Page 15 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
He didn’t apologize. And she didn’t ask him to.
Instead, he dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out. “Come here,” he instructed, gentler this time. “Let me help you.”
She hesitated, pride flaring in her spine—and then her knees buckled.
Spencer was across the room before she hit the floor. Quickly, he scooped her up into his arms. She was still conscious, at least, and he nodded toward the mantelpiece over the hearth.
“Grip that,” he murmured. “And at least try to stay upright.”
His words were clipped, but he was worried, barely managing to contain his concern for her.
With each stumble and stagger, he worried about how deep her injuries were.
Gently, he peeled his coat from her body, revealing the torn fabric and the torn skin beneath. He bit back a curse as he looked at her marred skin. The wounds were shallow but had bled too much.
His blood boiled as he beheld the pain written all over her skin. So much pain she had carried, and yet her main concern had remained Charlotte.
“How fresh are these?” he asked her.
At first, she did not answer him.
He set about soaking one of the cloths that had been left soaking in brandy. He began to dab at her back, looking at the stubborn, prideful set of her shoulders. It was a stance that he recognized. It cut him to see it from such a small woman. From somebody who should not know the strength it took not to voice such pain.
“I received them in the hours before I arrived at your estate,” she told him in a hard tone.
Simple. Matter-of-fact. Once again prideful. Something she had long accepted.
Spencer fought down an unexpected wave of anger at how she spoke of it—at howusedto it she sounded.
“You rode in this state?”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenched as he cleaned the blood stains, the wounds, the shredded bits of fabric that had gotten caught in the deepest parts of the wounds, ensuring his hand was gentle. He knew what it felt like to hold back humiliation and shame when such vulnerabilities were exposed.
He fell silent. He wanted to press her, to ask more, but he refrained. He had no right. If their positions were reversed, he would not have answered as much as she had. So he cleaned her quietly, methodically.
When he was done, he pulled back. “You are still shaking.”
Lady Eleanor looked over her shoulder at him, pulling away before gripping the mantlepiece as she swayed again. “Of course, I am shaking. You are bathing me in liquor, Your Grace. Perhaps you should offer some for my nerves.”
“And then you will accuse me of taking advantage of you,” he countered, raising an eyebrow.
Lady Eleanor paled, her limbs trembling. “I would never wrongly accuse anybody. If I do accuse, it is because I am honest about it.”
Spencer flinched at her harsh tone. Without another word, he took off his waistcoat, cravat, and shirt and held the latter out to her. “Put this on and remain by the hearth.”
He tossed the other garments onto the bed and looked back at Lady Eleanor to find her eyes wide, her focus falling below his chin.
Despite their cold words, he recalled their interaction in the library: how close he had drawn to her, how he had thought he would kiss her…
Yet he pretended for another moment. Just a man and a woman in a roadside inn. Such things were not unfamiliar to him.
“Yes?” he teased, eyeing her as she took in his torso.
He had always kept himself fit. First out of survival, and then out of habit and want. It hadn’t hurt that it boosted his ego when women admired him, but the way Lady Eleanor looked at him now…
There was a hint of pink on her cheeks and a transfixed look in her eyes, as if she knew she was looking at something scandalous but could not bring herself to tear her gaze away.
