Chapter Ten
Vanessa had never realised how insufferable confinement could be until she was subjected to it.
Three days of lying on the chaise longue in the drawing room with her ankle propped on cushions, forbidden to walk more than the distance to the necessary, attended to by a parade of servants and a mother whose concern had curdled into something resembling tyranny.
It was enough to drive anyone mad and Vanessa, who had never been particularly good at sitting still, was very nearly at her wit's end.
She had tried to occupy herself. She had read every book within reach, worked through an entire basket of embroidery, written letters to distant relations she barely remembered.
But nothing could distract her from the thoughts that circled endlessly through her mind, thoughts of a certain duke, a certain morning in the park, a certain pair of hands that had touched her ankle with such devastating gentleness.
"You must keep it elevated, dearest. The physician was quite clear."
"I have kept it elevated, Mama. I have done nothing but keep it elevated. I am in danger of forgetting what it feels like to have both feet on the ground."
"There is no need for dramatics." Lady Wayworth adjusted the cushion beneath Vanessa's ankle with fussy precision. "A sprained ankle is not a trifling matter. If you do not rest it properly, you may find yourself with a permanent limp."
"I hardly think…"
"Lady Haberton's daughter did not rest her ankle properly after a fall, and now she walks with a pronounced hobble. It has quite ruined her prospects. No gentleman wants a wife who cannot dance."
Vanessa bit back the retort that rose to her lips. There was no point in arguing with her mother when she was in this mood, all maternal concern and dire warnings, convinced that every minor ailment was a harbinger of disaster.
"I shall rest it, Mama. I promise."
"See that you do." Lady Wayworth patted her hand with the air of one conferring a great benediction. "Now, I must speak to Cook about this evening's menu. The Duke of Montehood is dining with us, and we must make a proper impression."
She swept out before Vanessa could respond, leaving her daughter alone with her thoughts and the growing certainty that this evening was going to be torture.
Martin was coming to dinner.
She had not seen him since the park, since the fall, the examination, the conversation on the bench that had left her more confused than ever. Three days of lying on this wretched chaise longue, replaying every moment, analyzing every word, trying to make sense of what had passed between them.
I find my thoughts disordered, he had said. My judgement compromised.
I am certain of very little these days.
You are exactly enough. You have always been exactly enough.
What had he meant? What had any of it meant?
She had turned the words over in her mind until they had lost all meaning, examined them from every angle, searched for hidden significance that might or might not exist. Martin was not a man given to sentimentality.
He did not offer compliments lightly, and when he did, they were usually barbed with irony.
But there had been no irony in his voice when he spoke those words. There had been something else, something raw and unguarded that she had never heard from him before.
And then there was the matter of his hands on her ankle.
Vanessa felt heat rise to her cheeks at the memory. It had been entirely proper, a medical examination, nothing more. Her groom had been present. There had been nothing inappropriate about it.
And yet.
The way he had touched her. The gentleness of his fingers as he removed her boot. The warmth of his palm against her ankle, the pressure of his thumb tracing the curve of her foot. She had felt his touch through the silk of her stocking as though there were nothing between them at all.
She had gasped, and it had not been from pain.
Had he noticed? Had he understood what that sound meant? Or had he assumed it was merely a response to the injury, a natural reaction to the manipulation of damaged tissue?
She remained in total ignorance, yet propriety forbade her to inquire. This despicable state of suspense was fast becoming an insupportable burden to her spirits.
***
The anonymous gift basket had arrived the morning after her fall.
It had been waiting for her when she came down to breakfast or rather, when she had been carried down to breakfast by two footmen, an indignity she hoped never to repeat.
A large wicker basket, beautifully arranged, sat on the side table where the morning post was usually placed.
Inside were hothouse flowers in shades of pink and cream, a box of French chocolates from the confectioner on Bond Street, and a slim volume bound in green leather.
"How lovely!" her mother had exclaimed. "Who sent it?"
