“Lucy, my lady. Lucy Martin.”
The faint cadence of her r confirmed what Isla had heard before. Beneath the London polish was the soft edge of Lothian.
“You’re Scottish,” Isla said, relieved to hear her own tongue echoed. “From where?”
Lucy’s hands faltered in the basin as she squeezed the linen cloth out prior to reapplying it to Isla’s forehead.
“From nowhere near, my lady. Bedfordshire born and bred.”
Isla frowned. “You have a lilt no Bedfordshire lass ever owned.”
Unless I am losing my mind, having left some of it on the stable floor. My head does ache so.
The maid’s face colored. “Begging your pardon, I’m as English as tea and toast. Please try and rest now.”
Isla frowned, putting a hand to her forehead. Why would someone deny such a thing? The accent she thought she had heard was nowhere to be found now. Lucy Martin did indeed sound as English as they come. Before Isla could press further, the door burst open.
Alistair filled the doorway, color high, eyes blazing.
“Out,” he snapped.
Lucy dropped into a curtsy and fled. The slam of the door echoed through the chamber as Alistair hurled it into its frame with a backward swipe of his arm.
“What possessed you?” Alistair demanded, advancing to the bedside. “You vanish from a ballroom packed with half of London’s nobility, wander into the stables, and let yourself befound half-conscious by the Duke of Wexford! Do you have any notion of what you’ve done?”
“I struck my head on a beam,” she said, touching the bandage gingerly. “That is all.”
“That isnotall!” He raked a hand through his hair. “He carried you through his own ballroom, Isla! Mud on your gown, straw in your hair, a tear clear to your thigh. Every gossip in Mayfair saw it. They will dine on it for weeks. We are ruined!”
“Then perhaps they will choke on the feast,” she shot back, the pain in her temple sharpening her temper.
“Mock if you please, but you have disgraced us.”
Isla surged up in her bed. Or tried to. The pain in her head would not allow her to confront her brother the way she wanted to. She saw the look of regret passing over his face at the sight of her pain.
“Will you sit, please?” she said, falling back. “So that I do not have to try and stand up.”
Alistair seized a chair by its back and dragged it across the floor to her bedside.
“All I did was trip in a stable and knock my head …” Isla said.
“You were in a stable in the first place,” Alistair retorted, “alone with an unmarried gentleman!”
“A groom. A stable hand.”
“A Duke!”
“Do not be absurd, Alistair. I think I would know an English Duke when I was confronted with one. This was a man adept at currying the coat of a horse and …”
She faltered, remembering the calm, educated voice. The rich tone of confident, expectant command. She almost shook her head but the throbbing dissuade her.
I am not thinking straight. All this talk of Dukes has addled me. That and the bump.
“I did not ask the Duke to bring me here,” Isla protested.
“Did you not? But that is what he did. And all those jackanapes out there saw was you covered in straw and dirt with a torn dress.”
Isla bit her lip furiously. It did sound scandalous.
