If you failed that person, then what did you have left?
He had to marry sooner or later. His grandfather was right about that. It wouldn’t be a love match no matter whom he married, so why wouldn’t Miss Thorne do as well as any other lady? She’d blackmailed him and shot him, yes, but even then, she was still far from the poisonous viper Selina had been.
It wasn’t as if his life would change much once he was married, either. He’d go on mainly as he had before, and Miss Thorne would be free to do the same.
He abandoned his contemplation of the headboard and reached for the bell. Loftus must have been hovering close by, because he was at Jasper’s bedside in an instant. “What can I do, Your Grace? Are you in pain? Shall I fetch the laudanum?”
“No, Loftus. Help me to dress, will you?”
Loftus gasped. “Oh, but Your Grace! You mustn’t—”
“I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are Loftus, but there’s something I must do, and it can’t wait. Now, help me to dress, won’t you?”
“Of course, I will, Your Grace.” Loftus threw back his shoulders. “Of course, I will.”
CHAPTER15
“You haven’t spoken a single word in the last hour, Prue. I don’t believe I’ve even seen you twitch.” Franny laid aside the sheet music she’d been reading and turned to Prue with a frown. “You’re beginning to make me quite nervous.”
“Imagine how much more nervous you’d be if I had a shotgun in my hands.” Prue attempted a laugh, but it disintegrated into a pitiful sniffle on her lips. “Oh dear. That isn’t funny, is it?”
After today, nothing may ever be funny again.
They’d returned from the ill-fated shooting party hours ago, Prue hatless and wild-eyed and Montford laid in the brake, his face white and twisted with pain. Franny had assessed the situation in one glance, and whisked Prue off to her private music room, ordering Trevor not to admit anyone aside from her husband.
Prue had fallen onto a settee, shivering with cold and shock, and had scarcely moved a muscle since. Every part of her was numb, from her fingertips to the soles of her wet feet.
“It was an accident, dearest.” Franny rose with a sigh and joined Prue on the settee. “A consequence of wretched weather and poor visibility, nothing more.”
Prue only nodded in reply. Another sob was lurking on the end of her tongue. If she opened her mouth, it might escape.
“An accident,” Franny repeated firmly, giving Prue’s hand a brisk pat. “Everyone in the shooting party said so.”
They had, yes, only . . . had it been an accident? She’d been soangrywith Montford when they’d left that morning, so baffled by his behavior. How could a man kiss her so sweetly one moment, then shout at her in front of two dozen aristocratic gentlemen the next?
She’d been beside herself after that scene in the courtyard, so distressed she scarcely knew which way was up anymore. Wasn’t it possible her subconscious had taken matters into her own hands? Mightn’t it be the case that her subconscious was a wicked, murdering villainess?
Even if her subconscious was innocent, and it truly had been an accident, it couldn’t be denied that a great manyaccidentsseemed to occur whenever she and the Duke of Montford were together. Lost rubies, blackmail schemes, runaway horses, random shootings.
Perhaps Fate was trying to tell them something?
“Montford is going to be perfectly fine,” Franny offered, when Prue still didn’t speak. “The doctor assured us he would be.”
“I know.” She had to scrape the words up from her raw throat. Most of the birdshot had only grazed Montford, not punctured his flesh. His injury was painful, certainly, and it would take weeks to fully heal, but he wasn’t in any danger.
“This won’t look nearly so dire tomorrow, I promise you.” Franny touched her cool fingertips to Prue’s cheek and rose to her feet. “I’m off to bed. Might I suggest you come up, as well? You’re still too shaky and pale for my liking.”
No doubt, but there was no rest to be had in her bedchamber. Still, she managed a half-hearted smile for her friend. “You go on. I won’t be far behind.”
She stared into the fire for some time after the door closed behind Franny, but it was too quiet. So very quiet, the silence giving her too much space to ruminate over the utter disaster she’d made of everything since she’d arrived in London.
What sort of lady came to Town to be courted by a baron, and instead ended up nearly killing a duke? If she hadn’t already been convinced that she wasn’t destined to marry, then she certainly wasnow.
Of course, there was no longer any question of her marrying Lord Stoneleigh—not after the brake had arrived at the front entrance of Basingstoke House with poor Montford laid out along the seats in the back, the buff-colored breeches that had done such credit to his long, muscular legs splattered with blood.
As soon as Lord Stoneleigh heard the tale of Montford’s accident, he couldn’t get away from Basingstoke House quickly enough. He hadn’t spared even so much as a glance for her, nor had he taken any leave of her, though that omission was rather a leave-taking in itself, wasn’t it?
As Franny had said once before, bleeding wounds did tend to put rather a damper on one’s passions. Not that Lord Stoneleigh had ever felt any true passion for her, any more than she had for him. It was for the best he’d gone. She never would have been able to bring herself to marry him.
