The carriage lurched to a start and he sat down heavily on the seat across from her. Will then silently cursed himself for using the barouche as his legs tangled with hers in the small space. He pulled back as much as he could, but their knees still bumped together.
Will gripped the hand-pull as John took a hard turn, having taking his instructions a little too seriously. The carriage lamp swung wildly from its hook and Will squinted as the yellow light shone in his eyes.
Phoebe gasped. “You’re hurt!”
“I’m fine,” Will said automatically just as he felt something warm dripping down his face.
“But you’rebleeding.”
He touched his temple. “It’s only a scratch.”
“The glass must have grazed you,” she explained as she moved beside him.
“That isn’t necessary,” Will protested as she drew a handkerchief from her pocket.
Phoebe paused and shot him a look. “You don’t even know what I’m going to do.”
“Well, I assume it isn’t a quadratic equation,” he muttered.
She let out a laugh. “That would be quite impossible, I assure you.”
Will began to smile then hissed in pain as she pressed the handkerchief to his temple.
“Sorry,” Phoebe said softly.
“It’s fine,” Will replied even while the cut throbbed beneath her touch. It was worse than he thought. “You don’t share your sister’s talent for numbers then?” He needed to distract himself. If he caught sight of his own blood, he was likely to faint right in front of her.
“Absolutely not. To my father’s great regret,” she added.
Will tried to catch her gaze. There was more behind that offhand remark, but she was focused on tending his wound.
“Do you have any spirits on hand? This should be cleaned.”
Will pointed to a small compartment on the seat across from them. “Check there. One can’t be a duke without traveling with libations.”
“Hold this,” Phoebe instructed as she guided Will’s hand to the cloth pressed at his temple. She then moved to the other seat, opened the compartment, and pulled out a small bottle of whiskey. Her eyes widened as she read the label. “This is my father’s favorite. It’s very expensive.”
“Just use it,” Will said dismissively. “I’m sure I have plenty more somewhere.”
Phoebe sat next to him again and took back her handkerchief. She poured a drop onto it, then hesitated. “This may hurt. Perhaps you should have a little,” she said as she held out the bottle.
Will could certainly use a drink but for an entirely different reason. He dutifully took a sip and closed his eyes, focusing on the smooth burn of the liquid sliding down his throat.
After a moment he opened his eyes and handed the bottle back to her. “Your mustache is crooked.”
Phoebe’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God, I’d forgotten.” Her cheeks flushed as she pulled it off.
Will smiled. “I must say you made a terrible lad.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes, though her lips quirked, as if she was trying not to return the smile. “I’m sorry about back there. I don’t know what came over me,” she added.
It had been many hours since he had eaten anything and between the ale and the whiskey, his head was starting to feel wonderfully fuzzy.
He stared at her lips. “Don’t you?” It had looked an awful lot like jealousy to him. He hadn’t the chance to reflect on it until now, what with their narrow escape and the general bedlam.
Will lifted his gaze and found Phoebe returning his stare rather intently. Her face had never been this close to his own—not in many years, at least. There was a ring of gold around her pupils, which grew under his inspection. How had he never noticed that before? Or perhaps he had simply forced himself to forget. There was so much about his old life he had needed to leave behind in order to move forward. But now… now he was having a difficult time remembering why.
Just as he leaned closer, Phoebe chose that moment to press the handkerchief to the cut.
