“Certain.” Her smile felt more strained than ever. Almost as painful as the aching in her limb. “Thank you for your concern.”
Absolved of her culpability, and still looking as if she were about to cast up her accounts, Lady Adele apologized once more, before continuing down the hall as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Alone once more, Christabella took a deep breath and strode forward.
The pain in her ankle radiated through her, making her gasp.
Oh, dear.
This was not good.
Not good at all.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed Lady Adele had disappeared from sight. There was no one about to offer her aid. Feeling ill herself, she leaned against the wall, alongside a portrait of one of her sister-in-law, Lady Emilia’s, ancestors. A dour-faced man sporting a ruff and an expression of disapproval. He looked as if he had scented dung, she thought rather unkindly.
Someone ought to have thrown a snowball or two at him. Perhaps he would have smiled for his portrait.
But she needed to attempt another few steps, at least. To find her way to the breakfast table. Her stomach rumbled in agreement at the thought.
Pushing herself away from the wall, she took another step. Then another.
The pain was outrageous. She started hopping on her good foot.
And of course that was when the Duke of Coventry rounded the bend, finding her limping about like a wounded hare.
He stopped where he stood, offering her a formal bow that belied the last time their paths had crossed, during their impromptu snowball fight. He had been laughing, lighthearted. She had chased after him, delighting in the sight of him so free, so joyous.
She felt none of that delight now. Only irritation.
“What are you doing here, Your Grace?” she asked.
Was it not bad enough that he dominated all her thoughts? That he had threatened everything she thought she knew about herself? Now he must also appear when she was wounded?
“Walking to the stables after breaking my fast, of course,” he told her, startling her with his instant response. “Why are you hopping on one foot?”
He had witnessed her ignominy in full, it would seem.
Oh, how wonderful.
Would it have been too much to ask that he pretended she was walking in an ordinary fashion?
“I seem to have twisted my ankle,” she admitted reluctantly. “It is rather tender at the moment, so I was seeking to keep the weight from it.”
“Good God, woman, why did you not say so immediately?” He strode forward, closing the distance between them.
Before she could protest, he had lifted her effortlessly into his strong arms.
And once she was there, she could not recall how to form a single protest anyway. Her arms wound around his neck. Being in his arms was…
She searched her mind for a suitable description.
Shocking. Improper.
Wicked. Delicious.
“You cannot carry me to breakfast in such fashion,” she chastised all the same. “It will be quite the scandal.”
“I can do what I wish,” he argued mulishly.
“You can,” she allowed, trying to ignore the masculine scent of him, along with the urge to kiss his stubborn mouth. “But you should not. Indeed, you must not.”
