A Wife Worth Investing In. Marguerite Kaye
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she had, then why was she here? Her family lived in England, he recalled. It could be that she was visiting, and on a whim had decided to look him up. But why hadn’t she written to ask if she could call, if that was the case? And why call at such an early hour? In the old days, he’d have been up since dawn, would have gone for a ride or a run with Jasper while the roads were quiet, or he’d have had a fencing lesson, a shooting lesson, put in some time sparring or at the gymnasium. He could barely recall those days now. When he did, it was as if it was a dream, as if it had all happened to a different person.
Which it had. He was utterly changed in every way. His accident had destroyed him physically. He had battled back for a while, regaining some measure of mobility, but the slough of despond he was sinking into of late was like a pool of black tar, slowly smothering him. His world was muffled, devoid of any feeling, and not even on his best days, when he could just about recognise the importance of not throwing in the towel, did he feel any inclination to take action. He couldn’t possibly let Miss Brannagh see him in this sorry and broken state.
Though he wanted to see her. Hearing about her success might just act as a balm for his malaise. It was a ridiculous notion, to imagine that her triumph could offset his disaster, but it might, it just might make him feel a tiny bit better, even give him the kick up the backside he required. And if he didn’t see her, he’d always wonder, wouldn’t he, what had become of her?
‘Wait,’ he called to Bremner, who hadn’t in fact moved. ‘Have her shown to the breakfast parlour. Light the fire there, and in the morning room. Offer her tea. Food. She likes food. Offer her breakfast. Tell her I will join her presently. I need a bath.’
His butler rushed to do his bidding, failing to hide his astonishment, for visitors, Miss Braidwood’s dutiful calls aside, were unheard of these days. Owen slumped back on his pillows, already having to fight the urge to change his mind. It hadn’t been one of his better weeks. He’d barely crawled out of bed since that last depressing visit from Olivia. He rubbed his jaw, averting his eyes from his un-gloved hands. He needed a shave. He was going to have to work a minor miracle to make himself look even halfway respectable.
Pushing back the bedclothes, Owen placed his feet gingerly on the ground, gritting his teeth as the familiar searing pain shot through his right leg. He had abandoned the exercises prescribed by his doctors. The regime had succeeded to a point, but he’d long ago hit a plateau. He’d been an athlete once. Those simple, tedious stretches, which were the limit of what his doctors thought he could manage, reminded him that he never would be again.
Dammit, he was not using his stick. It was always worst first thing, he simply had to endure it. He took a faltering step, cursing the grinding pain in his hip, forcing another step and another, slowly making his way to the new bathing room he’d had installed, locking the door securely behind him. It was an unnecessary act, as he had no valet, and all the household knew not to intrude on him on pain of death, but it made him feel better all the same.
* * *
The breakfast served to her was good plain fare, but though she had not eaten properly for days, Phoebe could only manage a few desultory forkfuls of eggs and ham. She drank an entire pot of tea though. Tea didn’t taste the same in Paris, somehow. The different water probably accounted for it. She was gratefully accepting a boiling kettle to brew a fresh pot and wondering what could be keeping Mr Harrington, and why on earth he did not receive visitors, when the door to the breakfast parlour opened and he finally appeared.
She was so shocked that for a moment she couldn’t move from her place at the table. He looked as if he had aged ten years. His hair had darkened, he wore it considerably longer than before, and he had lost a good deal of weight. Lines were etched between his nose and his mouth, and more lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, which were darkly shadowed. Nature had given him excellent bones, and the loss of weight, instead of making him look gaunt, drew attention to his razor-sharp cheekbones, and to the clean lines of his jaw. He was still a very handsome man, but missing the ready smile and easy charm that had previously complemented his looks, the impression he now gave was forbidding, almost intimidating.
Belatedly, Phoebe got to her feet, making her way to the door where Mr Harrington remained stationery. ‘Good morning. I’m so sorry to intrude on you so early.’ Her smile faltered. ‘I wasn’t even sure that you’d remember me, until your butler offered me breakfast, which he wouldn’t have done if I was a complete stranger.’
‘Miss Brannagh, I have never forgotten that night, or you.’ Her host sketched a bow. ‘Please, finish eating.’
‘I have done, thank you, but I am happy to sit while you partake.’
‘I have ordered coffee, that will suffice for me.’
She had preceded him back to the table. Only as she resumed her seat did she notice his pronounced limp and the spasm of pain that crossed his face as he put his right foot down. ‘You’re hurt. Here, let me...’
He yanked a chair out and sat down heavily. ‘Thank you, but I prefer to manage for myself.’
The stern butler arrived bearing a silver pot of coffee, which he poured immediately before leaving them alone, and which Mr Harrington drank back in a single gulp, without bothering to add either sugar or cream. He was wearing gloves. Tan gloves, tightly fitted, so she hadn’t noticed them at first.
‘Would you like some ham? Eggs?’ Phoebe said, making a conscious effort not to stare.
He poured himself a second cup, this time taking a smaller sip. ‘Thank you, no. I find I do not have much of an appetite these days.’ He eyed her half-empty plate. ‘Not up to your exacting standards, Miss Brannagh?’
‘I’m not very hungry either.’
His complexion was pale. The man she remembered had been glowing with health. This man looked careworn, the lines on his face, she deduced, carved by pain.
‘You look shocked. Aren’t you going to ask what happened to me?’
‘I get the strong impression you’d much prefer that I didn’t.’
He drained his cup. ‘I had an accident. My recuperation has been prolonged. As you can see for yourself, I am not the man I once was. And that is all there is to be said.’
Or at least, all that he would say. He wanted neither pity nor curiosity, that much was clear. Phoebe bit back her questions, opting instead for frankness. ‘As you have no doubt deduced from my appearance at your door at this most unfashionable hour Mr Harrington, my circumstances have also changed since we last met.’
‘Really?’ He pushed his saucer to one side, wincing as he shifted in his chair to stretch his leg out, before turning his attention back to her, his frown deepening as he did so. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I can see that you are different. It is as if the light has gone out of you. You can have no idea how sorry I am to see that. I had hoped that at least one of us would have been toasting their success in August.’
‘You remembered!’
‘Of course I did, and would have been there if it had been humanly possible, but as you can see, I’m in no condition to travel to the other side of the street, far less Paris.’
‘I went,’ Phoebe admitted sheepishly. ‘To the Procope. I hoped—’ She broke off, colouring.
‘You hoped as I did, that at least one of us would have something to toast. I take it then, that you do not?’
‘No.’
‘What happened?’
The sheer magnitude of recent events threatened to overwhelm her. She could not possibly ask him for help, not when he was so obviously enduring his own private hell. Phoebe got to her feet. ‘I wish you well with your recovery, but I really shouldn’t intrude any longer.’
‘Miss Brannagh, please wait.’
She was at the door, about to open it when a crash and a shouted oath made her whirl around. Mr Harrington was on his feet, but only just, clutching