Page 7 of A Desperate Proposal

“You broke it again, didn’t you?” Miss Weston’s previous antagonism had vanished with what seemed to be genuine concern. “Don’t walk on it, Ellie! You’ll only make it worse.”

“It’s not broken,” Elinor said softly as her cousin retreated. “Though, I may need some help getting back into the house.” She bowed her head as she admitted that, avoiding having to meet his eyes or Evelina’s.

“Arabella, go tell Morgan to fetch Lord Summersby and the doctor, and send us a footman.”

“Of course, my lady.” Looking warily at the path, she carefully but quickly navigated it, her arms extended out dramatically as though afraid her own balance might give way upon such cursed paving stones.

“If you will forgive the forwardness, Miss Harcourt?” Tristan didn’t wait for her answer or Evelina’s permission to haul the young lady into his arms. She weighed less than some soldiers’ packs and had the benefit of smelling like rosewater instead of mule teams or wet wool. And was an altogether more agreeable passenger than his comrades. Miss Harcourt went stiff for a moment, looking at Tristan like she didn’t know what to do with herself, and then he felt her relax in his arms, and her hand came up to his shoulder.

“May I ask what the previous injury was?” Evie hovered anxiously to the side nearest Miss Harcourt’s head.

“I broke it a few years ago. Just a minor accident. The surgeon set it without difficulty. Poor Arabella was there when it happened and has been skittish ever since.” Tristan glanced sidelong at her, suspecting she wasn’t telling the whole truth from a sudden quaver and hesitation in the words. Nor would a minor accident require a physician’s ward to have a surgeon attend.

It wasn’t his business to pry, of course. But if she had rebroken a serious injury to her leg, that was no trifling matter.

“A surgeon?” Evie paled. “I hadn’t even considered … of course. We shall have to call Doctor Moreland at once!” And with that, Evelina rushed after Miss Weston, leaving Tristan to grimace in her wake and try to appear reassuring.

“Pray, excuse my sister, Miss Harcourt. She will recall propriety once her maid’s fussed over her. She never dealt well with injuries.”

“I really don’t believe it is anything serious,” she said, her other hand going to her knee, her chin lifting toward the black leather shoe which peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirts. Tristan decided not to offer his opinion.

“Hm. At least she didn’t faint. I couldn’t have carried you both.”

She finally turned her head to look at him, perhaps understanding the reason behind his apology. “I’d hate to accuse you of lying, Lord Asherton, but I somehow suspect you’d have no trouble carrying both of us if you set your mind to it.”

“For a short distance in extreme necessity, perhaps. Though I thank you for your faith in my abilities.” He adjusted his hold on her before starting up the steps. Her muslin gown and petticoat were not the best grip a man could wish for, not least because feeling the warmth of her skin through it was … distracting. He welded his focus on the stone path before them. “I hope you will accept the surgeon’s opinion. He is at no great distance and surely will not regret the dinner my sister will insist on giving him.”

“To be honest, I know myself to be quite useless at the slightest discomfort, and I hate that he should come only to reaffirm that.”

“You could scarcely touch your foot to the ground. That isn’t the same as fainting over a needle prick.”

“I fainted after the first injury.” He felt her shiver. She must have tried to recall it.

“When you fell?”

She cleared her throat. “More than once.”

“I’ve seen hardened soldiers lose consciousness, and their stomachs, when moved with a broken limb. I don’t know who taught you to expect more of yourself than His Majesty’s army, but you’ve a good reason to trounce the idiot.”

“I—Oh! Oh, no. The book! I left it at the gazebo. If it were to rain…” She shifted in his arms, her left hand going behind his neck, her upper half pressing more fully against his chest as she lifted her face above his shoulder. If she hadn’t been light as a summer’s breeze, he might have dropped her. If he didn’t need to be a true gentleman these days, he might’ve done one or two other things as well. But he was not a rakehell or impetuous officer anymore. He couldn’t distract a pretty girl from her pain by kissing her senseless. Not until he knew her longer than half an hour at least.

“Miss Harcourt, do stay still, and leave the book for a servant to fetch. If it rains before then, I’ll see a new copy obtained.” She returned to her original position, apparently chastened. And damn if he didn’t regret even that mild rebuke. Not to mention the loss of her hand—gloved though it was—on his skin. Instead, her satin-covered fingers fiddled nervously with the pale pink ribbon at her gown’s waist seam.

Don’t think about her damn waist. Especially not when your hand is so near it… Bloody hell. Stop.

“I can’t imagine this is how you expected your arrival to be met, Lord Asherton.”

Tristan exhaled, grateful she hadn’t melted into tears over his snapping tone. And that she couldn’t guess his thoughts. “True. I expected at least a bucket more of tears and screaming. But I understand not everyone can be as operatic as my younger sister. You didn’t even faint for me. Perhaps I should remind Lady Summersby of my high expectations?” He smiled down at her before a rushing footman swung open the terrace doors leading into Evelina’s favorite drawing room.

“Lord Asherton, apologies, the young miss said you were out the east door, and we—”

“No matter. Miss Harcourt is quite portable.”

“Thank you for the strangest compliment of the year, my lord,” Miss Harcourt said wryly, while the footman suppressed a chuckle.

“Right through here, my lord. Lady Summersby and Mrs. Daniels are directing Cook on a posset, and we’ve sent Rogers to fetch his lordship and the doctor.”

“Then I shall see Miss Harcourt sitting comfortably. Get us both some coffee if Evie has any? And brandy.”