Marrying His Cinderella Countess. Louise Allen
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at one of the new gas lamp posts along Pall Mall.
‘I am quite all right, Miss Lytton, it is merely a scratch. I must talk to you.’ The Earl of Hainford, standing dripping blood on her doorstep, looked like a man contemplating his own execution, not a shockingly early social visit.
He was going to fall flat on his face in a moment, and then she would never be able to lift him. Worry made her abrupt.
‘Nonsense. Come in.’
This time when she grabbed his arm he let himself be pulled unresisting over the threshold. She shouldered the door closed and guided him down the hallway, trying not to let her limping pace jar him.
‘Here we are. If you sit on that upright chair over there it will be easiest.’
He went willingly enough when she pushed him into the drawing room, and she realised as he blinked at her that he was very tired as well as wounded, and possibly rather drunk. Or in the grip of a hangover.
‘You are Miss Lytton?’
No, not drunk. He sounded perfectly sober.
Something fell from her hair as she put her head on one side to look more closely at him and she caught at it. Not a hairpin, but the quill she had misplaced that morning.
‘Yes, I am Eleanor Lytton. Forgive my appearance, please. I was working.’
And why am I apologising for my old clothes and ink blots? This man turns up at a ridiculously early hour, interrupts my writing, bleeds on the best carpet... So much for fantasy. The reality of men never matches it.
‘Please wait here. I will fetch water and bandages.’
The Earl had extracted himself from his coat by the time she got back. The state it was in as it lay on the carpet was probably not improved by her spilling water on it in agitation as he began to wrestle with his shirt.
He is wounded, she reminded herself. This is not the moment to be missish about touching a man’s garments, let alone a man.
‘Let me help.’
It was probably an indication of the state he was in that he sat down abruptly and allowed her to pull the shirt over his head. She took a sharp breath at the sight of the furrow in his flesh that came from below the waistband of his breeches at the front and angled up over his ribs to just below his armpit on the right-hand side. It was not deep, but it was bleeding sluggishly and looked exceedingly sore as it cut across the firmly muscled torso.
Ellie dropped the shirt, then picked it up again and shook it out, pulling the fabric tight as she held it up to the light.
‘That is a bullet wound in your side.’ She had never seen one before, but what else could make a hole like that?
He nodded, hissing between his teeth as he explored the raw track with his fingertips.
‘But there is no hole in your shirt. And the wound starts below the waistband of your equally undamaged breeches. You were shot when you were naked?’
Hainford looked at her, his eyebrows raised, presumably in shock at a lady saying breeches and naked without fainting. ‘Yes. Could you pass me some of that bandage and then perhaps leave the room so I can deal with this?’
He gestured downwards. The bullet must have grazed his hip bone, and the chafing of his evening breeches, even if they were knitted silk, must be exceedingly painful. He would certainly need to take them off to dress the wound. There was already far too much of the Earl of Hainford on display, and she realised she was staring in appalled curiosity at the way the light furring of dark hair on his chest arrowed down and...
‘Here.’ Ellie pushed both basin and bandages towards him. ‘Call me when you are decent—I mean, ready—and I will bring you a clean shirt.’
She was not afraid of the sight of blood, but she had absolutely no desire to get any closer to that bared body, let alone touch it, even though as a budding novelist she ought to know about such matters. Writing about them was one thing, and fantasising was another, but experiencing them in real life...
No.
She closed the door behind her and leaned back against the panels while she got her breathing under some kind of control. The man she had glimpsed a few times with Francis—the one who had become the hero of her future novel and the disturber of her rest—was in her drawing room. Correction: was half-naked and injured in her drawing room.
How had he been shot like that? By a cuckolded husband catching him in flagrante with his wife, presumably. She could think of no other reason for a man to be wounded while naked. If it had been an accident in his own home his servants would have come to his aid.
She could visualise the scene quite clearly. A screaming female on the bed, rumpled sheets, Lord Hainford scrambling bare-limbed from the midst of the bedding—her imagination skittered around too much detail—the infuriated husband brandishing a pistol. How very disillusioning. One did not expect to have one’s fantasy arrive on the doorstep in reality, very much in the flesh, and prove to be so sordidly fallible. Her desert lord was, in reality, a hung-over adulterer.
And, naturally, life being what it was, fantasies did not have the tact and good timing to arrive when one was looking one’s best. Not, she admitted, pulling a rueful face at her reflection in the hall mirror, that her best was much to write home about, and nor did she actually want to attract such a man. Not in real life.
Ellie had few illusions. After all, at the age of twenty-five she had been told often enough that she was plain, gawky and ‘difficult’ to recognise it was the truth. And now she was lame as well. A disappointment to everyone, given how attractive Mama had been, with her dark brown hair and petite, fragile appearance. Ellie took after her father’s side of the family, people would tell her with a pitying sigh.
Her best gown was three seasons old and she had re-trimmed her bonnets to the point where they were more added ribbons and flowers than original straw. Her annual allowance, such as it was, went on paper, ink and library subscriptions, and her earnings from Messrs Broderick & Alleyn seemed to be swallowed up in the housekeeping.
None of which mattered, of course, because she was not out in Society, lived most of her life in her head, and had a circle of friends and acquaintances that encompassed a number of like-minded and similarly dressed women, the vicar and several librarians. Giving up the social struggle was restful...being invisible was safe.
It was Francis who had the social life, and a much larger allowance—most of which went, so far as she could tell, on club memberships, his bootmaker and attempting to emulate his hero, Lord Hainford, in all matters of dress and entertainment.
She did not enquire any more deeply about just what that ‘entertainment’ involved.
At which point in her musings the door she was leaning on opened and she staggered backwards, landing with a thud against the bare chest of the nobleman in question.
He gave a muffled yelp of pain as Ellie twisted round, made a grab for balance and found herself with one hand on his shoulder and one palm flat on his chest, making the interesting discovery that a man’s nipples tightened into hard nubs when touched.
She recoiled back into the doorway, hands behind her back. ‘I will fetch you a shirt.’
‘Thank you, but there is no need. I will put mine back on. Please, listen to me, Miss Lytton, I need to talk to you—’
‘With a shirt on. And not one covered in blood,’ she snapped, furious with someone. Herself, presumably.
As she negotiated the stairs to Francis’s bedchamber she wondered what on earth Lord Hainford could want to talk to her about. An apology was certainly due for arriving in this state, although probably he had expected Francis to be at home—not to have the door opened by some idiot female who was reduced to dithering incompetence by the sight of a muscular chest.
She snatched a shirt out of the drawer and went back down again. Hainford got to his feet as she came in, the