Page 9 of The MacGregor's Lady
“A list?” She caressed theoin Copperfield, drawing attention to pale hands, the backs of which sported a deal of fetching, unfashionable freckles.
“Clothing being foremost. Shoes, gloves, hats being assumed additions. Did anyone bring you a tray?”
“I had some cheese toast—a wonderful cheddar with caraway in the bread.”
She had hearty appetites, apparently, and her tastes were not too refined—this was more evidence of impending social disaster, but Asher liked her for it.
“I prefer rye bread to the standard brown bread, myself. But back to our list. Under present circumstances, I blush to inquire, but do you dance?”
A look crossed her features, so fleeting he would have missed it, except he was studying the exact arch and swoop of her dark eyebrows.
“I do not.”
But she wanted to. That’s what that look was about,longing. Miss Hannah Lynn Cooper wasn’t entirely resigned to her unswanning, I-love-to-read spinsterhood. She longed to dance.
“Let’s have a look at your foot.” Asher shifted to sit near her legs on the chaise. He was presuming, flirting with naughtiness, even, but he needed to offer her a good distraction for the ensuing topic.
“That is not necessary.” She drew back against the chaise as if a malodorous cat had appropriated a place at her feet. “The physician said it should heal nicely in a few days.”
“He said we’re to keep you off your feet for a few days, at least.” Asher drew back the blanket, revealing a slender, elegant foot. “He said it’s fortunate I carried you back to the house, or your injury might have been even worse for trying to put weight on it all that distance.”
As if Asher would ever again allow any woman to risk harm to her person when he was in a position to prevent it.
And how Hannah Cooper had suffered to be in his arms, remaining stiff and silent until pain alone had inspired her to hold onto him. Asher still hadn’t sorted out his feelings regarding those few blocks, the last woman he’d carried in the same manner being Monique. By the time he’d reached the house, Miss Cooper’s arms had been around his neck, and her face turned to his shoulder.
While his remorse had weighed more than she had.
“This is a minor bruise,” he said, drawing his finger over the faint purpling around the base of her tibia. “You do not strike me as a lady to dramatize her injuries.”
She wouldn’tadmither injuries, if she could help it.
“Do the gentlemen here often use a lady’s indispositions to fondle her person?” Her tone was wonderfully dry, her accent amplifying the effect. He sensed she was not offended by his presumption, so much as she was uncertain.
“When the gentleman is thoroughly schooled as a physician, he might use his knowledge the better to care for his injured guest.” God help the woman if her definition of fondling was sopedestrian. “You kept the ice on it?”
“No, I danced a few jigs,” she said, running a finger over the edge of the peacock feather protruding from the book. “I should not have imbibed the rum, so if you’re blaming yourself, you can stop. You never said you were a doctor.”
His admission had been more careful than that—and hewasn’ta doctor, not any longer. “What had a tot of rum to do with this?” He traced the bruise, a distortion of an otherwise perfect, graceful foot.
“My gait is unsteady enough, and I knew well the condition of the walks. Rum wasn’t going to help me stay on my feet.”
Her second toe was longer than her first, as Monique’s had been, but Miss Cooper had higher arches. Asher stuffed that thought away, unfairly annoyed with his guest for inspiring it. “So you blame yourself for a little slip, deny yourself adequate lights to read by, and forgo a decent dinner? Will that be punishment enough?”
He closed his hand around her foot, for it was cold and wanted comforting—her foot, that is.
“You are blaming yourself, aren’t you, Balfour? This is a duty visit, or do I mistake the matter?”
He slipped a second hand under her ankle and held her foot with both hands. The bones were all where they should be, the tendons in their assigned locations. Nothing about her foot was distorted or misshapen, save for the unfortunate bruise.
All in all, an elegant, functional foot.
“I was your escort, my job by definition to shield you from harm, and I suspect the problem is not with your foot at all, but with youroscoxaeor lumbar vertebrae—your hips or lower spine.”
She frowned at her foot as it lay in his grasp, but did not draw it back. “Possibly both, but consider this: had I landed on my backside or my hip, the damage would likely have been much worse. In answer to your earlier question, I do not dance. I do not dare.”
Miss Cooper hated making that admission. Asher kept hold of her chilly foot. “For fear you’ll fall?”
“Yes, and lest you think the humiliation alone deters me, there is also the risk of further injury. I fell while skating as a child, and the bones didn’t knit correctly, hence the limp. The physicians assure me I am as sturdy as the next young lady, but I dread having two misshapen limbs.”
