Chapter Six
Somewhere far off in the distance, muffled by the blood pounding in his ears, Trentham could hear Dessie’s gleeful laughter. The sound was at once reassuring and annoying.
He’d sprung up and away, shoving past Eli, who was his typical useless self, and hurdled the windowsill. Miss Delancey lay curled in the wet grass, shaking, emitting soft noises that might have been laughter or sobs or some combination of both.
He squatted beside her. “Are you all right?”
“Just grand.”
He wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Still, he tucked an arm beneath her shoulders. “Come on, then. Let’s get you out of this wet.”
She sat up with his help, wincing.
“What hurts?”
“My ankle. The left.”
Her skirts were tangled around her legs, and her boot leather was scuffed. He switched from squatting to kneeling, then gestured. “May I?”
“I suppose.” Her voice sounded resigned, and her face flushed nearly puce.
He set her foot on his thigh before raising the hem just over the top of her boot. “Ah. A little blood. On your stocking.” He sighed with relief. No jagged bone poked out from the skin. “I suspect you barked your shin. We should get that boot off, but I’d like to get you inside first.”
She nodded. He helped her to stand. She definitely favored her left foot.
“Put your arm around my neck,” he said.
She made a face. “Your neck is way up there. Just let me hobble.”
“Sorry. No.” He scooped her up. Her surprised “oh” was a little embarrassing. However, he’d learned not to say things like I’m stronger than I look, because women took that to mean he thought they were heavy. Not that he hoisted that many women. And none at all in recent times, sadly.
He carted her to the window and stuffed her inside. Eli had the sense to take over, giving her his arm while she limped toward a chair. Trentham stepped back over the sill.
Dessie had ceased laughing. “Are you hurt, Ophelia?” she asked, now tentative.
“Mortified.”
“Oh, good.” She grinned.
“Here.” Trentham pushed an ottoman next to Miss Delancey. “Foot up.” He raised her foot, tucked up her hem, and unlaced her boot.
“I’ll do it,” she said, brushing away his hands.
He straightened and watched her expression grow even more pained as she pulled the boot off.
“Sit still. I’ll send for the doctor.”
“Oh, no.” She groaned. “Please don’t.”
“It could be broken.”
“It isn’t. It’s twisted.”
He regarded her skeptically—how could she possibly know? Moreover, this was his house. Which put him somehow at fault. He sat on his haunches at her feet.
“So this is what we will do. A test. If you cry out, I call the doctor. Whimper, and I’ll send you home for Lynch to deal with.”
She scowled at him. “If you must. Go on.”
He took her foot in his hands and pressed gently on the ankle. She bit her lip but stayed quiet. He bent her toes. Nothing. Then he slowly turned her foot inward. He stopped the instant she yelped.
“That doesn’t mean it’s broken!” she protested.
“It means I send for the doctor. He can dress your shin, too.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”
“Ophelia, stop,” Dessie commanded. “You know what Daddy says. If you dive out of windows, you have to let the doctor examine you.”
Eli finally broke his silence. “What?”
“He never said that.” Miss Delancey huffed, then rubbed her nose. “Just something close.”
Trentham strode from the room, feeling shaken.
The lady would be fine. But he had an image in his head that he couldn’t quite dismiss.
If the latch had been locked, and she’d fallen through the window…
broken the glass…landed on shards… It didn’t help that for the first few moments, he’d thought she had.
He gave Henson the order to send for Dr. Ballantine.
“Urgently. Have Tom fetch him in the phaeton.” Then he detoured to his study to grab a bottle of brandy and four glasses before returning to the music room.
He was glad to see that Dessie had fussed.
There were pillows propped under Miss Delancey’s leg and a throw draped over her.
Eli was playing what he must think was soothing music.
Idiot. The whole thing was Eli’s fault. Or Dessie’s, for urging quiet, to let the scene unfold like some ridiculous bit of theater.
She’d whispered, “Don’t be a fuddy-duddy.
” Fuddy-duddy? “Ophelia has dealt with handsy music masters before.”
But not with Eli. And Miss Delancey had been regarding the blackguard with an adoring expression that had hit Trentham in the pit of his stomach. This was Lynch’s sister-in-law!
“Can we get a fire in here?” Dessie asked. “Not that it’s cold, but Ophelia’s a bit damp.”
“Yes, of course. I should have…of course.” His voice was too gruff for a response to so reasonable a request. “Here.” He held out the bottle and stacked glasses. “To warm her while I start the fire.”
“Well, she doesn’t need four glasses,” Dessie said, taking them from him. She set three on the floor and poured a finger of brandy for her sister.
Trentham knew he could call a maid, who’d do it faster, but having a task satisfied his need to keep moving.
He laid crumpled paper and crisscrossed kindling in the grate, used tongs to add a bit of coal without dirtying his hands, struck a match, and touched it to the paper.
