Three days of lying on the chaise longue in the drawing room with her ankle propped on cushions, forbidden to walk more than the distance to the necessary, attended to by a parade of servants and a mother whose concern had curdled into something resembling tyranny.
It was enough to drive anyone mad and Vanessa, who had never been particularly good at sitting still, was very nearly at her wit's end.
She had tried to occupy herself. She had read every book within reach, worked through an entire basket of embroidery, written letters to distant relations she barely remembered. But nothing could distract her from the thoughts that circled endlessly through her mind, thoughts of a certain duke, a certain morning in the park, a certain pair of hands that had touched her ankle with such devastating gentleness.
"You must keep it elevated, dearest. The physician was quite clear."
"I have kept it elevated, Mama. I have done nothing but keep it elevated. I am in danger of forgetting what it feels like to have both feet on the ground."
"There is no need for dramatics." Lady Wayworth adjusted the cushion beneath Vanessa's ankle with fussy precision. "A sprained ankle is not a trifling matter. If you do not rest it properly, you may find yourself with a permanent limp."
"I hardly think…"
"Lady Haberton's daughter did not rest her ankle properly after a fall, and now she walks with a pronounced hobble. Ithas quite ruined her prospects. No gentleman wants a wife who cannot dance."
Vanessa bit back the retort that rose to her lips. There was no point in arguing with her mother when she was in this mood, all maternal concern and dire warnings, convinced that every minor ailment was a harbinger of disaster.
"I shall rest it, Mama. I promise."
"See that you do." Lady Wayworth patted her hand with the air of one conferring a great benediction. "Now, I must speak to Cook about this evening's menu. The Duke of Montehood is dining with us, and we must make a proper impression."
She swept out before Vanessa could respond, leaving her daughter alone with her thoughts and the growing certainty that this evening was going to be torture.
Martin was coming to dinner.
She had not seen him since the park, since the fall, the examination, the conversation on the bench that had left her more confused than ever. Three days of lying on this wretched chaise longue, replaying every moment, analyzing every word, trying to make sense of what had passed between them.
I find my thoughts disordered,he had said.My judgement compromised.
I am certain of very little these days.
You are exactly enough. You have always been exactly enough.
What had he meant? What had any of it meant?
She had turned the words over in her mind until they had lost all meaning, examined them from every angle, searched for hidden significance that might or might not exist. Martin was not a man given to sentimentality. He did not offer compliments lightly, and when he did, they were usually barbed with irony.
But there had been no irony in his voice when he spoke those words. There had been something else, something raw and unguarded that she had never heard from him before.
And then there was the matter of his hands on her ankle.
Vanessa felt heat rise to her cheeks at the memory. It had been entirely proper, a medical examination, nothing more. Her groom had been present. There had been nothing inappropriate about it.
And yet.
The way he had touched her. The gentleness of his fingers as he removed her boot. The warmth of his palm against her ankle, the pressure of his thumb tracing the curve of her foot. She had felt his touch through the silk of her stocking as though there were nothing between them at all.
She had gasped, and it had not been from pain.
Had he noticed? Had he understood what that sound meant? Or had he assumed it was merely a response to the injury, a natural reaction to the manipulation of damaged tissue?
She remained in total ignorance, yet propriety forbade her to inquire. This despicable state of suspense was fast becoming an insupportable burden to her spirits.
***
The anonymous gift basket had arrived the morning after her fall.
It had been waiting for her when she came down to breakfast or rather, when she had been carried down to breakfast by two footmen, an indignity she hoped never to repeat. A large wicker basket, beautifully arranged, sat on the side table where the morning post was usually placed. Inside were hothouse flowers in shades of pink and cream, a box of French chocolates from theconfectioner on Bond Street, and a slim volume bound in green leather.
