Page 27

“Yes.”

He lowered her carefully, keeping a hand beneath her elbow until both feet touched the ground. Lydia tested the injured one. It hurt, but less sharply now. “I can do it.”

“Take my arm.”

She did. They crossed the remaining distance slowly. When the lawn came into view, Lydia could hear the women ahead of them, discussing where to put the flowers they had gathered. She released Tristan’s arm. He did not try to retain her. At the garden path, the countess turned. “There you are. Did you find something?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Lydia lifted the collecting case. Tristan inclined his head to the ladies. “I met Lady Lydia coming back through the trees.”

“How fortunate,” the Dowager Duchess said.

Lydia could not tell whether she meant it. She joined her mother before anyone asked another question.

By the time they reached the house, her ankle had begun to throb with every step. Lydia allowed the others to go ahead while she crossed the hall, determined not to draw attention to herself. She could walk almost normally if she was careful about where she placed her weight; the difficulty came when one of the sisters turned back to ask whether she would help arrange the flowers.

She stopped too quickly.

“Are you limping?”

“I turned my ankle on a root.”

“Shall I fetch your mother?”

“No, please. I only need to sit for a moment.”

The girl set down her basket. A door opened farther along the hall. Tristan emerged, having apparently returned by another entrance. His gaze found the uneven way she held her weight before it found her face. “Is it worse?”

She wished he had noticed less accurately. “A little stiff.”

“Come and sit down.”

“The drawing room is just here,” her companion said.

“Then we shall use it,” Tristan said. He moved a basket from the nearest chair and waited while Lydia sat.

At last she could take the weight from her foot. The relief made her aware of how hard she had been gripping his arm. She let go reluctantly, suddenly conscious that she had been holding on to him for longer than was strictly necessary. She settled the sketchbook across her knees while he called to the footman. “Ask Mrs. Bell to come and tell Lady Pembroke where we are.”

Her mother arrived before the housekeeper and stayed while Mrs. Bell helped loosen the boot. Once Lydia had rested, Henry supported her up to her room, allowing her to set the pace. She was embarrassed by the time it took, but grateful that he asked no questions about the wood. Later, after she had changed into a looser pair of shoes, a maid came to say that the duke had her collecting case in his study. Lydia could have asked for it to be brought to her. She rose and tested her foot.

The study was a short way along the same passage. She had almost reached it when Tristan opened the door. “You should have sent for the case.” He offered his arm. “Come and sit down. Is your ankle still troubling you?”

“I ought to have stopped at the bench,” she admitted as she took it.

“Yes.”

He offered nothing further. She almost wished he would. He drew a chair near the window and brought a stool for her foot, then asked the maid to fetch Mrs. Bell. The housekeeper arrived with water and folded cloths. “You have had an unlucky morning, my lady.”

“Only the end of it.”

The housekeeper helped her remove the loose shoe. Lydia gripped the chair as she lifted her foot onto the stool. Tristan moved closer. “That hurt.”

“Yes.”

With her foot raised, the ache began to ease. Lydia released the chair by degrees, aware he had seen how hard she held it and wishing his attention did not feel so much like being touched again. Mrs. Bell settled a cloth beneath her leg and went to the door to give instructions to a maid.

Tristan knelt beside the stool. Mrs. Bell was within call and the study door stood open, and still it felt private. Lydia knew exactly how little was happening: a gentleman was examining a twisted ankle through a stocking. Her imagination supplied the rest with humiliating efficiency. Her pulse quickened as he leaned closer, and she found herself absurdly conscious of the thin layer of fabric separating his fingers from her skin.