When the flame fizzled out, he tried again, inwardly cursing himself for not calling a maid.
On the fourth match, the paper and kindling caught, thank God.
“Should I push her chair closer?” he asked Dessie.
“Not unless you want to set me ablaze,” Miss Delancey said. “And it’s my ankle that may be broken, not my ears.”
“Sorry.”
“If you are looking for something else to do, why don’t you play a duet with Mr. Cameron?” Miss Delancey suggested. “Play your piece.”
This was emasculating. Bad enough he’d barely managed to start a fire. Surely no mortal man in history had ever impressed a woman by playing a harp. No Englishman. On the other hand, it was doubtful any other woman in history had won a man’s heart by tripping over a windowsill.
Not, of course, that his heart was won. It was merely agitated.
“Eli,” he said, resigned, “we’re going to play the flowery thing.”
“The flowery thing?” Miss Delancey asked.
“What would you call it?” It was melancholy and pretty and mortifyingly revealing—and absolutely not something upon which a duke of the realm should be wasting his time.
He stepped behind the piano and pulled the window closed.
But he didn’t lock the latch. Superstition, he supposed.
Who knew when she would try tumbling through it again?
He was still picturing the glass shattering.
Then he moved his stool close to the harp and sat.
He set the instrument against his shoulder and nodded to Eli to begin.
The piece was short. Too short. But it said what he’d wanted it to say. Or it did in his head. Or when Miss Delancey played it. His own performance lacked something.
He realized he was staring into space and the room was quiet. He stood abruptly and began to pace.
“That is lovely,” Dessie said.
“Hmm,” Miss Delancey added, a very noncommittal sound.
“It’s lovely when Miss Delancey plays it. And Eli got his part perfectly, naturally. But it’s different when I play; it isn’t quite right.”
“Come, sit,” Miss Delancey said, patting the ottoman. He didn’t have to be asked twice. It got him away from the harp and nearer to her. “The difference,” she said, “is that you are using all your fingers. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cameron?”
“What?” Eli hadn’t moved from the piano bench. He looked distracted. Fidgety. From long acquaintance, Trentham knew he didn’t respond well to minor disturbances. “Well, yes, I suppose.”
“Am I not supposed to play with fingers?” Trentham asked, joking, focusing his attention on Miss Delancey, hoping to peel hers from Eli.
“Not your fifth. I’ve never seen that done before.
But it makes sense you would use that fingering, since you can.
” Her lashes did a fluttering thing. “You have such large, strong hands.” Her voice had changed pitch.
From matter-of-fact to sultry. “But you master the strings you pluck, instead of caressing the music out of them.”
Good God. His blood quickened. Then he heard Eli sniff. And Dessie snort.
Ah. Relief and embarrassment flooded him. Miss Delancey was mocking Eli, emulating his deft, practiced seduction. Trentham would applaud her performance, except it had been at his expense. He’d been halfway seduced.
Eli said, “It’s your composition, Trentham. I assumed it sounded the way you meant for it to sound. But I agree, it’s a better piece the way Miss Delancey plays it.” He added, with forced good-nature: “Caressingly.”
“Your Grace,” Henson announced from the doorway. “The doctor is here.”
*
Not broken. Sprained. Miss Delancey looked ridiculously triumphant at the diagnosis. Especially with that smudge of mud on her chin and the bits of grass still sticking to her dress.
“Stay off your feet for at least a week. Keep it elevated.” Dr. Ballantine finished wrapping a bandage around her ankle and leg with an admirably professional impassivity. “The shin is merely scratched. Keep it clean and dry.”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Miss Delancey sounded bored.
“I could leave a bit of laudanum if the pain bothers you.” He furrowed his fuzzy white eyebrows with preemptive disapproval.
“Oh, no. I’ve had laudanum before. I’d rather have the pain.”
“Good, good, very sensible.” He nodded at the glasses and bottle on the floor and tutted. “A little of that goes a long way.”
Dessie giggled. “I told her to go easy.”
“And you, Lady Lynchford.” The doctor scratched his nose. “I thought I said this morning: no excitement.”
“This? This wasn’t exciting. I didn’t go out the window.”
“Well.” He looked flummoxed. “See that you don’t.”
Trentham took back control. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll walk you out.”
“Send the bill to Lynch,” Dessie said.
“To me,” Trentham corrected her, though arguing over bills with ladies was the crassest thing he could imagine. “My window.”
“My sister.”
“My leg,” Miss Delancey chimed in. “Send the bill to me.”
Trentham led the doctor into the hallway. Henson appeared; he had not gone far. The man could run the whole house without ever being absent from where he was most needed at the moment.
“Henson, have the carriage brought round.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you again, Dr. Ballantine. And…”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace. Your window. Your bill.”