Page 9 of A Desperate Proposal

Chapter Four

Merfield House, Somerset. May 14, 1814

She didn’t have a broken ankle, but a very bad sprain turned out to be almost as inconvenient. So long as she didn’t move, it didn’t hurt. Much. But there were still the matters of endless cold-water baths, vinegar soaks and applications of Mrs. Daniels’ poultice—the stench of which was enough to make one honestly consider amputation. At least Dr. Moreland had not insisted she have an audience to watch her faint when he bled her leg.

Unfortunately, Dr. Moreland was less accommodating in his orders. He insisted that she was not to bear any weight on her ankle for at least a week—possibly two, heaven forbid—and no amount of protest moved him. All her pleas had earned was a stern lecture on the nature of musculature, which she hoped never to sit through again, and a command to take an extra dose of his renowned medicinal cordial. It tasted like cherry poison and half the contents of her uncle’s liquor cabinet thrown together. But it did render her blissfully unconscious or entirely muzzy-headed for several hours.

On hearing the prognosis, Lady Summersby set her servants to converting the smaller sitting room into a temporary sickroom. A mad scheme, surely, but one her hostess would hear nothing against. “You won’t get nearly enough sunshine up in the stuffy bedchamber! And what if the footman carrying you fell on the stairs? What would your aunt say? What would we— No, no! I won’t hear of it. You’ll stay here!”

The housekeeper, almost as appalled by this as Elinor, appealed to Lord Summersby. But one look at his wife’s anxious face had shut the storied general’s mouth. He’d only shrugged and said, “Whatever you think best, love.” Then retreated to his study and closed the doors.

When Elinor had objected, she was told to keep quiet, the better to focus upon rest and recovery. She’d tried not to feel too guilty as the servants huffed and puffed, lugging furniture about and assembling a surprisingly comfortable bed complete with lovely green curtains, the frame of which had been pulled out of a box while she watched. It took her longer than it should to realize she’d probably been loaned one of the general’s own campaign beds. She blamed Dr. Moreland’s cordial for her lack of comprehension.

The bed proved quite comfortable, and truthfully so did the sitting room itself. But perhaps that was the cordial as well, for she fell into a deep slumber and did not awaken until Arabella’s maid, Hannah, shook her awake the next morning and helped her sit up to take a small breakfast and a fresh application of ointment before her cousin and Lady Summersby came down to sit with her. Her morning proved pleasant enough afterward, for she’d at last made significant progress on the sampler for Henry—despite a small dose of the hateful medicine—but as the morning drew to a close and Arabella and Lady Summersby went off to speak with the servants and gamekeepers, she found restlessness creeping up on her.

Lady Summersby’s ball was only a little more than two weeks away, and the thought that she could be doing more to help kept intruding. Had not Lady Summersby called her and Arabella here specifically to help ease her burdens? Even if the ball was to be a small one, as Lady Summersby and Arabella had repeatedly reminded her all morning, should she not be doing something? Especially since, according to Arabella, there was expected to be a fair turnout, despite half of England being in London for the season. Even Mary and Lord Dalton were to make the journey to Merfield House.

Henry will be with them.

She wanted him to see how capable of an assistant she could be! To be able to point out to him all the small details that she had worked on with her own hand. She reached for the gold cross that hung like a weight around her neck and stared out the tall, sashed window across the emerald green of Merfield’s grounds. She should be happy—ecstatic even—to see Henry after so long a separation, but cold guilt and dread gnawed at her chest. She didn’t understand why, and she felt terribly nervous that she could not force herself to feel anything else.

Well… That’s not exactly true, is it?

She couldn’t stop thinking about her meeting with Lord Asherton. She was mortified at having taken such a spill in front of him, but she found some comfort in Arabella’s reminder that at least she’d not tumbled to the ground or torn her clothes in any unseemly manner. Yet, that wasn’t where her mind kept hovering. It settled instead on his eyes, his smile. And her traitorous imagination lingered on his solid, steady arms. His hold had been strong, warm, pulsing with energy and…

Her cheeks burned. Before yesterday, she believed no man could surpass Henry in handsomeness. But Tristan Ruthven—rather, the Earl of Asherton (she must never forget)—proved all things were possible, especially with his fall of midnight hair, bright gold-and-green eyes, and the sharpest features she’d ever seen on a man. He was like some mythical painting come to life. To say nothing of his dizzying height or the way he fit his clothes as if they were a second skin, revealing just how powerful his figure must be… Stop this. You shouldn’t think such things of anyone. Let alone an earl. Be sensible!

