Page 8 of A Desperate Proposal

The pale blue walls and yellow silk of the drawing room produced some strange alchemy to heighten the colors of Miss Harcourt’s eyes, so much so that Tristan hesitated before he lowered her to the striped sofa. He found himself inhaling once more, catching a light scent of rose and orange blossom, feeling the blazing imprint of her body through their clothes.

“Care to tell me how you really broke your ankle, Miss Harcourt?” he asked as he straightened himself, mostly to distract his mind from her shocking eyes or the exact fit of her body against his, and how much certain parts of him suggested he ought to be holding onto her rather than letting go. Hell’s bells I need to find a mistress. “Before anyone comes back to overhear?”

Her laughter rang out again, only this time she did not cover or try to stop it. In the next instant, her eyes locked on his and a light pink stain returned to her cheeks. He wished he could know what had distracted her.

“I fell from a tree,” she said, as if confessing some grave trespass. “Some six years ago. Arabella would have been nine, I think. A wind caught one of her ribbons and it got stuck on a twig. She cried so much that I felt I must retrieve it if only to stop her tears.”

“You climbed a tree for a ribbon?” Tristan raised a brow.

She nodded with an odd air of pride. “I managed to grab hold of it before the branch snapped beneath me.”

Tristan shook his head, smiling. “I find I don’t believe you. You’re far too composed for such impulsiveness. I should think—”

“What took you so long, Tris?” Evelina stormed in from the far door, her cheeks as bright as the trim on her dress, Miss Weston a pale shadow behind her. He cast a playfully apologetic look at Miss Harcourt and stood, relinquishing his kneeling post at her side just in time for two maids bearing blankets and a tray of what smelled like coffee, as well as a decanter of Summersby’s brandy. “I began to worry you meant poor Elinor to catch a chill as well as a broken ankle.”

His acidic reply burned his tongue but not his sister’s ears thanks to the arrival of his brother-in-law, who took up a station beside Evelina. Summersby’s wild grin did not match his reputation as a taciturn general, nor his wife’s rancor. “Do you ever make an entrance without some manner of Shakespearian drama, Asherton?”

“Never. Has the surgeon been called?” Tristan directed the question to Evie.

“Of course. We sent young Smithson with the gig.”

“Are you certain it’s not broken?” Miss Weston asked, standing behind the couch and reaching for Elinor’s hand. Whatever animosity the two had for one another in the gardens, it was surely gone now. Miss Harcourt, through her pain, looked up at the panicked blonde with warmth as she joined their hands.

“I shouldn’t think so, Bella.”

“My wife tells me you tripped on the stones?” Summersby spoke, more concerned now he’d had a moment to survey the young woman’s demeanor and her sharp inhale as the second maid began spreading the blanket over her leg. Miss Weston huffed and waved the girl off, evidently preferring to unfasten her cousin’s shoe herself. The swelling of Miss Harcourt’s ankle was unmistakable as her cousin’s ministrations momentarily revealed her uninjured leg.

Miss Harcourt nodded. “My foot simply slipped out from beneath me.”

“Why not have a drink, Elinor?” Evelina asked. Tristan could barely believe his sister’s maternal instinct had arrived, but Evie was already pouring the coffee and adding a splash of brandy.

“Do you think it’s necessary, my lady?”

“Necessary? No. But recommended. Mrs. Daniels is bringing up some cold water and some vinegar concoction of hers she swears will keep down any undue swelling.”

“A bit of brandy never goes amiss in these situations,” Summersby agreed. “Especially if one is about to smell Mrs. Daniels’ ointments.”

“Mr. Moreland is a most capable surgeon, but he will be at least an hour in arriving, and I believe brandy and keeping the patient still is the most accepted procedure. Is there anything we are forgetting?” Evelina looked to Tristan and her husband.

“Letting the poor girl have some peace to collect herself might be a relief,” Summersby said. “Having a collection of servants and two men she hardly knows looming over her must be disquieting—”

“Oh, I should never think so unkindly, Lord Summersby,” Miss Harcourt said with wide, mortified eyes, obviously having missed the thread of humor in Summersby’s voice. “I’m so thankful for your attendance. Truly.”

“My husband is being facetious, dear. Though not altogether wrong.” Evelina patted Summersby’s arm. “But should she change before he arrives? Her hem is quite torn.”

“Surgeons have seen worse than a muddy hem with some stitches loose, love.” Somehow there was now a snifter in Summersby’s hand being duly pressed into Evie’s as Summersby steered her toward the door. “I’m sure he will forgive it. Miss Weston, the house is at your disposal. Ask the staff for anything either of you may require.”

An enterprising footman handed Miss Weston a coffee cup at least twice as full as that gently set in Miss Harcourt’s hand. Tristan hoped it had very little brandy in it considering Miss Weston’s stature. She was hardly bigger than Miss Harcourt, who was…

Stop thinking about her form, Tristan.

“We shall be in the library,” Tristan informed them, bowing to both ladies before shadowing his sister and brother-in-law out to the next room.

“And what of our business, Tris?” Evie asked just above a whisper. “Shall we speak on it now or later?”

“Later. I’ve a small errand.” He had promised to mind Miss Harcourt’s book after all. And he had something of an idea about how best to handle that. When Evie began to protest, he held up a hand. “After supper, I solemnly promise.”

His sister’s hazel eyes were sharpened slits but she nodded, and he didn’t wait for her to think again. With a nod to Summersby, he retreated to the terrace and off into the gardens.