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Poor Mittie, indeed.
Another wave of guilt engulfed Georgine.
From his haggard appearance, she would guess Matilda wasn’t the only one fagged to death. Again, she pondered why Robyn had avoided answering her question about why he monitored her. Assuredly, the impropriety didn’t escape him, but there was naught to be done about it now.
Water under the bridge and all that.
“You do not have to wait for Nelly to return, Robyn.”
Georgine sent a pointed glance toward the closed door.
“I’m not likely to expire before she returns. I realize I’ve been quite a burden to you. Please, attend to whatever you need to.” She lifted her chin in a show of strength, although if he looked closely, he couldn’t miss her slight trembling from fatigue. “I shall be fine. I am possessed of the constitution of an ox and the disposition of a lark.”
The latter added a bit of levity, but Robyn didn’t take the bait.
Hands on his lean, buckskin-covered hips, he gave her an indiscernible look from those warm brown eyes. “I have never said or indicated you are a burden, Georgine.”
Seven
Fernleigh House Drawing Room
Several days later—afternoon
For the fourth time in forty-five minutes, Robyn stealthily paced past the open drawing room door. He glanced inside at his houseguest, content-as-a-cat-in-a-cupboard-of-cushions. Georgine appeared engrossed in the Jane Austen volume Matilda had loaned her.
Pure foolishness if you ask me.
All it takes is one slip, one little misstep, and Georgine might further injure her arm.
Hadn’t Doctor Tinsdale warned about that very thing?
Indeed, he had—this morning, as a point of fact.
“A fall could permanently injure Miss Thackerly’s shoulder. Once permitted to leave her bed, she must be accompanied by no fewer than two attendants, preferably male, so they can catch her if she starts to tumble—taking the utmost care not to jostle her arm and shoulder, of course.”
Which, by God, could be better managed if Georgine weren’t a pig-headed, mulish, feminine dervish, too stubborn for her own good and everyone else’s. She became more headstrong and contrary each hour she remained confined to her bedchamber, and more than once in the past week, Robyn had gnashed his teeth in frustration.
She seemed hellbent on opposing him at every opportunity.
Today, Georgine had refused to stay abed or in her room, proclaiming she would go mad from inactivity and boredom.
Despite his misgivings about her leaving her chamber, empathy pricked Robyn. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as she had. Idleness didn’t mesh well with him, but he hadn’t nearly turned up his toes a fortnight ago either.
Georgine, on the other hand, had escaped death by a hair’s breadth, according to the doctor.
Did she understand how deathly ill she had been?
That reinfection or reinjury prolonged her stay at Fernleigh House, and the longer she stayed, the greater the chance her reputation might become smudged?
Tarnished?
Compromised?
Had that little detail that had worked her into a froth that first night here escaped her?
Robyn wasn’t so stupid as to remind her of that pertinent fact…yet. They had been at odds this past week, and knowing Georgine as he did, she would likely demand a carriage be brought round and toddle herself home in a trice.
No, by God.
