A dare too far, p.3
A Dare too Far, page 3
And did he hear… actual laughter echoing down the hall and pushing through the crack beneath his door and into his room?
He groaned. He felt like he’d been squashed by a boulder.
Or…
A falling woman.
He bolted up right in bed. “Jane!” The pain stabbed him in several different places. He hissed and slid carefully back down to a prone position.
“Be silent and still, my lord. It’s best for you, especially since the Viscount Escher says you will not take laudanum.”
The unfamiliar voice convinced George to open his eyes. On the side of the bed opposite the candle a man stood. A physician?
“No laudanum,” George whispered. No pain was bad enough for that. This might come close, though. “Lady Jane?”
The physician pointed across the room with a jut of his chin. “Fine, fine. Though… had you not caught her, it would be her head that hit that tree root, not yours. And at the height she tumbled from, she’d likely be stretched out in a coffin instead of cuddling up in that chair.”
George frowned. Even that hurt.
“She won’t leave. Two footmen dragged her out when we went to set your shoulder. She wiggled out of their grasp and came barreling back in, apologizing to the footmen all the while.” He sniffed. “The hoyden.” Censorious language, affectionate tone. “Lord Escher gave her permission to stay after that. And after we got your shoulder set and a shirt back on you. Some of the suitors are not best pleased.”
Suitors? Jane’s suitors? Something about that word rested just outside of George’s memory, and when he couldn’t grasp it, he let it go. He steeled himself and turned his head. Every movement bounced his brain about his skull, and he closed his eyes against the pain. Once turned completely away from the doctor, he opened them back up. A small human shape curled in a large armchair next to the fire. Dark wavy locks obscured her face. Pink toes peeked out from wrinkled, dirty skirts.
“She’s well?” George asked. “You’re sure?”
“Don’t worry, my lord. You didn’t get those cuts and bruises for nothing. She’s perfectly well. She has a few cuts and bruises of her own. From the tree branches she hit on her way down. But much better off than you.”
He let go of a breath he’d been holding. “Good.”
The doctor grunted. “You, my lord, have a bump the size of a man’s fist on the back of your head. Fell on a tree root. And dislocated your arm. You’ve got a few other bruises, but they should all heal in time.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you keep still for a bit.”
“I couldn’t move if I wanted to.” And that spelled disaster. He’d never missed a Christmas with his family. He’d never thought this year would be an exception. “What day is it?”
“December 18th. Your memory might fail you for a bit. Known to happen with head injuries like this.”
Seven days till Christmas. “How long will the headaches last? The memory loss?”
The doctor shrugged. “A day or so. Or a month or more.” He shrugged again. “Every case is different.”
He might be on the road before Christmas. He might not.
Jane stirred in the chair and lifted her head. Her gaze immediately swung toward the bed and she hopped to her feet. “Oh! You're awake.” She turned around and grabbed the chair's arms then dragged it toward the side of the bed. Once she had placed it exactly so, she plopped into it, crossed her legs beneath her skirts, and grinned at him. “I'm so glad you're not dead.”
“Me too,” George said.
“Me as well,” the doctor grumbled. He packed various items into a bag and strode toward the door. “Lady Jane. Lord Abbington.” He turned to leave but hesitated, scratching the balding top of his head so that wisps of hair stood on end. “I shouldn’t leave you two alone.”
Lady Jane lifted her chin and crossed her arms under her chest. “I’ll not be moved until I’ve determined George is well, and you know us—we’re old friends. Nothing to worry about there. No one is watching our every move, not like in London.”
The doctor glared at George. “I ‘spose he can’t do anything right now even if he wanted to.”
“Damn right,” George croaked. He shot a pleading glance at Jane. “Water?”
The doctor must have made up his mind. He shut the door behind him without another word.
Jane jumped to her feet and crossed the room to a water basin and a jug. She filled a cup and brought it to him.
It meant he’d have to sit up. He should have considered that. “Put it there.” He rolled his eyes toward the bedside table.
She did as he bade and took her seat in her chair, pulling her legs up and folding them beneath her skirts. “I was worried.”
“I was unconscious.”
“In and out. Do you not remember?”
He shook his head.
Her eyelids fluttered closed. “So much blood, and your shoulder looked decidedly odd.”
“Feels like my arm was wrenched entirely out of its socket.”
“Because it was.” She grinned even wider.
“My aching head cannot take the brilliance of your joy right now, Lady Jane.” He sounded grumpy even to his own ears, but she did not seem to mind.
She jabbered away about everything that had happened while he’d been unconscious.
And he found himself, through self-preservation likely, looking at her lips as she spoke instead of listening to her. He'd never paid particular attention to them before, but now he could not let them out of his sight. He'd always acknowledged, especially in the last two years, that she was an attractive woman. The ton didn’t deem her so, but the way she moved, the contortions of her face when something excited her, the grace of her body in that movement… yes, attractive seemed too dull a word to describe the appeal she held.
But he'd never before been obsessed with her lips as he currently found himself—mesmerized, riveted, besotted.
Obviously, the tree root had addled his brains. Or Edmund’s tease about George courting Jane had given him fanciful ideas.
