“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice laced with concern as he seated himself beside her.
As if she had been trampled by an omnibus. And then hit by a train.
“Perfectly well,” she lied.
“Pippa, this cannot continue.”
“Mrs. Shaw,” she had the brief clarity to remind him.
He stiffened, the only sign her correction nettled him. But that hardly mattered, for vexing the Duke of Northwich was not her intent. Putting some much-needed distance between herself and him was, however.
“Mrs. Shaw,” he repeated. “You need to be examined by a physician.”
“And he shall tell me I was hit over the head,” she countered.
“Where were you struck?” he asked next, ignoring her.
“The back of my head.”
He reached for her, and she flinched away.
Then he frowned. “Damn it, hold still lest you do yourself more harm. I merely wish to see if you are bleeding.”
“You are not a physician, Northwich.”
She scooted to the end of the chaise longue and nearly fell off it.
He caught her in time, hauling her into his side. “Christ, woman. You need a keeper.”
Of course he would think so. But he was wrong.
“I have been keeping myself well enough.”
He raised a slashing, midnight brow. “Forgive me, Mrs. Shaw, but it hardly seems as if you have from where I sit.”
How to argue the point? He was not wrong, and yet, she felt it imperative that she not allow him to tell her what she should and should not do.
Curse George for the lies he had told and the decisions he had made and the scurrilous company he had kept. Curse him for ruining lives and hurting people she cared about and who knew how many others. Curse him for putting their daughter in danger. For leaving Pippa with this inextricable mess.
“I was doing quite well until you involved yourself in my affairs,” she pointed out, also correctly. “It seems to me that if I had not contacted Scotland Yard, no one would have even been aware George had been keeping potentially damning evidence here.”
“The timing is suspect. I could not agree more. However, there remains the problem of your safety, and that of your daughter, which cannot be ignored. You are not staying in this home a moment longer.”
It was not a question, but a pronouncement. His voice was clipped and demanding. Ducal.
But she was not his to order about. He may have suggested they marry in passing several days ago, and he may have offered for her hand several years ago, but he was most certainly not her betrothed. Indeed, he was not heranything.
And now, all he was managing to achieve was making her dreadful megrim worse. “You are being silly, Northwich. It is my home.”
If only it felt that way. In truth, she was beginning to think her home was not a haven at all. But rather, an invitation for vipers.
Northwich remained impassive, his countenance hewn of stone. “You are not safe here.”
“I am.” But her protest was weak, even to her own ears. Because she did not believe it. Nor did she feel particularly safe.
“You will come to my home this evening,” he said. “Or I will stay here with you. The choice is yours.”
“That is hardly a choice. You know I cannot stay at your home, and neither can you spend the night here.”
