“We were talking about paper before . . . You need to write now?”
“Yes.”
Her pale pallor made him fearful for her health. He stepped closer. “Woman, do you feel well?”
She put her hands to her temples. “Yes, Your Grace. A headache.”
She didn’t make much sense, and if he could, he’d sweep her up into his arms and carry her to bed. “LaCroy, does the physician need to return?”
“No. Yes. I need Lady Shrewsbury. Send St. Maur for her. Please, Jemina, go to her.”
He couldn’t deny the request. LaCroy’s healthy olive skin looked very gray, even green. The good woman had risked her life for him. He owed her everything. “You want Lady Shrewsbury, you shall have her. St. Maur, dress and have someone send for a carriage.”
Mrs. St. Maur stooped in a low bow with her hands behind her. The demure miss came from LaCroy’s shadow and backed to the door. “Yes, sir. I’ll run now.”
Arms folded under her thick shawl, she fled the room.
Busick returned his gaze to LaCroy.
The look on her face was unreadable. Her hair was loosed, full of tight curls. Not the orderly lady, so neat and tidy. Not the woman he was used to seeing.
More mesmerizing than ever.
Pallor aside, she seemed calm and in control. Yet, a smidgeon of him wanted her to break, to come to him with need, asking for advice, seeking him to make things better. “You’ve too many secrets in your eyes.”
“Perhaps, you shouldn’t look.” She slipped to the sofa and leaned against it. “If you’re finished with your questions, I should go lie down and wait for the countess.”
“Sit here and wait for her. I won’t risk you growing dizzy and toppling over the stairs. I won’t be so lucky a second time that you’d be mostly unharmed.”
Her lips tugged to a brief smile then drooped again.
“Why is it you seem one step ahead of everyone? Ducking in and out of Hamlin. Detecting my injury. Noticing the chandelier.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
He moved closer, her scent of lavender and liniment hinted at her enticing femininity and her bravery. “That kind of luck will get you killed. I wanted to see you when you awakened. I needed to thank you.”
Her eyes squinted as she peered up at him. Then, she touched the bruise on her forehead. “We did peek at you, but you were busy, Your Grace. You were instructing your ward on melons.”
“Oh”—he rubbed at his neck—“that would be awkward for you to interrupt. Melon selecting . . .” Maybe Busick did hit his head.
“You’re very good with him, but that’s not new. We spend too much time together in the nursery for you not to know how much I think of you and Lionel.”
“Thanks.” Her compliment almost brought a smile, but this moment of vanity was a trap. He waggled his index finger. “No changing the subject, young lady. You like risk. You don’t care about tempting fate.”
He moved closer. “It’s not wise for someone with a head injury to be up so soon. You thought differently, so you had Mrs. St. Maur ignore a direct order.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
She swayed, and he braced against the sofa to hold her up.
Hands about her waist, he drew her near. His gallant reward—the feel of her rapid heart beating against his chest.
“This isn’t saving you from a falling chandelier, but it’s something.”
He strengthened his hold. She was easy in his arms, and he liked thinking he comforted her. “I don’t want you falling.”
“Your Grace, let me sit. Then lecture me.”