She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Should I call the doctor back?” She tilted her head to the side. “Why won't you take laudanum?”
Even with a scrambled brain, he knew not to answer that question. Too complicated. Images of dark rooms and high-pitched giggling threatened to swallow him whole as his uncle swallowed the drops that ruled him and had ruined him. No, he didn't need an aching head and sore body to resist discussing the topic.
“I'm tired,” he said. Not a lie. He closed his eyes, meaning to dismiss her with the gesture. But then he popped them open again. “What’s this about suitors?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
She frowned. “Do you remember the scandal? In London?”
He reached. He found it. “Yes. You went north with Lord Devon to… to?”
“Bring Lady Tabitha home.”
Oh yes, now he fully remembered. “And the suitors?”
“Christiana’s idea. But you provided wonderfully. The only truly serious candidates are the three men you sent. They are here until Christmas, and I must choose from them.”
“Why not Lord Devon?”
She tucked her gaze away from him. “I can’t marry him, and I won’t tell you why. It’s not my place to speak of it.”
“Cryptic.”
“I’ll not marry Lord Devon.”
“Fine.” Had he wanted her to? He squeezed his eyes shut. He did not feel himself.
She bounced to her feet. “I’ll leave you to rest. I’m sure with a good night’s sleep your memory will return good as new.” She twisted her hands around the bedpost. “I'm the reason you're in this deuced uncomfortable position. I'm… I’m the reason you almost died. I will not be the reason you lose sleep. I'm terribly sorry, by the way. I've never fallen out of a tree before. I knew the tree was not as stout as it should be for climbing, but the mistletoe mocked me.”
He brushed her worry away. “I'm glad I softened your fall.” He hated to think what would have happened had he not been. His entire body filled with a shuddering revulsion at the possibility.
“I'm terribly glad you were there to catch me. But why are you here? Don't you plan to spend Christmas with Martha?”
Ah, yes. He did have a purpose for being here, and it wasn't to save Lady Jane’s life. It slipped back to him now, on quiet cat feet. But with his head pounding and his body aching, he was not in the mood to have a serious conversation with a woman about whom she planned to marry.
Ah. And there was the rest of the memory, the suitors he’d suggested and the one Christiana had supplied herself. He should be in a better temper and in better health for such a conversation.
But putting it off irked him. He never put a thing off if he could do it immediately. And she only had seven days to choose a husband. No time to be wasted.
“My sister Martha does expect me. I had fully intended to spend the holiday with her and her husband. But I have other obligations.”
“I do not doubt that. You’re a very busy man.”
“Do you remember, Jane, when you were a small lass, no older than ten, perhaps? And you wished to climb to the very top of the house and walk along the edge of the roof?”
“I do,” she said, not a hint of contrition in her voice. “Your brain must be scrambled. Why do you speak of it?”
George tried one of his patented grins, meant to set people at ease. It hurt. He stopped trying. “You got to the top of the ground floor and fell.”
“I broke my arm and got this scratch.” She pointed to a small scar on her temple, a delicate white slash.
“Eddy and I told you not to. You could have gotten to the ramparts from inside the house, after all.”
“You did. I could have. I did not wish to use the conventional way. Why are we speaking of this?”
“You did not listen.”
“I did not,” she said cheerfully.
“I came to have a conversation with you about a matter of great import. And I would dearly appreciate it if you listened to me this time.”
The color in her face drained, and he did not know if the agitation that knitted her fingers together was from annoyance or anger or fear. “And if I do not, I’ll end up with a broken arm?”
More like a broken heart, a broken future.
He lifted the glass of water and took a sip. “Lady Jane, I have a proposition for you.”
Jane took two stumbling steps backward, her brown eyes wide. “Oh?”
“As long as I am stuck here this Christmas season, I will help you choose a husband.”
She took two stumbling steps forward and melted against the bedpost with a whoosh of breath. “You stopped my heart, George. For a moment, I thought you meant to propose! But this… this makes much more sense. Proposition is not a word that should be used lightly, I think. But no. I do not desire, nor do I need, your help in this area.”
“It's been months since the scandal and the one person who actually proposed—what is it? Twice—”
“Thrice,” Jane mumbled. “He proposed this afternoon as well. In the maze.”
“Three times? Today?” His head swam. “Three times and you have refused him all. Three. Times.”
“I do not wish to marry him.”
“And what of the other men? The ones I sent?”
“True gentlemen, all.”
“I suppose I've helped you once, Lady Jane. Allow me to help you once more. This is the most expedient means to a conclusion. Do you not wish to wed?”
Her gaze slid away from his, her eyelids fluttering down to hide her expression. “I do. But I would like to marry a man I respect and admire. I cannot simply put their names in a hat and choose one.”
He could not argue with her good sense there. Without respect and admiration, a union could mean a lifetime of misery.
“No one wishes you to be unhappy Lady Jane or to observe such lax decision-making protocols as plucking a name from a hat. But you’ve had months to choose and at least three proposals.”
“From a man I will not marry.”
“Still, you are unengaged. Let me help you make a decision. I’m excellent at helping. And at decision-making.”
