Page 32 of The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere
Lord Haslemere was silent, and Georgiana, who felt as if she’d tumbled down a dark rabbit hole and was still falling, struggled for a response. “What will become of Lord Draven? Will he…does the doctor expect him to recover?”
“The doctor has ordered him off to his country estate for fresh air and quiet. I warned him his lordship hasn’t been to Draven House in years, and most of the old servants are long gone, but the doctor insists on it. So, we’ve got a housekeeper and housemaid from London to tend him, and another housemaid from Herefordshire who happened along at the right time. As to whether or not his lordship will ever regain his senses…” Mrs. Bury shook her head. “The doctor can’t say. So, we pray for Lord Draven, and hopefor the best.”
Mrs. Bury dragged herself to her feet, looking as if she’d aged a decade since she’d entered the drawing room. She paused when she reached the door and turned back to say, “I beg your pardon if I offended you, Lord Haslemere.”
And then she was gone, her weary footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Chapter Eight
I beg your pardon if I offended you,Lord Haslemere.
Offended him. The woman had accused him of setting a half-dozen murdering ruffians on Draven, then she had the gall to beg his pardon foroffendinghim?
Benedict closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, but it did nothing to ease the heaviness pressing down on him. He’d long since accepted that all of London believed him to be a rakehell, but the leap from rakehell to utter villain was a great deal shorter thanhe’d imagined.
“I hope you’re not taking Mrs. Bury’s accusations to heart, Lord Haslemere. She was upset, that’s all. Once she’s had time to reflect, I daresay she’ll regretwhat she said.”
These were the first words Miss Harley had uttered since they left Lord Draven’s drawing room. Benedict was lost in his own thoughts, and since he’d never known her to hold her tongue for long, he’d nearly forgottenshe was there.
He glanced at her now, and his eyebrows flew up. She was wedged into a corner of the carriage, her face troubled. “You look distressed, Miss Harley. Dare I hope it’s on my account?”
She darted a glance at him, then looked quickly away, down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Naturally, I’m distressed. I would feel the same for anyone.”
Benedict studied her, a trickle of warmth loosening some of the tightness in his chest. For such a flinty woman, her eyes were suspiciously soft. “I confess your distress onmybehalfsurprises me.”
Her brows drew together. “I don’t know why it should. I don’t like to hear of anyone unjustly accused of such an ugly crime, my lord.”
Ah, therewasa beating heart under that tweedy exterior, then. How…disconcerting. Benedict didn’t like it, really. He preferred to think of her not so much as a tender woman, but more a bundle of ill temper and thorns wrapped in layers of heavy, coarse brown wool.
It was easier that way.
“That is, not anyone who’s innocent,” Miss Harley went on. “London is cursed with any number of aristocratic scoundrels. Still, for all your many,manyflaws, Lord Haslemere, I can’t quite convince myself you’re a murderer.”
Ah, yes. That was much better. That was the stone-hearted Miss Harley he knew and…barely tolerated. Still, she had been quick to defend him to Mrs. Bury. “I think you’re fonder of me than you let on.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’mpreciselyas fond of you as I let on, my lord, and no more than that.”
Benedict started, his gaze lingering on her face.
Hazel. Her eyes weren’t brown at all, buthazel.
They looked brown in dimmer light, but this morning, with the sun shining through the carriage window, they were light green, rather like late-summer pears.
Her eyes changed color dependingon the light.
It shouldn’t matter. Itdidn’tmatter, only he had a bit of a weakness for changeable eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes were like so many other hazel eyes he’d seen, with dozens of different shades of green, brown, and gray at once. Looking at them now, he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever thought them brown.
Well, what of it? So, she had pretty eyes. Beautiful eyes, if the truth were told, but her tongue was as barbed as ithad ever been.
Not that Georgiana Harley’s tongue was anyconcern ofhis.
Benedict pushed the thought from his head and cleared his throat. “All right then, Miss Harley. Let’s see what we have, shall we? Rumors of an adulterous affair, a pair of noblemen who were friends at Eton, and an earl who’s been beaten into unconsciousness. What do you make of it?”
She sighed. “I think, my lord, that this business has more heads than a Hydra. Sever one of them, and two more growin its place.”
Benedict cocked his head to the side, considering it. “It’s not a Hydra so much as an insect bite. The more one scratches at it, themore it oozes.”
“Nonsense. My analogy is muchmore accurate.”
