“You were so damned brave today,” he said, caressing her cheek in steady, reassuring strokes.
She did not ever recall feeling more cared for. More cherished.
Guard your heart, you fool, she cautioned herself sternly.
Yes, she must do. But perhaps another day. For today, being in this man’s arms felt remarkably good and safe and…wondrous. She clung to that feeling, and she clung to him.
Until her sister popped her head back in the door. “Come, Anglesey. My sister needs her rest to recover.”
She slowly released her hold on Zachary, disappointment slicing through her. But Ellie was right. Her eyelidsweregrowing heavy. And she did need rest.
“Sleep well,” he said in a hushed tone, before kissing her temple. “I will check on you later.”
As she watched him go, she felt strangely bereft. Only her pride kept her from calling out to him, asking him to remain. She needed to cling to it, that stubborn reserve. Needed to keep her heart protected and hardened against him at all costs.
* * *
Wycombe foundhim in the hall where Zachary was keeping an impatient vigil on Izzy.
“A word,” his friend said, looking distinctly Friday-faced.
“Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “The last time you wanted a word, it was to tell me my betrothed was intent upon leaving me and throwing me over. Please tell me you do not have a similar report.”
“I do not have a similar report,” Wycombe drawled.
Ever a dry sense of humor, his old chum.
“You have answers for me,” he guessed.
“This is a discussion better had where we are assured of privacy,” the duke countered.
He cursed again. “Follow me.”
There was an unused guest chamber, one with a fireplace that was not in working order, two doors down. After nearly a week here, he was at long last becoming reacquainted with all the halls, chambers, and corners of Barlowe Park.
This chamber had been deemed unsuitable by Izzy’s mother, and he understood why. Faded wallcoverings, through which cracks in the settling plaster created a troubling tracery, surrounded them, the furniture still covered, the carpet worn. It remained odd to Zachary to think of how he recalled Barlowe Park as a lad who had run these halls, versus the state of disrepair into which it had been allowed to fall.
Which reminded him, he still needed to find out why it had been ignored by Horatio. Why it had been left to molder and rot.
The door closed, and he looked to his friend. “Well?”
“The butler,” Wycombe said shortly, frowning.
“What is this about Potter now?” he asked. “Pray tell me he has not been attempting to vanquish more rodents.”
“I wish it were that simple.” Wycombe sighed. “Your steward swears he saw Potter this morning when he was conducting one of his customary tours of the property. He said the butler was wandering near the area where Izzy was shot, carrying a blunderbuss and muttering to himself about shooting grouse.”
Curse it.
Zachary stared at his friend, trying to make sense of Wycombe’s report. “Potter,” he repeated. “My steward saw him, you say? What the devil is the fellow’s name? I will admit to having allowed Horatio’s secretary to review his reports on my behalf.”
It was true, he had not been prepared to manage estates, the title, all the responsibilities that came along with it. He had never been meant to be the earl, damn it. Had never wished to be.
“His name is Ridgely, I believe,” Wycombe informed him.
Zachary winced at the sharp stab of guilt telling him this was information he should have known. Apparently, bedding more than his fair share of the ladies in London and occupying himself with investments had ill prepared him for the management of his familial estates and duties.
“Ridgely,” he repeated, trying to dredge up a memory of the fellow’s face and finding none. “Sounds right, I suppose. However, I doubt there are any grouse here at Barlowe Park. If Potter was speaking of shooting, he must have been thinking of the old grouse hunts my father used to have on Anglesey. Those were some years ago now. Decades, even.”