“Thank you for your offer, but I do not need your help.” She tried to smile, but it looked more like she was baring her teeth. She flounced toward the door, and he suppressed a laugh. Jane flouncing proved funny.
“You may not wish my help, but you may need it, Lady Jane!”
She slipped through the door, narrowing one last gaze at him that could clearly be interpreted as no. “You need your rest, Lord Abbington. Acting as my matchmaker would be too much for your poor, injured constitution.”
“You injured it.”
She winced. Her face flushed. “I am sorry.” She spoke to the floor. “I have already apologized, and I did mean it. Do mean it.”
“Do not let it bother you. I’m glad it happened. Well… not glad it happened but glad I could be there to save you.” He sighed. He’d said all this before. His brain felt terribly muddled.
She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you.”
He swatted toward the door with his good hand. “Go. If you will not take my help, I think I will rest. It will allow me to heal quicker so perhaps I can make it to Martha by Christmas.”
She nodded and closed the door behind her.
He needed to get back home to his uncle, too. He could not leave Martha alone with their uncle and her dying husband on Christmas of all days.
But there was no way in hell he could travel by coach or horse with this hellish headache. He'd be stuck here until it let up. Hopefully in a day instead of a month.
His eyelids grew heavy. His thoughts slowed to the pace of an aged farm horse walking to the pasture of his final days.
Sleep claimed him, and a pair of mobile red lips pressed against his in the darkness of his dreams.
CHAPTER 5
In the hallway outside of George's bedroom, Jane hesitated. Her body felt weak, limp, exhausted. She desired only her bed and a good night’s rest.
But she owed her guests an explanation. They had tried in their various ways to speak with her, to make sure she was well during the hubbub that had followed George's barely conscious entrance to the house. She had hardly recognized them. Their voices of concern had been mere flies at the edge of her periphery. She had swatted them away, her entire being fixated on a single point—George.
He was well now. Or as well as he could be at the moment. Healing, at least. She could now put her attentions elsewhere—on the bevy of bachelors willing to marry her.
Jane took a deep, sustaining breath, threw her shoulders back, and straightened her skirts as best she could. My, but they were wrinkled. At least she’d changed out of her trousers earlier. She marched to the door where a rumble of voices signified the guests’ presence. She threw the door open and sailed inside the room.
Her father and brother, her five suitors, and Katherine jumped up at once.
Christiana rolled to a stand in the same sultry manner she did everything.
And Lillian flew across the room, her golden curls streaming behind her, and wrapped Jane in a hug. “What's happened? The doctor would only talk to your brother and father in private, and they refused to tell us a thing. Christiana has been quite put out,” Lillian whispered close to Jane’s ear. “She wants to know as much as the rest of us, but your father won't even tell her.”
“It is no secret. They can be told.” She lifted her chin and faced the assembled party. “I fell out of a tree and landed on top of poor Lord Abbington. Thank goodness he broke my fall, but he suffered grievous injury during the process. He's a lump on his head, and his shoulder has been dislocated. The doctor has inspected the head wound, set his shoulder, and says he will heal, given time. But what Lord Abbington expected to be a very short visit, to speak a word into my brother's ear, will now be rather longer than that.”
Each suitor seemed to react to her speech in different ways. The three men George had recommended smiled agreeably.
Lord Devon didn't seem to care one way or another. He popped back down into his seat and wrapped his hand around a glass tumbler, finishing the rest of his drink. He’d not abandoned his drink, but at least he looked freshly bathed.
Lord Sharpton narrowed his eyes. “Lord Abbington is… ahem… confined to his bed, is he not?”
What a strange question to ask. “For the moment, I believe so. His head pains him greatly, and I think movement disturbs this even more.”
Lord Sharpton’s eyes narrowed, and he gave a curt nod of his head. “Excellent. Wouldn’t want more competition.”
Christiana laughed, a tinkling sound so high, Jane expected the windows to shatter. “La, you are a riot, Sharpy. Don’t speak so or you’ll give dear Jane the wrong idea about you and your suit.” Her stepmother’s dark blonde hair fell down her back in artful disarray. She looked somehow younger and older than her seven and twenty years; those hazel eyes gleamed with mischief and daring. Always.
Lord Sharpton sat back down slowly, a predatory look in his eye. “I trust you know exactly what to think of me, Lady Jane.”
Jane did not. He certainly meant her to take him seriously. Yet she could not. His hair seemed polished to a shine, and pressed so closely to his skull, he seemed made of porcelain, not flesh.
Christiana seemed to like the hairdo. She threaded her fingers through it every time she got near the man, proving it to be hair and not fine china.
Jane’s jaw clenched, and her teeth ground close to dust every time she witnessed it. She sneaked a glance at her father. He sat with Edmund, nodding at something said in conversation, his eyes deep brown, and the corners of his once joyful mouth perpetually turned down. Brackets around his mouth gave him a look of seasoned worry, sorrow. He did not seem to have noticed Christiana’s behavior. Thank goodness, he never seemed to notice. Surely his heart would break to see his young, beautiful wife lavishing attentions on another man.
