Page 26

“Can you stand on it?”

She tried again, taking most of her weight on the other leg. “Not quite.”

“Give me the book.”

She let him take it. He placed it with the case on the stump and lowered her onto its clear edge. Her boot appeared unchanged. After so sharp a pain, the familiar seams and unmarked leather felt insulting. “It may pass in a moment.”

“Perhaps.”

He crouched beside her. “May I see?”

“Here?”

His gaze moved toward the track. The groom had disappeared, and they were alone beneath the trees. Tristan straightened. “I can carry you as far as the lawn.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “No.”

“You cannot walk.”

“I have not properly tried.”

“You tried twice.”

He said it so reasonably that she had no immediate answer. She reached for the sketchbook.

“Wait.”

He gathered the case and book, securing them together before passing them to her. Then he bent. Lydia braced a hand against his shoulder as he lifted her, startled by the ease of it and by the immediate, encompassing heat of his body. Her arm settled across his shoulders because there was nowhere else for it to go, and beneath her wrist she could feel the steady, quickening beat of his heart. He looked straight ahead with the fixed attention of a man who did not trust himself to look anywhere else. “Your Grace.”

“Hold the book.”

“I am holding the book.”

“Good.”

Her other hand remained at his shoulder. His arm supported her beneath the knees, keeping the injured foot clear of the ground. No man outside her family had ever carried her. No one had held her this close without dancing, ceremony, or permission to pretend the contact meant nothing.

She could not step back, turn neatly away, or let a dance figure make distance for her. His coat pressed against her palm. His breath changed with the incline of the ground. This was the man who had declared himself unavailable and then spent three days finding reasons to be near her.

Each step shifted her against his chest. She fixed her eyes on the sketchbook and learned nothing from its cover. She ought to have been thinking about her ankle, or how they would explain themselves if anyone saw them. Instead, she was painfully aware of how reluctant she was for him to put her down.

“You must put me down before we reach the others.”

“We have not reached them.”

“Please.”

He glanced at her. For several yards he said nothing. She heard his breathing, the crush of leaves beneath his boots, the faint knock of the collecting case against her skirt. Wool, leather, and the clean salt of his skin replaced the damp green smell of the wood. At the edge of the trees, she touched his shoulder. “Here.”

“The lawn is still ahead.”

“They will see us.”

“You are hurt.”

“They will see you carrying me. After last night.”

He stopped and followed her gaze to the lawn. For a moment, his expression tightened, and she wondered whether he resented being reminded of the distance he had insisted upon keeping between them. The women would soon see them. “There is a bench beyond the hedge,” he said. “If you cannot manage, we stop there.”