And waited.
His ankle throbbed. He needed a drink. He needed to fight with somebody.
He dismounted, his ankle acting as though he was trying to murder it.
“Go to hell,” he told it. He found a stump and sat down, his leg outstretched.
You must keep it elevated, she’d said.
He remembered the way she’d held her nose and pretended to gag when she took off his shoe. He remembered the way she went after the bully.
He thought about her being married to Ashmont and felt sick.
He told himself not to think about it, but this time, he couldn’t make it go away.
An eternity later, the rain began to abate.
He looked up through the dripping trees. The sky was lightening.
The horse tossed its head. Something rustled in the bushes.
Ripley looked that way.
“Woof!”
Cato trotted toward him, tongue hanging out.
“Good boy!” called a familiar voice.
Behind Cato, striding along the muddy path, came Nemesis.
“You stupid man!”
Oh, he was, because the sound of her voice made the skies turn blue and the sun burst out in golden glory and, in short, he came perilously close to weeping with relief.
He dragged his stiff body up from the stump. Yes, he was deranged. Perhaps she’d made him so. Still, he had manners, of a sort, where relevant, and she, after all, was a lady. A gentleman rose when a lady appeared, no matter who she belonged to and how she plagued him.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he said.
“What does it look like?”
She wore what looked like one of Aunt Julia’s dresses: Narrow-sleeved and of a dismal shade of brown, it fit completely wrong. While she and his aunt were nearly the same height, their shapes were different. The waist hung some inches below where he estimated Lady Olympia’s navel to be, the shoulders didn’t follow the perfect slope of hers, and the bodice was in places her breasts weren’t. The hat, as somber as the dress, and topped by a single drooping feather, sat at a tipsy angle upon her head, the ribbons tied clumsily.
He felt as though he’d drunk exactly the right amount of fine champagne. He realized she’d made him feel that way from the moment she’d ordered him to help her with the window.
Making his expression surly, he glanced at the dog. “You hunted me down,” he said. “With the dog. You are a dangerous woman.”
She stood, hands on hips, eyeing him up and down. “Mad, perhaps, trying to save you from yourself. Sit, for heaven’s sake!”
Cato sat. Ripley did not.
“The masculine mind is truly a wonder,” she said. “Are you trying to cripple yourself? Have you any idea of the damage—the permanent damage—you might do?”
“No, I don’t, because there won’t be any. I’ve sprained parts before. I shouldn’t have let you coddle me. Those sailors you were talking about? You think they get to loaf about the ship in between cold seawater treatments?”
“You’re not a sailor. You’re a spoiled, self-indulgent nobleman. If you’re talking about recovering from boyhood injuries, remember that your boyhood passed a long time ago. Boys’ limbs are still growing. They mend quickly. You’re a grown man—all except the brain—and it’s different for you.”
“I’m not a fat old hypochondriac, either,” he said. “You seem to have confused me with your Lord Mends.”
She blinked once. “No, no, I can tell you apart easily,” she said. “My Lord Mends wears a wig. You have more hair than wit.”
“I never tried to pass myself off as a scholar,” he said. Mends was, though. A highly regarded one, the pompous ass. “Because I won’t meekly do what you think I ought, I’m brainless.”
He wanted to meekly do whatever she wanted him to do.
He needed to be shot. Preferably in the head, where it would do some good.
“Obstinate, too,” she said. “Go ahead. Lean on the horse. Or the tree. It’s killing you to stand upright—but you’ll do it, by Jupiter, won’t you, for no better reason than to prove whatever it is you have to prove.”
He wanted to lean on her.
“I have nothing to prove,” he said. “I had a plan, as I mentioned last night. I saw no reason to change it. I’m going to London.”
“Saw no reason,” she repeated, shaking her head. “How I wish I’d dosed you with laudanum.” She looked at Cato. “It’s exactly the same as talking to boys, which is like talking to a brick.”
She took a deep breath, and let it out, which created mesmerizing movement in the bodice. He knew better than to tell himself not to look. He was a glutton for punishment.
Turning from Cato to Ripley she said, “I know it’s a waste of breath, but both Reason and Conscience demand I point out a few simple pieces of common sense: One doesn’t put weight on an injured limb. One keeps it elevated. One gives it time to recover.”
“It had plenty of time,” he said.
The calming breath hadn’t worked, apparently, because her eyes flashed and her cheeks pinkened, and she cried, “Ten hours isn’t time enough, you brick-brain!” She waved her fists in the air, and the motion made the dress go one way and her breasts another. “And hours riding about the countryside don’t count, you great ox!”
She was delicious.
He hated Ashmont. Also himself.
It was long past time to make his exit.
“If you’re quite done with the sermon, I’ll be on my way,” he said. He turned away to collect the reins.
“Go,” she said. “Have it your way. I must have experienced a temporary derangement, thinking Reason and Conscience carried any weight with you. You’re impossible, the lot of you. Hell-bent on self-destruction. I ought to know better, but no, I must come out on this wretched day to rescue you from your folly, because you did what you could to rescue me from mine. Rescue you—any of you—what a laugh. Well, it’s but one more error of judgment. I apologize for interrupting your journey.”
He heard a furious rustle of skirts and petticoats. He knew he ought to ignore it and get on the horse and get himself far away. But he’d always had a problem with oughts. He turned in time to see her start away, head up, back ramrod straight. That back. The hint of impatience in her walk. More than a hint at present.
What a cur he was.
She’d looked after him. She’d done what she could to help him heal. And he—well, he was what he was. He couldn’t change his character and he couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t make it come out that he’d been the one in front of the Clarendon Hotel that day.
“Dammit, Olympia.” He limped after her.
She marched on. “I don’t care what you do. You’ll go lame. You’ll never dance again. It’s nothing to me.”
“I can’t stay there—at my aunt’s!” he said to her back. “You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. I don’t want you to understand.”