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She averted her face. “My—my ankle pains me a little. I believe I twisted it, but I assure you I can manage.” The lock turned and she opened the gate. When she stepped into the garden she nearly toppled to the ground.
Adrian hurried through the gate and wrapped an arm around her. “You cannot walk.”
The hood of her cloak fell away, fully revealing her face, only inches from his own.
Her skin was as smooth and flawless as the Roman sculpture of Clytie that had once captivated him in the British Museum. Unlike cold white stone, however, Lady Wexin’s cheeks were warm with colour. Her lips, shaped like a perfect bow, were as pink as a dew-kissed rose. Adrian had often appreciated her beauty from across a ballroom, or from a box away at Covent Garden, but, this close, she robbed him of breath.
“Is this your house?” he finally managed.
She edged out of his embrace, but continued to clutch his arm. “Of course it is.”
He smiled. “Forgive me. Yes, it must be.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I must close the gate. Before they see.”
“Before they see?” He followed her glance.
“More newspaper people. They loiter around the house, looking for me.”
Ah, now it made sense why the lady entered her house through the garden gate. It did not explain why she had been out alone. Ladies did not venture out unless accompanied by a companion or a servant.
Adrian closed the gate with his free hand.
“I need to lock it.” She let go of him and tried to step away, again nearly falling.
Adrian reached for her again and helped her to the gate. “I’ll walk you to your door as well.”
“I am so sorry to trouble you.” She turned the key and left it in the lock.
Adrian kept his arm around her as they started for the house. When she put the slightest weight on her ankle, he felt her tense with pain.
“This will not do.” Adrian scooped her up into his arms.
“No, put me down,” she begged. “You must not carry me.”
“Nonsense. Of course I must.” Her face was even closer now and her scent, like spring lilacs, filled his nostrils. She draped her arms around his neck, and he inhaled deeply.
“See? I am too heavy,” she protested.
Too heavy? She felt as if she belonged in his arms.
He smiled at her. “Do not insult my strength, Lady Wexin. You will wound my male vanity.” He made the mistake of staring into her deep blue eyes, now glittering with unspent tears, and his heart wrenched for her. “You must be in great pain,” he murmured.
She held his gaze. “It hurts not at all now.”
He could not look away.
Somewhere on the street a door slammed and Lady Wexin blinked.
Adrian regained his senses and carried her the short distance to the rear door of the townhouse. Voices sounded nearby, riding on the evening breeze.
“The door will be unlocked,” she murmured, her hair brushing his cheek.
He opened the door and brought her inside. To the left he glimpsed the kitchen, though there were no sounds of a cook at work there. He carried her down the passageway and brought her above stairs to the main hall of the house.
It was elegantly appointed with a gilded hall table upon which sat a pair of Chinese vases, devoid of flowers. Matching gilded chairs were upholstered in bright turquoise. The floor was a chequerboard of black-and-white marble, but no footman stood in attendance. In fact, the house was very quiet and a bit chilly.
“Shall I summon one of your servants?” he asked.
“They—they are all out at the moment, but you may put me down. I shall manage from here.”
He looked at her in surprise. “All out?” It was odd for a house to be completely empty of servants.
She averted her gaze. “They have the day off.” She squirmed in his arms. “You may put me down.”
He shook his head. “Your ankle needs tending.” He started up the marble staircase, smiling at her again to ease her discomfort. “By the way, I ought to present myself. I am—”
She interrupted him. “I know who you are.”
Adrian’s smile deepened, flattered that she’d noticed him.
He reached the second floor where he guessed the bedchambers would be. “Direct me to your room.”
“The second door,” she replied. “But, really, you mustn’t—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “Someone must.”
Her bedchamber was adorned with hand-painted wallpaper, bright exotic birds frolicking amidst colourful flowers. A dressing table with a large mirror held sparkling glass bottles, porcelain pots and a brush and comb with polished silver handles. Her bed was neatly made, its white coverlet gleaming and its many pillows plumped with what he guessed was the finest down. The room was chilly, though, as if someone had allowed the fire in the fireplace to go out.
He set her down on the bed, very aware of her hands slipping away from his neck. “I’ll tend the fire.”
“Really, sir. You need not trouble yourself.” Her voice reached a high, nervous pitch.
“It is no trouble.”
He removed his hat, gloves and topcoat and crossed the room to the small fireplace, its mantel of carved marble holding another empty vase. To his surprise, the fire had not died out at all. It was all set to be lit. He found the tinderbox and soon had a flame licking across the lumps of coal.
He returned to her. She had removed her cloak and clutched it in front of her. Adrian took it from her hands and draped it over a nearby chair. It contained something in its pocket. Adrian felt a purse, heavy with coin.
He turned back to her and their eyes met, hers still shimmering with tears.
He touched her arm. “Are you certain you are not in pain? You look near to weeping.”
She averted her gaze. “I’m not in pain.”
