“I can help her,” Halstead said, and the doctor and I both turned to stare as one.
I shook my head. “I am sure it isn’t necessary for—”
“You seem intent on keeping your visit with Dr. Andrews a secret. Even the most discreet of servants has a hard time keeping secrets belowstairs.” There was an unfamiliar softness in his expression.
It was true, and Betsy’s loyalty lay with Aunt Agnes, despite my aunt’s mistreatment of her. “If you are certain you do not mind . . .”
He shook his head. “I will have Dr. Andrews send what we need.”
The doctor finished putting his supplies back into his bag and then stood. “It is also important that you hold your palm open and stretch the skin several times a day; otherwise you may lose some flexibility in your hand. Painful as this is, you should heal quickly, Miss Graham. If you follow the procedure I’ve described, I don’t foresee any difficulties.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Oh. One more thing.” He opened his bag again and pulled out a small vial. “Some laudanum, to help you sleep. It won’t take much—just enough to ease the worst of the pain.” He set it on the table.
I nodded. After last night’s fitful sleep, I wouldn’t refuse.
“Thank you, Doctor. Stephen can see you out.” Halstead nodded to the footman over by the door.
“I have been attending to your family for almost thirty years now, Your Grace. I think I may be able to find my way to the door.” Mirth shone in the doctor’s eyes. He picked up his bag, gave a brief nod, and left.
The room was quiet once the doctor left, yet sitting with Halstead next to me, I felt anything but alone. And now, with nothing of import taking up space between us, embarrassment crept up on me. My outburst the night before and my false accusations weighed me down. Each remembered word heaped a heaviness between us. After how I had treated him, I couldn’t possibly accept more of his help.
I glanced down at the spots of oil staining my dress. “It really won’t be necessary for you to help me with my hand any further.” I flexed my hand a little as the familiar pain crept over the burn in my palm, causing me to wince. “I am quite capable of managing on my own.”
“No doubt,” Halstead said brusquely. “But that doesn’t mean pain should be endured alone.” He turned to face me; deep lines etched around his mouth made me feel the weight of his words. The earlier scents of pipe smoke and fresh cedar reached my nose. It was a masculine smell. Comforting. Permanent. The kind that might fade over time but would never truly be gone.
“Do you smoke a pipe?” The words tumbled from my mouth before I’d had time to consider them.
He gave a brief shake of his head, the hand in his lap tensing, his fingers curling into a fist. “No, but my father used to. When he was alive the library always smelled of pipe smoke.” He paused, and the moment hung in the air. His fingers slowly unfurled from his palm. “Sometimes I light a pipe to bring back the smell.”
The smallest of victories. Dared I hope for more? “How old were you? When he died?”
“Nineteen.”
I stayed quiet and hoped my silence would encourage him to continue. My back began to ache. The pain in my hand had made me hunch my shoulders, holding tension in my spine. I eased back, smoothing the grimace from my face, and adjusted my gauze-wrapped hand.
Halstead looked at me steadily. “It was sudden—completely unexpected. Everyone in my family took his death hard, but so much was heaped on me so quickly. I hardly had the opportunity to mourn his passing.”
“A duke at nineteen.” I shook my head, trying to comprehend it. “What were you like before?” I asked abruptly, giving voice to the question that had been swirling around in my mind over the last week.
“Before what?” He fingered the gold knob at the top of his cane.
“Before your accident.”
He looked up, his gaze pulled across the room. “What does it matter?”
I clenched my fist involuntarily, and my skin pulsed with pain. Air hissed between my teeth. Part of me wanted to lecture him. To begin a tirade about his unwillingness to share of himself when he demanded so much from me. But something held me back. Instead I turned and faced him squarely, trying simple candor. “Because I wish to know you, Halstead.”
He shut his eyes, and when he opened them, I half expected to see them hooded, closed off from me and from this moment. Instead they were unguarded. Troubled. He exhaled. “Like any young man, I enjoyed the attention, the power that came with my title.” He grunted. “Perhaps a little too much.”
I hardly dared breathe for fear he might stop.
“My father’s early death changed little of the path laid out before me; it only altered the timeline. I had always known I was to be the Duke of Halstead. Even with the host of responsibilities heaped upon me, I always felt as though I was the master of my life, my fate. That is the kind of naivety that comes from having your every whim and desire granted, never being told no.” He glanced at me briefly, a mournful look in his eyes. “In every way your opposite.”
As he spoke, I turned my palm faceup, searching for a position that would bring relief from the pain.
His jaw tightened, lines forming in his forehead. All of the earlier softness was gone. “You wish to know what I was like before? A fool. Shallow and petty, unable to look beyond my own wants and pleasures. I was raised to be a duke and had been treated as such from a very early age. I had all the time in the world, or so I thought. So I drank and gambled and pursued debutantes with no thought of the
