“Her name is Mary. Mary Sykes, Dr. Musgrove.”
“Much obliged, your ladyship. I should very much appreciate the opportunity to converse with Miss Sykes regarding other medical matters of which she may have some degree of understanding.”
Lady Dalrymple was much amused by the look in the young doctor’s eyes. Portly’s favorite spaniel, Troilus, had possessed just such a look. Sweet, slightly sad, expectant. “I suppose I can spare Mary for an hour or two, but only if the girl herself expresses a desire to comply with your request. Mary, would it please you to speak to Dr. Musgrove?”
“Oh yes, your ladyship!” the maid answered eagerly.
“Show the doctor to the drawing room then. I shall be in presently to chaperone you.”
“Thank you, your ladyship.” Mary curtsied.
Dr. Musgrove made a slight bow. “I am honored, your ladyship.”
A grinning Darlington shook his head. “Not merely allowing, but arranging interviews between a lady’s maid and a man of medicine. Lady Euphoria Dalrymple, I daresay you are an original.”
Mary led Dr. Musgrove from the chamber and was followed soon thereafter by the countess, who lingered to bestow a kiss upon her “niece’s” brow. She laid her own rosy cheek against the young woman’s pale one. It much concerned her that Cassandra had yet to regain consciousness after more than half a week.
Miss Austen, upon hearing the terrible news, had made daily pilgrimages to Lady Dalrymple’s to inquire as to the health of her friend. Even the redoubtable Lady Oliver had seen occasion to pay a call, although her appearance consisted mostly of dire warnings to her nephew that he would soon lose his looks if he did not get some sleep. She rebuked him for ignoring Lord Digby’s repeated attempts to reinforce his daughter’s betrothal, despite the mortifying incident in the Assembly Rooms, and had not ceased to remind him that he would suffer the most vicious censure if he reneged on the arrangement.
The earl blamed himself entirely for everything that had befallen Miss Welles. She had been an innocent, a pawn in a sophisticated game of financial chess played by the titled aristocracy. He despised his aunt for persuading him to violate his understanding with Cassandra, and worse, to so publicly commit to another. He despised himself for permitting it. Darlington had always prided himself on his integrity and his fierce resolve to make his own choices. True, Aunt Augusta had raised and cared for him and for Jack, his younger brother. But after all these years, he was finally asking himself when such an obligation was to be considered paid in full.
Darlington had vigilantly watched over Cassandra, sung to her, stroked her brow, caressed her cheeks, held her hands, even read to her from Shakespeare’s sonnets, but nothing availed. Every so often her delicate eyelids would flutter, but they had yet to open. He wondered how he had let matters get so out of hand. The young, pale, trusting woman who lay before him deserved more. He had been determined to demonstrate this in every way still open to him; and even at that, he had exposed both his reputation and hers to ruin. Now, as he watched the steady rise and fall of her shallow breathing, he knew what he must do—must risk—to set things right. All the time that Miss Welles had lain abed, he had feared to ask Dr. Musgrove if Cassandra had lost their child when she was thrown from her horse. His horse. How could he have been so foolish to ask her to ride out with him in her delicate condition?
He tenderly kissed her, feeling the warm softness of her lips against his own. Did sheer exhaustion cause him to imagine it, or did Cassandra seem to kiss him back? He leaned back in the damask-covered chair and blinked to try to keep himself awake.
Not much more than a minute had passed when C.J. opened her eyes for the first time since the accident. She was disoriented, and the sight of Darlington—pale, unshaven, and coatless—seated on the chair beside her bed added to her confusion. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Did someone die?”
She spoke! “No, my sweet Cassandra. No one has died, thank God!” The earl proceeded to explain the details of her accident and how long she had lain so still in the road before someone had fortuitously happened along.
“Would you do me the kindness of helping me to sit up, your lordship?” she asked.
Darlington regarded her dubiously. “If you are quite convinced you are able to do so.”
“Nonsense, Percy,” she replied softly.
“You sound like your Aunt Euphoria.” His heart soared to see her spirits rallying. Treating her with the utmost tenderness, Darlington propped her up against a down-filled bolster. She reached for him and he caught her upturned palm in his hand, kissing it, and pressing it to his stubbled cheek.
“Since I appear to be alive,” she said hoarsely, “would you now consider doing me another tremendous favor?”
“Send me to Samarkand for silks, or to Abyssinia for cinnamon, Miss Welles.”
Although she immediately discovered that it pained her ribs to do so, C.J. laughed. “There is no need for dramatics, your lordship, unless I am dying. And besides, I think cinnamon comes from the West Indies. But,” she added, reaching up to stroke his face, “perhaps a shave and a wash might do.”
Darlington sat on the edge of the bed and held her. “My love . . . I am so thankful you are all right,” he murmured into her hair. He kissed the top of her head and sat beside her. “That was a nasty spill you took, Miss Welles.”
They had been riding. She could remember fragments. A
