Page 27 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 7

Wearing her shift, Margaret threaded the string through the eyelets of her stays as they lay across her lap. Morning light struggled through the thick old window, giving scant illumination.

After completing the task of loosely lacing up her stays, she stepped into the undergarment and pulled it up over her legs and hips. This, of course, required tugging on her shift to put it back into place. Bother! Reaching back, she pulled on the end of the string to tighten it. She’d never attempted to dress herself without the help of her lady’s maid. It proved more difficult than she’d imagined.

Every motion sent off pain in some new part of her body. The accident must have battered her worse than she thought.

Tying off the lacing proved difficult, but in the end, she eventually got the stays positioned correctly, though not as snugly as normal. Donning her gown seemed easy compared to her stays. Never mind that it didn’t fit properly. She had no one to impress. Connor Jackson surely didn’t figure into it, even if waking to the sight of him sleeping on the floor, bathed in the glow of sunrise, did something odd to her heart. She’d watched him silently, stunned at her reaction, until he’d awoken and left so she could dress.

She must be lonelier than she thought. Or perhaps the blow to her head had addled her wits.

Margaret combed her fingers through her hair and twisted it up into a messy chignon. Since she had no hairpins and no brush and wore a plain, worn dress of cheap muslin, she probably looked like a member of the working class. That was just as well considering her need to travel discreetly.

At the bureau, she poured a little water over her hands and splashed it on her face. The bowl on the floor caught her gaze. Connor Jackson had filled the bowl with water and brought it to her to soak her feet. A thoughtful gesture. Adding that to the careful way he’d carried her, she suspected he might not be the unfeeling oaf she’d first assumed. Not that it mattered.

Stepping carefully on sore feet, she gathered up her things and frowned at the soiled ribbons that remained of her shoes and silk stockings.

A knock preceded Jackson’s entrance. He stepped in, strong and handsome, and held up a battered pair of leather shoes like a washerwoman would wear. “They probably won’t fit well, but they were all I could find. When we get to a larger town, we can find a cobbler to adjust them for you.”

She took the proffered gift. “You got me shoes?” That he would notice her plight and attempt to help ease her discomfort made her mid-section go all warm and soft. Perhaps she had internal injuries, as well.

He grimaced. “I know it’s not what you’re used to wearing, but you can’t very well go about barefoot, and they were fresh out of fine ladies’ slippers.” A mocking smile ruined the moment, as if he viewed her as nothing but a spoiled rich society snob. That shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

Sadness and gratitude jumbled inside her, but she turned it into hauteur. She held them out from her as if she thought them filthy. “I never thought I’d be this desperate. Where did you get them?”

“The innkeeper sold them to me. Her daughter had outgrown them. They look bad, but the soles seem to be intact.” He flipped one of them over to show a thick sole, worn smooth. “And she gave me some strips of cloth we can use for bandages, as well as a pair of stockings. Here.” He held up a pair of long cotton stockings, the kind men wore with knee breeches, and strips of linen. “I’ll help you. Sit.” He gestured to the nearest chair.

His unexpected offer of aid disarmed her. Without arguing, she sat. He knelt in front of her, picked up one of her feet by the ankle, and propped it on his knees. Using one of the strips, he wrapped it snugly around her foot, using a firm touch. He never lingered on her skin, yet each brush of his fingertips sent little paths of pleasure and warmth racing up her legs. His touch really should not be so pleasant. She ought to stop him. If she were sensible, she would pull away and bandage her own feet. Instead, she sat immobile, reveling in the delicious and unprecedented experience of a man taking care of her.

Once finished, he tied it off securely. Then he gathered up the top of the stocking with practiced ease, slid it over her toes, and eased it up her leg. Though not completely improper, the intimate contact sent shockwaves straight up into her core. Still, she made no move to stop him. Fascinated, she watched his large hands, noting every muscle, every callous, every scar. How such strong, rough-looking hands produced such a sensuously gentle touch, she could not explain. Again, a gold ring winked from a finger on his right hand, piquing her curiosity.

He tied the garter strings and eyed her. “How does that feel?”

She put a hand over her stomach as if evidence of his effect on her might be visible. “Fine,” she croaked.

“Not too tight?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. If she dared speak, she might beg him to touch her again.

He repeated the process on her other foot while Margaret dissolved into the consistency of lemon curd. Who might have guessed having her feet wrapped, and a pair of stockings placed on her would make her nearly swoon?

The head wound. Surely it was the head wound. Why else would she sit like a witless schoolgirl caught in the snares of a worldly man? Not to mention, it all too closely resembled her naïve and disastrous reaction to Hennessy.

When he finished with her feet, he took up one of the shoes and slid it onto her foot still propped on his knee, maneuvering it carefully, clearly trying to avoid rubbing it against the wounded soles of her feet and aggravating her injuries.

She stared at his wildly handsome face, his thick lowered lashes hiding his eyes, his strong jaw and chin. But most of all, she stared at his mouth, fixed in concentration and yet with lips that seemed designed for kissing. Handsome, confident men like him always seemed to be surrounded by hordes of women and girls competing for their attention. Was he a libertine like Hennessy? That Jackson had not attempted to seduce her could mean many things. Perhaps he never mixed work with pleasure. Or he refrained because he respected her brothers. Perhaps he already had a wife or a ladybird and was faithful to her—she almost laughed at the thought. Few men of her acquaintance seemed capable of that. Of course, Jackson might be keeping his distance because he found her undesirable.

A decade and a half ago, she’d been confident in her appeal. Toasted as a diamond of the first water, hailed as the Season’s brightest sensation, proclaimed an Incomparable, she’d never doubted her beauty.

Now? Now, she was a bitter woman of three and thirty whose husband had viewed her as a good match but not the love of his life and had promptly ignored her in favor of women with more… well, who knew what Hennessy saw in those women, except that they clearly offered something Margaret could not.

Old fears that she was utterly unlovable returned, pricking her eyes until they burned with tears.

“Are you in pain?” Jackson’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She attempted a brave smile. “No, merely woolgathering.” A tear worked its way out. Quickly, she dashed it aside.

He watched her steadily. “You can tell me.”