Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal: In Bed with the Duke / A Mistress for Major Bartlett. ANNIE BURROWS
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pounding, and sweat breaking out on his forehead, he breached all the barriers he’d sworn he would stay rigidly behind. And looked at her naked toes.
‘Good God!’
Her feet—the very ones he’d been getting into such a lather about—were rubbed raw in several places. Bleeding. Oozing. He dropped to his knees. Stretched out a penitent hand.
‘Don’t touch them!’
He whipped his hand back.
‘No, no, of course I won’t. They must be agonisingly painful.’ Yet she hadn’t uttered one word of complaint. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were getting blisters, you foolish woman?’
‘Because...because...’ She covered her face with her hands and moaned. ‘I was too proud,’ she muttered from behind her fingers. ‘It was my idea to walk wherever it is we are going. When I haven’t walked further than a mile or so since I was sent to England. And I boasted about being young and healthy. And I taunted you for not thinking of it. So how could I admit I wasn’t coping?’
‘Prudence,’ he said gently, immediately forgetting his earlier vow to address her only as Miss Carstairs, and removing her hands so that he could look into her woebegone little face. ‘You would have struggled to get this far even if you’d had stockings to cushion your skin. Those shoes weren’t designed for walking across rough ground. It would have been different if you had been wearing stout boots and thick stockings, but you weren’t. You should have said something sooner. We could have...’
‘What? What could we possibly have done?’
He lowered his gaze to her poor abused feet again. And sucked in a sharp breath. ‘I don’t know, precisely. I...’ It seemed as good a time as any to explain about the stocking she’d found in his pocket. ‘If I’d had both your stockings I could have given them to you. But I didn’t. There was only the one this morning...’
She looked up at him as though she had no idea what he was talking about. He’d been trying to explain that he wasn’t the kind of man who kept women’s underthings about his person as some kind of trophy. It made him even more aware of the immense gulf separating them. Of his vast experience compared to her complete innocence.
Though not the kind of experience that would be of any use to her now. He had no experience of nursing anyone’s blisters. Of nursing anyone for any ailment. ‘They probably need ointment, or something,’ he mused.
‘Do you have any ointment?’ she asked dryly. ‘No, of course you don’t.’
‘We could at least bathe them,’ he said, suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘There was a stream in the dip between this field and the next. I noticed it before, and thought it would come in handy for drinking water. But if it is cool that might be soothing, might it not?’
‘I am not going to walk another step,’ she said in a voice that was half-sob. ‘Not even if the stream is running with ice-cold lemonade and the banks are decked with bowls of ointment and dishes of strawberries.’
He took her meaning. She was not only exhausted and in pain, but hungry, too.
‘I will go,’ he said.
‘And fetch water how?’
He put his hand to his neck. ‘My neckcloth. I can soak it in the water. Tear it in half,’ he said, ripping it from his throat. ‘Half for each foot.’
She shook her head. ‘No. If you’re going to rip your neckcloth in two, I’d much rather we used the halves to wrap round my feet tomorrow. To stop my shoes rubbing these sores even worse.’
She was so practical. So damned practical. He should have thought of that.
‘I have another neckcloth in my valise,’ he retorted. See? He could be practical, too. ‘And a shirt.’ Though it was blood-spattered and sweat-soaked from his exploits at Wragley’s. He shook his head. How he detested not having clean linen every day. ‘Plenty of things we can tear up to bind your feet.’
As well as her stays.
He swallowed.
‘Why on earth didn’t you say so earlier?’
‘I would have done if only you’d admitted you were having problems with your shoes. I could have bound your feet miles ago, and then they wouldn’t have ended up in that state,’ he snapped, furious that she’d been hurt so badly and he hadn’t even noticed when he was supposed to be protecting her.
Though how was he to have guessed, when she hadn’t said a word? She had to be the most provoking female it had ever been his misfortune to encounter.
‘You weren’t even limping,’ he said accusingly.
‘Well, both feet hurt equally badly. So it was hard to choose which one to favour.’
‘Prudence!’ He gazed for a moment into her brave, tortured little face. And then found himself pulling her into his arms and hugging her.
Hugging her? When had he ever wanted to hug anyone? Male or female?
Never. He wasn’t the kind of man who went in for hugging.
But people gained comfort from hugging, so he’d heard. And since he couldn’t strangle her, nor ease his frustration the only other way that occurred to him, he supposed hugging was the sensible, middling course to take. At least he could get his hands on her without either killing or debauching her.
Perhaps there was something to be said for hugging after all.
* * *
Prudence let her head fall wearily against his chest. Just for a moment she could let him take her weight, and with it all her woes—couldn’t she? Where was the harm in that?
‘You’ve been so brave,’ he murmured into her hair.
‘No, not brave,’ she protested into his shirtfront. ‘Stubborn and proud is what I’ve been. And stupid. And impractical—’
‘No! I won’t have you berate yourself this way. You may be a touch proud, but you are most definitely the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know anyone who would have gone through what you have today without uttering a word of complaint.’
‘But—’
‘No. Listen to me. If anyone is guilty of being stupidly proud it is I. I should have swallowed my pride at the outset and pawned the watch. I should have done everything in my power to liberate that horse and gig from the stable so you wouldn’t have to walk. I will never forgive myself for putting you through this.’
‘It isn’t your fault.’
‘Yes, it is. Oh, good grief—this isn’t a contest, Prudence! Stop trying to outdo me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. Even when I admit to a fault,’ he said, as though it was an immense concession to admit any such thing, ‘you have to insist your fault is greater.’
‘But I feel at fault,’ she confessed.
It was easy to maintain her pride when he was being grumpy and aloof, but so much harder when he was trying to be kind.
‘It was my fault you lost all your money.’ She’d known it from the start, but had been so angry when he hadn’t scrupled to accuse her of carelessness that she’d refused to admit it. ‘It was my fault you got into this...this escapade at all. If my aunt and her new husband, whom I refuse to call my uncle, hadn’t decided to steal my inheritance...or if you hadn’t had a room up on our landing...’
‘Then we would never have met,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’m glad we have met, Miss Prudence Carstairs.’
Her heart performed a somersault inside her ribcage. She became very aware of his arms enfolding her with such strength, and yet such gentleness. Remembered that he’d put them round her of his own volition.