He is no better than Arthur, despite his pretty pleas to the contrary.
“Why are you out walking alone?” he asked with a frown. “I would have been happy to accompany you.”
Yes, she had no doubt he would have. He had been vexingly solicitous to her in the days following Lady Anglesey’s banishment from Barlowe Park. He was patient and kind and paid far too much attention to her. Which was why she had been keeping her distance. No woman could maintain her defenses in the face of such a blatant onslaught of charm by a man like the Earl of Anglesey. One smile from him, a silken word, and the emergence of his dimple would likely be all that was required to bring a woman back from the dead.
Dead, yes. She must cling to that grim reminder. For whatever pathetic remnants of her heart Arthur had not crushed to bits, Anglesey had successfully ground to dust. It was cold and dead. Nothing remaining.
“I am walking alone because I wished for solitude,” she said pointedly, remaining where she was, on the edge of a copse of oak trees, bordering the less-than-well-kept lawns. “And I still do.”
He started forward. “I was hoping we might—”
A sudden, thunderous crack swallowed the rest of his words. Everything seemed to happen with maddening torpor and yet all at once. Something whirred past her. There was a roaring in her ears, the look of horror on Anglesey’s face. Everything in the world seemed strange and distant, almost as if she were viewing a play instead of experiencing whatever had just happened.
Her knees quivered. She hurt. Her upper arm had been hit with something, she thought. She touched herself there, her right hand investigating the source of the pain as Anglesey raced toward her. She found something warm and sticky through the layers of torn fabric.
Not blood.
Surely.
Could it be?
She lowered her trembling hand to find the warm stickiness on her fingers was indeed red.
“My God,” Anglesey was saying. “Izzy!”
He was upon her, shielding her body with his, in what could have been an instant or an eternity as she stood riveted to the earth, blood trickling down her arm now in a steady drizzle to rival the precipitation. How odd it was, that blood. How warm. Quite unlike the cold day.
But why was she bleeding?
A hysterical giggle escaped her.
“Stay behind me until I can be sure no one is about,” he ordered. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she said agreeably.
What else was there for her to do? Where would she go? What had happened?
The questions flitted through her fogged mind, unanswered. All the while, Anglesey kept a protective hand on her, clutching her to his back as he searched the surrounding trees and undergrowth.
When he was apparently satisfied with whatever search he was conducting, he turned to her, face a mask of grim concern. “You are bleeding.”
With her already bloodied hand, she reached up to swipe the trickle of blood that was dribbling down her wrist. “It would seem so.”
“Speak to me. Are you in much pain, darling?” He extracted a handkerchief from his coat and pressed it gently to her arm.
“Yes,” she declared, for her arm was burning. Throbbing.
“Let me see,” he said, voice strained with worry. “Are you injured anywhere else?”
She glanced at the blood dripping from her hand, then looked away, feeling dizzied. Stared instead at the tufts of autumn grass and his muddied boots and the damp hems of her gown. More blood trickled, tickling her. It dripped on the grass at their feet.
She swayed, feeling further woozy at the sight, though she knew she had somehow been injured and that she was bleeding.
“I am perfectly well,” she said, her tongue dry. “Although I would dearly love some tea.”
“Christ, Izzy. You’ll not be having tea just now. You were shot.”
“Shot?” she repeated, dizziness hitting her, knees going weak.
