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Chapter Three

Even as Bethea helped her sister to one of the turquoise and gold brocade couches, Camden’s fierce expression intruded upon her thoughts. He’d looked ready to pummel Monteith.

On her behalf?

It rather thrilled her to think so.

With a hitch in her breathing and a grimace contorting her pretty face, Branwen gingerly sank onto the cushions. “I vow, I’m done for the night.”

“Darlin’, why ever did ye continue dancin’ with him if he was stompin’ upon yer toes?” Bethea asked sympathetically.

“I felt sorry for him.” Branwen summoned a wry smile, and putting a hand to her forehead, shut her eyes. “He’s rather nice, but clumsy as an ox in the proverbial china shop.”

So like Branwen. Her compassionate nature made her vulnerable.

“I overheard several ladies refuse him,” she said. “Some quite ruthlessly, I might add. When Lord Hurstwood approached me, he looked so hopeful, and I didna have the heart to say nae. Now I ken why they were reluctant to accept his offer to dance.”

Bethea shook her head, a small empathetic smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly, I’m no’ sure whether to be outraged or amused. I confess, I pity the poor man, but surely he must be aware of his deficit.”

Cracking an eyelid open, her sister arched a midnight brow. She gave a dubious shake of her head. “Trust me. He is no’. I both admire his oblivion and am confounded by it.”

“Well, I assure ye, should he ask me, I shall have to decline.” Bethea knelt before her sister and cautiously removed her shoes. “I have nae wish to have my toes mashed. I shall suggest a sedate walk about the ballroom, or if the weather permits, upon the veranda.”

Branwen inhaled sharply and clamped her teeth upon her lower lip as Bethea freed her sister’s foot.

“Forgive me, dearest,” she apologized, hating that she’d hurt her sister. But the shoes must come off so that she could see the damage and determine the best course of action. “I am tryin’ to be gentle.”

“I ken.” Her face strained, Branwen let her eyelash flutter shut again. “I confess, I’m afraid to look.”

The second shoe followed the first. Thankfully, no blood marred the fine silk stockings.

“Ye just relax, and I’ll look for both of us,” Bethea assured her, not certain she wanted to see her sister’s abused feet, either.

Taking care not to jostle or bump Branwen’s feet more than necessary, she rolled her sister stockings down. She slipped the first one off and couldn’t suppress her gasp. Bruises had already begun to form on her sister’s reddened toes and even atop her feet.

“That bad?” Branwen whispered, keeping her eyelids firmly shut.

Bethea chose her words with care. “Yer nae bleedin’, but ye’re no’ goin’ to be able to walk for several days, I fear.”

A tiny part of Bethea rejoiced because, now, she’d have a legitimate excuse to stay home and avoid another encounter with the wretched Earl of Montieth. But also miss opportunities to find a potential husband, her annoying conscience quipped.

Balderdash.

She hadn’t come to Edinburgh with the express purpose of finding a husband. That would merely be an added benefit. Mayhap. Bethea wasn’t so desperate to get married that she’d marry without love.

After removing the second stocking, she pushed to her feet. “Let’s put a cool cloth on them. That should help with the swellin’.”

“Ye dinna think the damage is worse than it looks?” Branwen raised her legs a couple of inches, and a frown knitted her forehead. She angled her abused feet back and forth.

Hopefully, no’.

Bethea shook her head. “Nae. I dinna think there are any broken bones. Yer shoes protected ye from that.”

She crossed to an ewer and basin, beside which lay a stack of neatly folded linens. After removing her gloves, she poured a measure of water into the basin, then saturated two cloths. Once she’d wrung them out, she returned to Branwen, now resting her head against the back of the sofa.

“I shall inform Marjorie or Keane we must depart at once.” Draping the cool, damp squares over her sister’s damaged feet, she glanced upward. “Ye canna possibly leave through the main doors, unless someone carries ye.”

It wouldn’t be Keane.