There had been no card or any indication of the sender. The footman who had received it reported only that it had been delivered by a liveried servant who had departed without leaving a name.
"It must be from Lord Deane," Lady Wayworth had decided. "How thoughtful of him. He must have heard of your accident."
"Perhaps," Vanessa had said, though something about the gift did not feel like Lord Deane.
The chocolates were French, imported, expensive, the sort of thing one had to know where to find.
They were from Monsieur Girard's establishment, which did not advertise and catered only to a select clientele.
Lord Deane, for all his good qualities, was not the sort of man who would know about Monsieur Girard.
He would have sent flowers from his own garden, perhaps, or a basket of fruit from his estate.
This gift spoke of someone who knew her tastes. Someone who had paid attention. Someone who had, perhaps, overheard her mention once, at a dinner party years ago that Monsieur Girard's chocolates were the finest she had ever tasted.
She had examined the book more closely once her mother had left. It was a volume of poetry, not Byron, but Keats. Endymion and Other Poems, in a beautiful edition with gilt-edged pages and a ribbon marker of deep green silk.
Inside the front cover, someone had written a single line in an unfamiliar hand: For the invalid. To pass the time.
The handwriting was not Martin's. She knew his hand as she had studied it on the few notes he had sent over the years, memorised its angular slant and careless elegance.
This was different, rounder and more precise.
A servant's hand, perhaps, transcribing a message from someone who did not wish to be identified.
But who? Who would send such a gift anonymously?
She had told herself it was Lord Deane. She had almost convinced herself of it. But a small, treacherous part of her heart had whispered another name, and she had not been able to silence it since.
The chocolates were exactly right. The book was exactly right. Everything about the gift was exactly, perfectly right as though the sender had looked into her heart and seen precisely what would bring her comfort.
Lord Deane did not know her that well. Lord Deane, despite his devotion, had never paid the kind of attention that would reveal such intimate knowledge of her preferences.
But Martin had been there at that dinner party. Martin had been standing nearby when she praised Monsieur Girard's chocolates. Martin had once, years ago, argued with her about the relative merits of Keats and Wordsworth—and lost, gracefully, when she made her case for Endymion.
Martin knew.
The question was whether he had acted on that knowledge, and if so, why.
***
The afternoon light was fading when Helena arrived.
She swept into the drawing room in a rustle of muslin and concern, her pretty face creased with worry. "Vanessa! Edward told me what happened. Are you terribly injured? Does it hurt dreadfully?"
"It is merely a sprain. I am perfectly well."
"You do not look perfectly well. You look pale." Helena settled onto the chair beside the chaise longue, reaching for Vanessa's hand. "Tell me everything. Edward was maddeningly vague, he said only that you fell from your horse and injured your ankle. How did it happen? Where were you?"
"In the park. A rabbit startled my mare."
"How frightening! Were you alone?"
Vanessa hesitated. This was the moment she had been dreading, the moment when she would have to speak of Martin and somehow keep her voice steady while doing so.
"No. Lord Montehood was there. He... assisted me."
Something shifted in Helena's expression, a flicker of interest and then quickly disappeared. "Did he? How fortunate that he happened to be nearby."
"Yes. Fortunate."
"And he assisted you how, exactly?"
"He helped me to a bench. Sent my groom for a carriage." Vanessa kept her voice carefully neutral, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath. "He was very kind."
"I see." Helena was watching her with an intensity that made Vanessa uncomfortable.
She had known Helena since childhood, and she knew that expression, it was the look Helena got when she was pursuing a mystery, following threads of information to their inevitable conclusion.
"And was that all? He simply helped you to a bench? "
"What else would there be?"
"I do not know. You tell me." Helena leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Vanessa, you are blushing. You never blush. In all the years I have known you, I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen color in your cheeks. What happened in that park?"
"Nothing happened." The denial came too quickly, too forcefully. "I fell from my horse and injured my ankle. Lord Montehood was present and offered assistance. That is the whole of it."
"Then why do you look as though you are hiding something?"