Page 34 of The English Duke
What a pity.
He’d been sitting too long. Normally, Jordan stood every half hour or so, stomping through the boathouse to ensure his leg didn’t cramp. But with Martha there he’d remained sitting.
For some reason, he was averse to demonstrating his weakness to her.
He didn’t doubt she would have been compassionate if not genuinely concerned. The problem was he didn’t want either her compassion or her concern. He didn’t want her lovely brown eyes to soften in pity. Or her hands to reach out to help him in any way.
He wasn’t an invalid, damn it, although it had been only a few months since he’d thought he would be one for the rest of his life.
He made it back to his room managing not to limp too badly. Henry was, blessedly, waiting for him.
“You’ve overdone it,” the man said with the lack of tact for which he was renowned.
He didn’t argue, merely made it to the adapted sofa in the dressing room. Henry had the carpenter raise the sofa, remove both ends, and create what was essentially a fainting couch. When he’d made that comment, Henry had disagreed, saying it was a masculine fainting couch.
At the moment he was damned close to fainting.
“I’ve overdone it,” he agreed, removing his jacket. “The damned leg is making its displeasure known.”
“Shall I get the elixir?”
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
The concoction Dr. Reynolds had given him was for the worst nights, but he hated taking the stuff. It gave him horrendous nightmares and made him lose his sense of self. If he had to, he would take it, but only after he’d tried everything else.
An hour later he was sweating and exhausted, but Henry’s manipulation of his leg had beaten back the worst of the pain. At least his leg wasn’t cramping any longer. Nor was he afraid he was going to start whimpering out loud.
For tonight, at least, he wouldn’t take the elixir. But neither was he going to push himself to attend dinner. The York women would simply have to do without him. Reese would have to take up the slack and be his usual charming self.
Martha sat on the chair beside the bed in her sister’s room, wondering how much longer Josephine was going to take to get ready for dinner. To her surprise, Josephine hadn’t yet said a word about the boathouse.
“The silk brings out the color of my eyes,” Josephine said, preening in front of the pier glass. “But do you think it’s too formal?”
Since Martha was still wearing the lavender dress she’d worn all day she couldn’t find it in herself to answer. It was true, the lovely dark green of the dress was the exact match of Josephine’s eyes, which was why her sister had approved the fabric.
“How many dresses did you bring with you?” she asked, looking at the discarded garments strewed across the bed.
Amy would be forced to hang them and, no doubt, ensure they were pressed first.
Josephine didn’t say anything, but she hadn’t really expected an answer.
Even though her sister had begun getting ready for dinner hours ago, there was every possibility they would be late.
Amy had done a beautiful job with Josephine’s hair, allowing little ringlets to fall from an artful bun.
Her own hair was in dreadful shape, but it always was, especially when she was around a body of water. The humidity made it curl even tighter. The only thing she could do with it was pull it back at the sides and gather it up in a bun at her neck and cover the whole thing with a snood. With any luck it wouldn’t escape and frizz all around her face.
“If you don’t hurry we’ll be late,” she said.
If the duke thought Josephine lovely before, he would be in awe of her beauty tonight.
“We don’t want to be rude,” she added.
“Let him wait. He’ll think it worth it.” Josephine smiled at herself in the mirror. “It’s a pity he’s revolting,” she said.
“He’s not revolting.”
“He’s a cripple,” Josephine said.
