Page 9

According to all the gossip she and Portia had found regarding Markham, he didn’t seem like a man particularly apt to concern himself with the reputation of anyone, including himself. And they hadn’t found anything at all about Clarendel beyond praise for his bravery and whispers about various married mistresses—but none of it had much substance, coming from Portia’s least-reliable friends.

Clarendel was certainly handsome: tall and regal with sharp features and eyes the color of a clear summer sky, framed by ebony hair smoothed back in a simple, Corinthian style. His deep, rich voice had haunted all her daydreams since they met. Amy straightened her posture, and her gaze flashed to his knuckles.

“I’m entirely sorry,” she whispered to Markham instead of Clarendel— addressing him directly was feeling less excusable by the second as her body warmed from his touch. “Surely this is not how you imagined this evening.”

“I was anticipating rather more dull conversation and terrible dancing,” Markham opined with a theatrical sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to get my fill of those tomorrow.” He took Amy’s cordial cup and poured another dram before handing it back. “You suffer Clarendel’s slings and arrows but for a moment, Miss Sunderland. I’ll persuade Juliet that her hem is in urgent need of repair. Even if I have to step on it myself.”

Clarendel grimaced. “Just don’t throw her off-course with old Trembleston. She’s trying to lure him into making an offer.”

“He’ll have tottered off home already to nurse his gout.” Markham’s sharp features twisted in a moue of disdain. “God’s teeth, you’re a hard one to waste poor Juliet on that decrepit fop.”

“She’s wasting herself on her own volition,” Clarendel retorted before returning his attention to Amy. “One more sip, Miss Sunderland.” She dutifully took another sip of cordial before he dabbed the first numbing oils on her red, swelling knee. “I told Juliet to wait and try her chances with the men who’ll be back with Wellington when he presents to Parliament next, but she’s got her daughter to consider. And no patience whatsoever.”

“Blast. I can’t chide anyone for lack of patience when I’ve never had any myself.” Markham laughed as he ambled out, closing the door behind him.

“Forgive Markham, Miss Sunderland. His father’s kennel master raised him.” Clarendel eyed the scraped skin at the very top of her injury. “Breathe in.” He pressed gently with a pad and began wrapping it with the linen Amy had stolen from Darby. She clenched her teeth, determined not to weep. “I hope your maid is trustworthy as well. If she recognizes what we’re using as a bandage, you might need to think quickly for a story.”

Amy shook her head slowly, staring straight up at the ceiling as she tried to concentrate on the intricately molded whorls and leaves instead of his hands on her leg. His touch was doing something queer to her emotions, and the pain couldn’t hide the warmth creeping into her stomach. She moaned softly despite herself and hoped he’d blame it on the pain. “Um. Staunton? She won’t think twice about it. My ... accident-prone nature is nothing new.”

“That’s good.” His fingers traced along the backside of her knee, a torturously gentle line. Was he searching for further injury? Why was her heart skipping beats? “The oil should numb the bruise and keep the swelling down enough to get you packed into a carriage.” He watched her with those impossibly crystal eyes. “And no outward damage is done to your gown. Lucky you didn’t choose that silk and spiderweb confection you donned last time we met.”

“I forgot I wore that. Don’t tell me you disapprove of it?” The gown was a gorgeous cerulean silk, worn under a white-embroidered Dhaka muslin gown as light as a breeze—the material had been a gift from her oldest brother before he died.

“Quite the opposite.” Clarendel’s clever fingers rolled up her stocking as he spoke to re-cover the wound. The compliment lit hell’s fire in her cheeks. “Though this green suits you well. From nymph to a goddess of spring.”

“And the other knee?” It wasn’t bleeding, having taken less of her weight than the one he already wrapped. But if it meant prolonging this moment...? She’d never been so forward. Perhaps it was the brandy, cordial, or just the wild sequence of events around them. “I—I do not wish to impose, but ... as you are already ... that is to say ... would you mind?”

