Page 107 of The English Duke
“Yes,” she said. They probably would. But she wasn’t going to leave.
She began to massage his leg again starting at the knee this time and working her way down. The liniment, for lack of a better label to call it, was pungent with spices and camphor. She smelled lemon, too. Even though the housekeeper was generous to anyone who asked for a bottle of her special lotion, she was also secretive about the recipe.
Jordan extended his leg a little. Another good sign was the fact that his face seemed to be relaxing.
“I may hire you,” he said. “Not only to be my Joan of Arc, but my manservant. How are you at shaving?”
She wasn’t going to tell him the only time she’d done so was preparing her father’s body for burial. She’d done the duty to spare Gran, a small gift of love to both her grandmother and her father.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m about to enter a long gray tunnel,” he said, his voice sounding as if he’d imbibed too many glasses of wine. “I hate the tunnel,” he said. “It’s scary and I’m alone.”
She placed both her palms around his bare knee.
“You’re not alone, Jordan. I’m here.”
She would not leave him.
“I don’t want to die,” he said. “It’s the one thing I remember when I think about the accident. I was lying there on the ground with this damnable stallion above me and all I could think about was he was either going to kill me or I was going to die of my injury right there.”
He reached out his hand and she took it, holding on to him as if he needed the touch of another human being.
“You’re not going to die,” she said, but he ignored her comment.
“It was a beautiful day, with the sky above so brilliantly blue it almost hurt to look at it. I was thinking I hadn’t done anything with my life. Not really. Not like your father. He had invented so many things.”
“Not that many,” she said.
“But important things. He was an important man. I’m not.”
“I think you’re important,” she said.
“Because I’m a duke?”
“I would say despite the fact you’re a duke,” she said, giving him the truth.
“You don’t often address me correctly,” he said. “I like that you don’t call me Your Grace all the time.”
“You started calling me Martha early on,” she said. “It was only fair.”
“You noticed that.”
“I did.”
“You aren’t wearing lavender, are you? I grew to hate that lavender dress of yours.”
“I feel the same,” she said, smiling. “No, I’m not wearing lavender. I’m wearing a dark blue dress with white-and-blue cuffs and collar.”
“You’ve been gone,” he said. “Where have you been? Were you really ill?”
“No,” she said.
“I missed you. I’ve missed you for weeks.”
That was surprising. So, too, the fact he held her hand firmly.
“You should get to bed,” she said. “You need to straighten your leg.”
