Page 16 of The Proposition
Mr. Ferrand’s lips squished together tightly. He lowered himself into the chair across from her, dwarfing it comically, his legs almost like a stork’s as he perched there and loomed over her. “And I suppose you will blame that injury on me too?”
“Who else?” Clemency stuck out her arm and bent it, showing him the cut.
“And where was your destination this morning, Miss Fry? I cannot imagine it was the bottom of the river,” he murmured, dipping the hand towel into the hot water and then pressing it carefully to her arm. She hissed but did not jerk away. “Oh, it will sting.”
Clemency inhaled through her teeth. “I did not have a destination in mind, I merely wanted to enjoy the fine weather. It is not uncommon for me to take a novel into the fields and lie by a tree for hours.”
He was not, as other gentlemen might be, appalled by this minor confession.
“Novels?”
“Oh, yes. I read widely,” replied Clemency. She couldn’t help the faint smile that crept over her lips, even just speaking of books soothed her. “Burney and Edgeworth and Austen, Radcliffe and Hamilton…”
“I’m afraid that is not reading widely, Miss Fry. That is reading women,” he said with a chuckle.
“I will not apologize for my taste, sir.”
“Mm, nor would I expect you to.” His brow furrowed again as he concentrated, unrolling the linen bandage once the wound was cleaned and the blood drips wiped from her forearm. “Do you often walk into town?”
“Where is this line of inquiry going?” Clemency narrowed her eyes.
Mr. Ferrand shrugged lightly, then wound the bandage snugly around her arm. She couldn’t help but notice his long, elegant fingers; they wouldn’t be out of place on a musician or painter. “You wanted proof of your beloved’s treachery; I promised to provide evidence.”
Clemency sat up straighter, interested. “And just how does my going into town prove your ridiculous claim?”
“DoesLordBoyle go into town with any frequency?” He couldn’t help but say it in a mocking way, emphasizing Boyle’s title with visible rancor.
“He does.”
“And does he keep a house in Round Orchard?” Mr. Ferrand asked.
“No, when he is in the country he stays with his friend Mr. Connors.”
The bandage tied off neatly, Mr. Ferrand sat back, his fingers knit together, resting between his knees. It was a shockingly casual pose, but after being carried by him, riding practically in his lap, and receiving his medical care, Clemency was willing to overlook it. Especially if he was arriving at the point. “Do you know Mr. Connors well?”
“Not at all well,” Clemency replied. In fact, she did not like Mr. Connors, for he drank too much at every dance and had more than once splashed his vomit on some poor, unsuspecting lady’s shoes. “Again, where is this line of inquiry leading, Mr. Ferrand?”
A slow, chilly smile eased across his face, and Clemency was again struck by how easily he turned from gentleman to hunter. “Today’s excitement has spoiled your garment, Miss Fry. It must be replaced,n’est-ce pas? New fabric must be ordered, fabric that I am sure your intended would willingly finance….”
Clemency cradled her arm to her chest, withdrawing. Her gaze fell to the floor. She could not remember the last time Turner Boyle had gifted her anything of note.
“Come now, Miss Fry, a few yards of muslin or silk are nothing to a baron. Mere trifles. He must have an extensive line of credit already established.” He paused, and Clemency held her breath, knowing an unkindness was coming, and wishing she could avoid it. “Unless, of course, you prefer that I handle the bill?”
She shot him a black look. “Whatever you are trying to prove, you will be disappointed.”
“I think not.”
“Barons can be destitute,” she pointed out. Clemency quickly cringed internally. If he was, in fact, an impoverishedbaron, then marrying him to protect the interests of her family made far less sense.
“Do you believe him to be destitute?” Ferrand asked.
“I do not,” Clemency said. “He has never spoken of financial strains.”
“Then, it will be a thing of no consequence,” Mr. Ferrand replied, standing with a sigh and returning to the hearth. “Were you my bride-to-be—”
Clemency stood up abruptly. “Well, I am not, sir.” She had heard enough, been insulted enough, and absorbed enough insult on Boyle’s behalf. Making her curtsey, she shucked his coat and let it fall where it may.
“Shall I fetch the footman to escort you?” he asked, not even bothering to look at her or return her courtesy.