He knelt in front of her. “Then let me have a look at that ankle. If it is broken, we will need to summon a surgeon.”
She drew up her leg. “A surgeon!”
“A surgeon would merely set the bone,” he said, puzzled at her alarm.
Her hand fluttered. “I was thinking of the cost.”
“The cost?” Concern over the cost was even more puzzling. Adrian gave her a reassuring smile. “Let us not fret over what is not yet a problem. Let me examine it first.”
She extended her leg again and Adrian untied her half-boot. He slipped off the shoe, made of buttery soft white kid, and held her foot in his hand, enjoying too much its graceful shape.
She flinched.
He glanced up at her. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” she rasped. “Not hurting.”
He grinned. “Tickling, then. I’ll be more careful.” He forced himself to his task, feeling her ankle, now swollen. His hand slipped up to her calf, but he quickly moved it down to her ankle again, gently moving her foot in all directions.
She gasped.
“Does that hurt?” he asked her.
“A little,” she whispered. “I—I should not be allowing you to do this.”
Indeed. He was enjoying it far too much, and desiring far more.
He cleared his throat. “I believe your ankle is sprained, not broken. I predict you will do nicely in a day or two.” He did not release it. “I should wrap it, though, to give you some support. Do you have bandages, or a strip of cloth?”
Her eyes were half-closed. She blinked and pointed to a chest of drawers. “Look in the bottom drawer.”
Adrian reluctantly let go of her leg and walked over to the chest. The bottom drawer contained neatly folded underclothing made of soft muslin and satiny silk as soft and smooth as her skin.
His thoughts, as if having a will of their own, turned carnal, and he imagined crossing the room and taking her in his arms, tasting her lips, peeling off her clothing, sliding his hands over her skin.
He gave himself an inwards shake. He would not take advantage of this lady. Her peace was disturbed by reporters hounding her for a story, and her whole world had been turned head over ears with news of her husband’s crimes. And his death.
He frowned as he groped through her underclothing, finally coming up with a long thin piece of muslin.
He returned to her and knelt again. “I must remove your stocking.”
She extended her leg.
He slipped his hands up her calf, past her knee, until he found the top of her stocking and the ribbon that held it in place. He untied the ribbon and rolled the stocking down and off her foot. Her skin was smooth and warm and pliant beneath his fingers.
Adrian quickly took the strip of cloth and began to wind it around her ankle.
“Did you study surgery?” she asked, her voice cracking.
He looked up and grinned at her. “I fear it is horses I know, not surgery.”
She laughed, and the sound, like the joyful tinkling of a pianoforte, echoed in his mind.
He tried to force his attention back to the bandage, but she leaned forwards and gave him a good glimpse of her décolletage. “Are you so gentle with horses?”
He glanced back to the bandage and continued wrapping, smoothing the fabric with his other hand.
“What is your name?” Her tone turned low and soft.
He glanced up. “I thought you said you knew me.”
“I do not know your given name,” she said.
“Adrian.” He tied off her bandage and reluctantly released her.
“Adrian.” She extended her hand. “I am Lydia.”
He grasped her hand. “Lydia.”
Lydia’s heart raced at the feel of his large masculine hand enveloping hers. His grip was strong, the sort of grip that assured he was a man who could handle any trial. She now knew better than to make judgements based on such trivialities as a touch, but she could not deny he had been gentle with her. And kind.
It seemed so long since she’d felt kindness from anyone but her servants.
And even longer since she’d felt a man’s touch, since her husband left for Scotland, in fact. It shocked her how affected she was by Adrian Pomroy’s hand on hers. He warmed her all over, making her body pine for what only should exist between a husband and wife.
She took a breath. She’d always loved that part of marriage, the physical part, the part that was supposed to lead to babies…but she could not think of that. It was too painful.
It was almost easier to think of her husband. The Earl of Wexin.
The newspapers wrote that her husband had killed Lord Corland so that Wexin could marry her. Lord Corland’s death had been her fault.
She gripped Adrian’s hand even more tightly, sick that Wexin’s hands had ever touched her, hands that had cut a man’s throat.
She thought she’d loved Wexin. She’d trusted him with everything—the finances, the decisions, everything. But she had not known him at all. He’d betrayed her and left her with nothing but shame and guilt.
Her happiness had been an illusion, something that could not last, like the baby that had been growing inside her the day Wexin left.
The cramping had started the very next day after he’d gone, more than a month ago now, and she’d lost that baby like the two others before.
She swallowed a sob. Now she had nothing.
“Lydia?”
She glanced up into Adrian’s eyes, warm amber, perpetually mirthful, as if his life had been nothing but one long lark.
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are squeezing my hand.”
She released him. “I am sorry.”
He stood and took her hand in his again. “It was not a complaint. You look troubled.” He lifted her hand to his lips, warm soft lips. “You have been through a great deal, I suspect. I will act as your friend, if you will allow me.”
Her senses flared again and her breathing accelerated. “If you knew how I need a friend.”
