Lucy cast a desperate glance Arran’s way.
“Given Campbell’s condition,” the gentleman said coolly, “Lucy is certainly too worried to sit and indulge in stories about her betrothed.”
She should be relieved. She should be relieved and not strangely—and profoundly—disappointed by his rejection.
After all, she was well accustomed to her averageness.
She’d been eager to leave before. She was desperate to do so now.
Avoiding the gentleman’s gaze, and strangely hurt at his rejection, Lucy slid her glance back to the earl. “As much as I am grateful to each of you for welcoming me into your fold,” she murmured. “My family is waiting for me, my lord.”
That much was true.
“Nonsense, lass! Lady Abington already sent your kindly servants word that you are staying the night.”
The pair he took for kindly servants were in fact her only remaining family left. And she was as much a kindly servant, though even that was in question now, given the fact The Spotted Elk had gotten Campbell Smith injured right good.
Hell. She was in a hell of her own making. Sent by the good Lord himself, to punish her for her lie of omission.
Keenly aware of the pair of McQuoid gentlemen watching her—one bemused, one the taller, cryptic gentleman—Lucy considered her options.
She arrived at one. The only thing to do.
Hide.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said softly. “I find myself…” Needing to hide. “Tired from the day’s events.”
At long last, the Earl of Abington took the not so subtly dropped clue. “Go rest, lass.”
Saints be praised! She didn’t have to face them.
Her reprieve and relief proved short-lived. “We will see you for dinner, Lucy.”
Lucy closed her eyes. There was no escape anywhere. This is what she got for not correcting their confusion.
The older gentleman’s warm eyes filled with compassion.
Taking Lucy’s callous, work-rough hand in his soft, unblemished nobleman’s one, he gave her fingers a gentle pat. “I more than understand your worry, lass. We have a surgeon. A very good one. In fact, we have three here. On account one of my lasses is expecting and her husband insists on no fewer than three doctors being present—”
Lucy struggled to keep up. At some point, she lost hold of whatever it was he was saying.
“…insisted on six at first, but a compromise was reached that the other three would be mid—”
“Father,” Arran interjected in firm tones, his gaze stuck on Lucy. “Lucy has been through a great deal this day. It would be best if we allowed her to rest.”
Lucy barely heard his words. Just enough to know he sought to end their meeting.
Good. She wanted it over even more. His bright blue eyes pierced. They were the kind that could pry a young woman’s secrets from her lips. They were eyes that saw too much.
“Yes, yes, of course!” The earl consulted his time piece. “I had the same thought myself, I did. It will do the lass good to have herself a proper rest.”
When Lord Abington took a breath and prepared to launch into more words, Arran held out his elbow.
“Good evening, Father. I will escort Lucy back to her rooms.”
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, sinking into another curtsy. No matter how much he or any of his gracious family might insist, curtsying to her betters was as much part of the fabric of her identity as her name.
Lucy took that lifeline from the most unlikely of places. The instant her fingertips touched his sleeve, there came a spark, like the moment she stepped out of bed and her bare feet got a little shock from the fading, painted floorcloth.
