Page 37 of Souvenir of Love

“Stop! My brother is the most handsome man in London. I will not have you mar him.”

“There is nothing anyone can do, my lady. The wound must be closed or else it will fester. And then I must bleed him to make sure his blood is balanced and clean. Time is of the essence. I beg of you.” Still not releasing James’s cheek, the surgeon stabbed at the wound with his needle again. “Let me work.”

“Iwill close the wound,” Anne said coldly. “Youwill leave.” She turned to one of the maids, who was emptying a bowl of dirty water into a bucket on the floor. “Fetch my embroidery silk from my bedchamber and a packet of my sharpest needles.”

The surgeon stretched his hand as if to protest, but Anne was no longer looking at him. Nodding at footman who had stepped forward to remove the bucket, she said, “You may toss that out. But first, toss him.”

He staredup at her face, a study in pale concentration.Which pain was worse? The cuts of the sword or his sister’s slow, careful stitching? Pink thread on a silver needle.He wanted to tell her it was all right, she needn’t work so hard; but his lips were numb from the laudanum. He slipped into unconsciousness dreaming of the scar, a blazing red line against the blackness of his eyelids…

In the weeks that followed, as he lay feverish in his bed, his hands would drift upward trying to touch the wound, but the linen swathing his face and hands made it impossible.

If he believed his laudanum dreams, half of his face had been ripped apart.

He knew it wasn’t true, but in his darker hours, the poetry of the notion appealed to him. He pictured one side of his face hideous, one side beautiful, one side his past, the other his future, one side an image of who people thought he was, the other who he knew himself to be.

When at last the bandages were removed, his hands went to it immediately.

His fingers explored the ridge of skin that curved from the middle of his cheek to just below his eyebrow. It felt like less than he’d imagined. Less than he deserved. He would not look at it. He ordered the mirrors removed from his rooms. Anne interpreted this and his reluctance to leave the house as an act of wounded vanity.

“It’s not so bad, James,” she said one morning as they sat breakfasting in her chambers. “Truly it’s not. If you’d just look…”

“I’d rather not,” he replied, attempting to smile, but finding his mouth only crooked on one side.

She pressed her lips together, then tried another approach. “You look rather dashing, you know. A bit dangerous… The ladies will find you irresistible, I’m sure.”

He fingered the scar. “Ironic, when you consider that’s what earned me this pretty souvenir.”

“Moreham’s perfidy caused that scar—don’t ever forget that, James.”

He smiled his crooked smile. “You needn’t worry that I will forget my scars or how I came by them.”

“Precisely,” she said. “And this is why you should take a look. You’ll see; it’s not all that bad. And then you can begin to go out and about again.”

“Take up where I left off, as it were?”

“Exactly.”

James had no desire to take up where he’d left off. But he knew if he explained, she’d misinterpret his meaning, and launch into another tirade against Moreham and Elizabeth.Elizabeth.He resisted the urge to touch the scar.A permanent reminder, Rafe had said,that she wasn’t for the likes of him. “Is Elizabeth Harcrest still making the rounds?” The question slipped out before he realized he’d said it aloud.

“You cannot imagine how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question.” Anne’s lips curved in a satisfied smile. She slid her breakfast plate forward and leaned across the tea table. “Elizabeth did venture out a few times after her brother made his ridiculous attempt to restore her honor, a few card parties here and there, the odd small assembly. Out of respect for Moreham, no one cut her directly, but it was clear that no one of any real standing would exchange more than pleasantries with her.”

She pointed to the coffeepot and James filled her cup. “Of course, the Davenports rallied around her, and a few other unimportant people. Louisa even made several appearances with her, stayed the entire evening without pleading a headache, can you imagine? And Moreham’s appalling mother-in-law, of course.” She made a noise of distaste. “You should have seen the woman’s gown the other night. Exquisite fabrics. I would love to know where she gets them. But the colors—tangerine and dark purple!—even the memory makes me shudder.”

“Elizabeth?” James prompted, offering her a porcelain pitcher of cream.

“Elizabeth,” she poured a dollop into her cup and stirred it with a silver spoon. “Well, of course, nothing Moreham can do will erase what people saw at our ball.”

“Or stop their talk.”

Anne pointedly ignored the sarcasm in his voice. “Elizabeth tried to hold her head up; I’ll give her credit for that. But the sparkle from that diamond is clearly gone. I vow, she lookednearly as drab as that wren-friend of hers, Arabella… I cannot remember her surname.”

“Norcroft,” he supplied, familiar with the girl who’d spent so much time at Elizabeth’s side. “She’s not so drab, not her conversation at least, and she’s got rather nice eyes.”

“If you say so.” She waved dismissively. “But her family is certainly nothing to speak of…”

“Elizabeth looked pale?”

“All the pink muslin in the world couldn’t create the illusion of roses in her cheeks now. And her gowns just hang on her. You’d think with all their money, the Harcrests might have a modiste do something about that, tighten the waist, add a bit of flounce…though I suppose that could accentuate how gaunt she’s become.”