“Not at all.” His lips curved up in a smile different from those she remembered—slower and wicked as sin. When he touched the other stocking, his fingers grazed her ankle and up the seam at the back as if to ensure it was perfectly straight. Her maid sometimes did the same with a tricky fit, but she’d never felt any blood-singeing effects from Staunton’s attention to detail. Had the room gotten hotter? Colder? How was her garter’s fastening so enthralling when his fingers performed the trick? His eyes met hers again, the mysterious smile widening. “You’re looking a little pale, Miss Sunderland. I hope you’re not regretting allowing me the liberty with your dress.”

“Not at all,” she said, just a little too quickly. A little too breathless. Her fingers unconsciously played at the hem of her dress. “Please. Continue.”

“As you wish.” He looked down, fixing the garter with unbelievable care—his skin kept brushing against hers as if he were trying to stop her breath with a physician’s skill. “Apologies, I’ve not fixed a lady’s stocking before.”

The ease with which he smoothed everything into place belied his words. He finished it as the door swung inward. Clarendel flipped her skirts down in time to save her modesty, but one large hand lingered at the curve of her ankle.

“Nicholas, what have you done now?” A woman’s voice, soft as silk and with something of the same expensive sound, startled Amy out of her reverie. Lady Mornington rounded the chaise and tutted in disbelief. Amy had seen her before—usually in comic caricatures of the Prince Regent’s set—but the reality remained startling. She had Clarendel’s eyes, but someone else’s cheekbones, and the lustrous hair piled atop her head was much lighter.

“Darby had an attack of barbary,” Markham said in answer, two steps behind Lady Mornington. “I told you not to worry about him.”

“Yes, but you didn’t mention his face looks like it’s seen the wrong side of a butcher's block.” Lady Juliet Mornington’s own flawless face pinched in distaste at Darby before she turned a kindly smile on Amy. “Ah, well. I see why you both rediscovered your chivalrous natures. The Honorable Miss Sunderland, isn’t it?”

Amy prayed she wasn’t still blushing as she rose and bowed her head, concentrating on her latest savior’s magnificently draped sapphire silk gown. “Lady Mornington.”

“No need for timidity. We are beyond that.” Lady Mornington stepped closer, scrutinizing Amy. “If you please?” She closed the little distance between them and reached for the top of Amy’s head. Amy twitched away before catching herself and forcing her feet to stay in place. Lady Mornington made a ‘hm’ sound, pulled a silver pin from Amy’s hair, and readjusted some curls. “Fortunately for you, all eyes are on Miss Alice Bellinger tonight. No one will notice a few strands out of place.”

“I hope so, my lady.” Amy had spent most of the evening hiding behind her father, so she doubted anyone paid too close attention to her original coiffure. Amy fixed her eyes on the floor, keenly aware of Clarendel abandoning her. He walked over to Markham’s side, whispering too quietly for her to hear.

Mornington finished salvaging Amy’s hair and stood back to consider her work. “Well done. A few pins moved, and no one need be the wiser.”

“Th—thank you, my lady.”

“Of course. Poor thing, Darby is a wretched trial at the best of times. You two will remain here,” Juliet warned, her tone more snappish as she waved off the two men.

To Amy’s shock, Clarendel and Markham didn’t reprimand her. Not so much as a sullen glare came from either of them.

“I assure you, I have this well in hand now.” She locked her arm with Amy’s, and her expression warmed. “As for you, Miss Sunderland, while our library tour has been most diverting, I must return you to the main hall.”

“Of course.” Amy took several careful steps, keeping her chin up and her shoulders back. If she counted in her head—one-two, one-two—ensuring that her gait was even, no one would notice a limp. “I thank you for your time, my lady. And your kindness. Perhaps you might tell me what happened with Ms. Bellinger on our way?” She dared one last glance at Clarendel. His eyes met hers. Her stomach fluttered, and Amy wondered if she’d even make it out of the library without falling.