. My father was just a tutor then, and I was a girl who read anything she could lay hands on. One of his pupils passed along stacks of magazines. Boxing, wrestling. Horseracing was my favorite. I would read every article, study every race. I’d pick horses, and my father would place the bets. We could always use the extra money.”
She reclined her weight on one outstretched arm and settled in to tell him all about the year she picked the winners in both the Ascot and Derby, sparing no detail of her bloodline research and odds calculations. He just wanted her to keep talking, and so she did.
“Anyhow,” she finished, minutes later, “we did well with it.”
“It sounds as though you did well with it.” He released a long, heavy sigh and turned onto his back, so that he faced her.
“Is the pain any better, Your Gr—” She cut herself short, unable to complete the proper form of address. She held his head in her lap, and she’d just babbled on about her boring life. This was the least ducal or graceful moment imaginable. What point was there in formality?
She thought of all those letters she’d pored over that morning. How they all began with “Your Grace” or “May it please the duke” or something similarly cold.
He needed someone to treat him like a person. Not an untouchable duke but a man worth caring for. And as she could imagine Duncan would prefer to swallow bootblack before breaking with his traditional role, Izzy decided that person would have to be her.
“Ransom,” she whispered.
He didn’t object, so she tried it again.
“Ransom, are you better?”
He nodded, putting one hand over his eyes and massaging his temples. “Better. Somewhat.”
“Do you have these headaches often?” she asked.
“Not so often anymore. They’re just . . . sudden. And vengeful. This one cut my legs out from under me. At least when it’s over, the pain leaves as swiftly as it arrived.”
He began struggling to a sitting position. “Don’t tell Duncan,” he said. “He’ll insist on sending for a doctor.”
“Maybe a doctor would be a good idea,” Izzy replied.