Page 32 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
“I thought you might have need of your carriage to return you home.”
She sounded so incredibly calm and reasonable that he almost laughed. Trust her to act as though they’d merely crossed paths at the park, not that he’d just laid a man flat with a single blow. He suspected the other three women who’d recently been in his bedchamber would have been aghast. But not her, not hisMarguerite. He wondered if a time would come when he would know exactly what to expect of her, when she wouldn’t take him by surprise.
With a brisk nod, he indicated she should precede him, and he followed her out.
Once they were in the carriage, he drew the curtains, more to protect her reputation than his. It wouldn’t do at all for people to catch a glimpse of them traveling together this time of night. His hand ached like the very devil. But the anger that had driven him to the club had abated. Inhaling her fragrance helped, as did the notion that she’d come for him. Risking possible danger, not certain what she would find. Or perhaps it had been merely curiosity that had driven her to his side. “You saw Mrs. Mallard delivered to her home safely?”
“Yes. Do you love her?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because your actions regarding her seemed rather personal.”
“Personal.” Slipping a finger behind a curtain, he moved the cloth slightly aside and peered out. He should ignore the inquiry. He’d never spoken of it, but tonight the past had come rushing back and he was still raw from all the emotions stirred to life. For some inexplicable reason he wanted her to know, to understand what had compelled him to behave as he had. He didn’t seek absolution or forgiveness, but neither did he want her to believe she should fear him. “I suppose they were. My father’s business was to import and export goods from around the world. He would sometimes take his fists to my mother. When the ships were late, or the cargo arrived damaged, or the seastole what he considered rightfully his. As though she was responsible for the whims of nature.”
Realizing the streetlamps they passed might be giving her a view of his agony as he spoke the words, he let the curtain fall back into place, finding solace and comfort in the darkness. When he was a lad, it had hidden him from his shame at not being able to protect the woman who’d given birth to him. “I was fourteen, away at Eton, when she died. I accused him of killing her. He swore she’d fallen down the stairs. The constables accepted his accounting of what happened, but I’ve always known it was a lie. When I delivered that blow to Mallard, I envisioned my father’s face.”
“I can’t imagine how devastating that must have been for you—to see someone you loved hurt by someone else you loved.”
“I didn’t love him,” he said quickly with finality. “But she did. I never understood how she could. All I wanted was to prevent him from hurting her.”
“Is he the reason you began lifting bells?”
“I hoped I could become strong enough to stop him. But it proved a fruitless endeavor.”
“I daresay you’d have stopped him tonight. Did you break Mallard’s jaw, do you think?”
“Possibly.”
“I do hope he finds his teeth.”
He didn’t care if the man did or not.
They were silent for the remainder of the journey. When they arrived at the residence, he disembarked and extended his hand toward her, unable to hold back his hiss of pain when she took hold of it. She immediately let go, and he offered his other hand as support while she climbed out.
“Come to the kitchen, so I can tend to your injury,” she said, her tone stern.
“It’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be stubborn. You need some ice for it.”
It was late enough so all the servants would be abed, none to witness her caring for him. Where was the harm?
The harm, he decided as he sat in a chair at the cook’s worktable, was how much he enjoyed her looking after him. Crouching before the icebox, she was chipping away at a hunk of ice, placing the chunks in a bowl that she’d lined with linen. When she was finished, she joined him at the table, folded the cloth over the frozen bits, and secured each end. Gently, she took his hand—red, grazed, and swollen—and supported it with hers while she placed the cold compress against it. He clenched his back teeth to stop himself from groaning.
“Do you think your hand is broken?” she asked.
“No. However, I was surprised to find his jaw was like stone.” The man was probably in his late thirties. “Why did you really come to the club?”
“I thought you might get hurt or need some assistance.”
He grinned broadly for the first time since Mrs. Mallard had shown up at his door, bruised and broken. “Skilled at fisticuffs, are you?”
Her mouth twitched. “No, but I thought I might be able to do something to help. Besides, I brought the footman in with me. Did you not notice him?”
He hadn’t. All he’d been able to see was her. It was as though all his surroundings had bleached away, no doubt a result of his heightened focus brought on byhis original anger—like a predator in the wild aware of danger. “You should have returned here as soon as you had Mrs. Mallard safely tucked away, not put yourself at risk by going to a gaming hell.”
Quickly she lifted her gaze to his, then lowered it back to his aching hand. He suspected it was her touch more than the ice that was bringing him comfort. “To be honest, I was also a bit curious about the club. I’ve never been to a gaming hell.”
