And in truth, he hadn’t truly thought. He had been an automaton, bringing her to where she would be safest. To the place where she would ultimately belong in just a few short weeks’ time. If it was odd that he had unerringly carried her to the chambers adjoining his, he didn’t wish to dwell on that just now.
“This will bring gossip,” his mother predicted with a pinched expression before muttering beneath her breath, “and aHarringtongirl, of all things. How could you have been so reckless, Bainbridge? After all that this family has endured?”
Dear God. His mother was incapable of comprehending the concept ofsotto voce. He knew that she didn’t just speak of his impetuousness in bringing Lady Boadicea to the duchess’ suite but in touching her that first day. And it was simple: he had no explanation. None. Lady Boadicea Harrington wreaked havoc upon his body, mind, and soul.
Lady Thornton, of course, heard every word his mother spoke. She stiffened, her expression hardening with disapproval. “Your Grace, I am a Harrington girl as well, and proud to be so. Your choice of words insults me and my sister both, and I’ll not stand for it as she lies in the adjacent chamber, perhaps grievously injured from her fall.”
His mother raised a brow. “Indeed. We must all be proud of something, must we not? Even the lowest among us must find something with which to be satisfied. I daresay even the scullery maid can. There cannot be insult in truth, can there? And as for Lady Boadicea’s injuries, from what I understand, she brought them on herself by behaving the hoyden.”
He gritted his teeth. Where the hell was Martindale? He feared he would need to intervene to keep the Marchioness of Thornton from delivering his mother the slap she so richly deserved.
Who to defend, his mother or his betrothed? Both were in the wrong. One had birthed him. One he didn’t know what the devil to do with. Here in this stuffy chamber—interminably small, abominably decorated—he felt as if his clothing had all grown too tight. Particularly his neck cloth. Discord and confrontation tended to affect him that way, making his temples pound, his head swim, and his heart thump, ever since Millicent’s death.
But he could not, would not, think of that now. Not in this moment, with worry for Lady Boadicea eating him alive and three sets of eyes watching him as though he may be a candidate for the nearest lunatic asylum. He made his choice in the next instant.
“Mother,” he said with care, “you pay Lady Boadicea a grave disservice. Apologize at once for the insult.”
His mother stared, brows flying to her hairline, forehead creasing with a series of deep grooves wrought by age and judgmental living. “Your Grace?”
And well she should gawp at him, for he could not honestly recall the last time he had ever opposed her. Perhaps, he thought, he should have been more firm with her. He certainly ought to have made her aware of her place as the dowager. He was the duke, a man grown. She did not rule him. Rather, her future rested in his hands. Why had he never realized as much before this moment?
He met her gaze, hands clasped behind his back, and stopped his pacing so that she could receive the full brunt of his censure. “You will apologize for calling Lady Boadicea a hoyden,” he elaborated, even if a part of him could agree with her blistering assessment.
His betrothed was wild and improper, a true hellion, and he little knew how to cope with such inhibition. But cope with it he must, for she washishellion now, and for some odd reason, the thought of her laid low, possibly hurt far worse than her stubborn nature allowed her to realize, left his chest with a searing ache and his gut with a hard knot of worry.
“Bainbridge,” his mother exclaimed then, as if he had wounded her.
He drew no quarter, for his mother had overstepped her bounds. While his betrothal to Lady Boadicea had been sudden and forced, and while she was as manageable as a wildfire, she was still the future Duchess of Bainbridge. His wife.His, full stop. And for the first time, that knowledge sank into him, imbuing him with a new sense of possessiveness. No one could insult Lady Boadicea now. Not even his mother. “You will apologize, madam.”
His mother’s nostrils flared, the only sign of her pique. “Forgive me, Duke, Lord Thornton, Lady Thornton. I did not intend to insult Bainbridge’s bride.”
As apologies went, it was tepid at best. Insincere at worst. But the dowager was saved when the door to the duchess’s chamber opened, revealing the bespectacled Dr. Martindale with his shock of fiery red hair, carrying his physician’s satchel.
Spencer forgot about his mother’s apology. Forgot about everything that wasn’t Lady Boadicea. “How is she, Doctor?”
The doctor blinked, but if he was taken aback by the vehemence of a man who was not yet wed to the patient he’d just seen, Dr. Martindale didn’t dare reveal it. “Lady Boadicea is fortunate. The fall appears to have rattled her, but will leave her with no permanent damage. Naturally, a fall from a horse at that speed could have resulted in grievous injuries. However, all she requires is some rest, and I daresay she will be right as rain in a few days’ time.”
Relief hit him like a fist to the gut. He almost doubled over, so tremendous was the force of it. “Thank you, Dr. Martindale.”
“Rest is paramount, however, to recovery,” the doctor cautioned. “Lady Boadicea ought not to overtax herself, whether by merriment or other means. I understand that you have a great deal of festivities planned, and I urge caution in her participation.”
The doctor’s vagaries didn’t do enough to satisfy Spencer’s worries. “Did she strike her head, Doctor?”
Dr. Martindale shook his head. “I was unable to find any evidence, Your Grace. Likewise, her ladyship advised that she did not recall such an impact. In my opinion, Lady Boadicea will recover nicely if forced to indulge my strict orders.”
Strict orders. Nothing in the English language sounded less suited to Lady Boadicea Harrington. Spencer grimaced. “Your orders being?”
“Rest above all else.” A cautious smile flitted over Dr. Martindale’s countenance. “When is the house party at an end?”
“Four days hence,” he clipped.
“Ah, yes.” The physician stabbed at his spectacles with his index finger, shoving them over the bridge of his nose. “I recommend that her ladyship disengage from the remainder of the house party. Several days of rest will be just the thing for a full recovery. Fortunately, you have the rest of your lives ahead of you, and this temporary withdrawal will be a trifling matter in the grand scheme of all your days.”
Days of Lady Boadicea cooped up in her chamber. Or, to be precise, cooped up in the duchess’s chamber, the chamber adjoined to his. For he daren’t move her now. She was an invalid. Wasn’t that true? How could it be anything but proper to place her where she belonged? Spencer’s mouth went dry. Dear God. He would secure himself another chamber. At once.
“Thank you, Dr. Martindale.” He took a deep inhalation in an attempt to corral his thoughts. “Your expertise is most appreciated.”
The doctor took his bow and left.
