Page 63 of How Not to Marry a Duke

“Mr. Elder rescinded his initial offer for the novel once he discovered Mary’s true identity.”

“You mean because she is a woman.”

“Yes.”

He let out a slow breath. “Mr. Elder was wrong. I’m sorry for Mary.”

Her fingers twisted in her skirts, and rancor sharpened her voice for the unfairness of the situation. “It was difficult to witness. Mary tried to hide it with bravery, but the flash of despondency and despair that crossed her face was painful. I love my sister, and it was heartbreaking. I fear she will toss aside her quill and never write again.”

“Then we will purchase her another quill. She must not give up on her dreams because of a tyrant.”

She watched him closely. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Gratitude welled in her chest. And relief for being able to share her burden. She stole a glimpse at him beneath lowered lashes. His confidence as a duke spoke volumes and infused her with renewed hope. She may not be able to aid Mary with Mr. Elder, but she could keep encouraging her sister. “Thank you for listening.”

“Of course. It’s reasonable to share a distressing experience. You care for Mary. Does Edwin know?”

“That Mary writes? Or that Mr. Elder turned her away based on her sex?”

“Both.”

The notion was laughable if not so upsetting. “No. Edwin would never approve of Mary’s writing endeavors. The sister of an earl shouldn’t dabble in trade, and he would consider an author a tradeswoman.”

“One more reason I consider him a bore.”

She couldn’t agree more.

Warwick motioned to one of the tables. “May I show you my latest findings? It may distract you from your problems. At least for a short while.”

She followed him to one of the tables and spotted a rifle. “Is this it?”

Warwick shook his head. “No. That is an older invention and not the one that I wish to—”

She ran a finger along the barrel of the rifle. “Is this how you injured yourself?”

He shrugged, rolling his muscular shoulders before her. “If you must know, I was experimenting with both the gunpowder as well as the rifling of the barrel to increase the accuracy and distance of a single shot. The gunpowder burned too hotly, and I was injured. I still consider the invention a success.”

She looked up at him. He stood close, and the fluttery feeling in her chest returned. She clenched her fingers and imposed iron control on herself not to rest a hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t consider the extent of your burn a success. How is your injury, by the way? I brought along more of my poultice.”

He rolled up his shirtsleeve. “Much better thanks to you.”

She raised his forearm for inspection. She was aware of the warmth of his skin and that he was standing inches from her, not feet. “Hmm. No sign of infection, but you will be left with a nasty scar.”

His quick grin made her heart beat faster. “I had the best of care.”

Her heart pounded, and she wondered if he could hear it. Suddenly flushed, she turned away. She followed him to a different table where he picked up what looked like a hollow tube and handed it to her.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said.

She studied the tube, then looked up at him, her eyebrows drawn together. “Is this a flute or some other musical instrument?”

He chuckled and reached out to touch her hand before she raised the tube to her lips to blow through the smaller end. His warm fingers lingered, and her eyes locked with his as he spoke. “It’s called a stethoscope and was invented by the Frenchman, R. Laennec. It’s used to listen to the heartbeat or inside the chest of a patient.”

Her interest was suddenly piqued tenfold. She lowered her gaze to the tube in her hand. “Truly? How does it work?”

“You place the flat end to the chest and the other end to your ear. The hollow wooden tube conducts sound.”