Such thoughts must be a betrayal. Though Henry had not declared any intentions, he’d given her the cross. A piece of jewelry was always laden with such intent, especially a cross from a future vicar. He told her it was a reminder to be virtuous, and virtue was always rewarded. Was that not clear? Yet, he’d only written to her once since he departed, and his words were more cautionary than sentimental. But was that not sign of his care and consideration for her?

She knew that her feelings for Henry were not love. Not yet. But there was warmth, which might kindle. Must kindle. He is my only hope of marriage.

Yes, the Earl had been nice. He’d even been heroic. It was the sort of thing she read about in books—the dashing lord coming to the wounded damsel’s aid. Of course, a sprained ankle was not as dire as a highway robbery or kidnapping at the hands of a pirate king. But, in the end, it is all the same fairy story. Especially for a girl with almost no dowry or inheritance.

“Time to stop dreaming, Elinor,” she hissed to herself just as she heard a knock at the entrance and turned to discover her intruder. Her savior. She felt the blood drain from her face. Did he really have to fill the frame like that? He could’ve been an actor on a stage, or a pirate king…

And I must look like a chambermaid. With that realization, she grabbed for the blue shawl draped over the sofa and pulled it about her shoulders as if it could hide her simple brown dress, made over half a dozen times in its long life. This was not the garment a heroine would wear, nor even any ordinary lady fit to talk to an earl in this silk-hung sitting room. “My lord? How lovely to see you! Forgive my state. I fear I’ve not had the time to freshen up.” She hated to think about how her hair must look. She’d worn it down through the night and hadn’t had the patience for Hannah to do much more than gather it into the simplest of buns.

Asherton favored her with another smile. “I believe common sense dictates that fashion somewhat relaxes for the convalescent, Miss Harcourt. Though if the ladies of London knew how well you look without freshening, they’d all refrain from bathing for fortnights at a time. And I do believe the ballrooms would thank you for not setting that trend.”

“Your flattery is … welcome, frankly.” She laughed, adjusting her shawl anyway. “I find I am too tired for modesty just now.” He probably spoke like that to every woman of his acquaintance. No reason to get excited.

He stepped from the doorway, crossing the fine Oriental carpets toward her as easily as if it were a ballroom, and proffered not his hand but a familiar leather-bound volume... Or almost familiar. If she ignored the gold embossed title being utterly wrong when she turned it over. Instead of Much Ado About Nothing, she held A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “I apologize for not returning your book to you yesterday, but with the surgeon and so many servants rearranging the room before his medicine took effect, it seemed a poor time to intrude.”

“The medicine must still be coursing strong.” Elinor traced the title with her finger. “Either the book I was reading is still beneath the gazebo, or the general has managed to purchase a volume capable of altering its contents. I do not believe I’ve read this one.” She lowered it to her lap and traced the title with her finger.

“Is that not the correct one? Blast. My valet must have mixed up the pile on my desk. I shall endeavor to relay the correct one next time.” He settled into the chair beside her couch. “Though I believe you’ll find this one at least more diverting, especially with Dr. Moreland’s famed cordial being applied, as I believe my sister is insisting upon.”

“Indeed.” She watched his movements with more interest than she could excuse, but it was not often she’d seen a man so finely made. When she felt the room start to warm, she forced her attention back to the book and said, “I owe you a great deal of gratitude, Lord Asherton. For all that you did for me last evening.”

“No thanks are required, Miss Harcourt. I could have scarcely abandoned an injured lady to chill and fog until the footmen arrived.”

Why did he have to keep smiling? Why couldn’t he be stuffy and snobbish like an earl was meant to be? Then she might escape that fluttering sensation in her chest. She focused once again on the book in her hand. “Well then, I…” she fought to remember what they were talking about. Oh, yes. Much Ado About Nothing. How apt. “I confess, Claudio was starting to irritate me. I shall welcome the respite from his speeches.”

“I have heard Claudio has that effect on many readers.” He glanced at her leg, still propped up on the couch with a pile of cushions. “So the surgeon is sure of a full recovery?”

Elinor nodded. “At any rate, I hope my ankle may be better before the dance. Your sister seems so excited!”

“Lady Summersby loves few things in life more than dancing. She’ll take any excuse in the world to enjoy a ball. As it seems your cousin Miss Weston does.” His brow rose. “If it were not for your ankle, surely you would be your cousin’s equal in excitement?”