Page 17 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
“I wasthinkingpoor Smythe might be killed if someone didn’t do something.” Remembering the boy, she turned to where a few men helped him limp away. Smythe’s thin face was one heart-squeezing grimace of pain as he cradled his arm to his chest. Half of his penciled mustache had washed off in the mud, leaving his aching youth exposed.
“Is he going to be all right?” She took an unconscious step toward the procession.
“There’s a sawbones not a stone’s throw from the railyard. He’ll set the boy’s shoulder and send him home with morphine. Do you know him?”
She shook her head, disconcerted to discover the notice she and her companion had garnered from the remaining passengers, workmen, and railway employees. “We’d only just met when he carried my bags, but what does that matter? I still didn’t want to see him hurt… or worse.”
The man gave her his back, bending to retrieve both her gloves and his. Alexandra resolutely averted her gaze from the trousers stretching across his backside. Had she ever in her life noticed such a thing? Forcing a swallow, she took the opportunity to investigate the condition of her own suit. Mud and whatever other unmentionable slicks of dark grime now soiled her smart white blouse and beige jacket beyond repair. Her skirt had fared better, but only just.
“Better him than you.”
His low words froze her hand midair, leaving her coiffure uninvestigated. “I’m sorry?”
He said nothing, extending his hand to offer the soiled corpses of her gloves. A muscle tic appeared at his hardjaw, causing his third scar, mostly concealed by the black beard, to pulse in time to his ire.
“Thank you, sir.”
Azure beams of inquisition roamed her from beneath satirical brows. “Though your actions were unduly reckless, that was well done of you. Where did you learn to handle horses?”
The admiration warming his words prickled irritating awareness across her skin. “A camel herder on the Arabian Peninsula once demonstrated to me that very trick on his own beast. I hadn’t any idea it worked on horses before today.”
He blinked several times before echoing, “A camel herder…”
She nodded, the memory animating her. “His tribe could often pack their entire household on a camel’s back. Imagine how devastating such a display of beastly temper would have been in his case.”
“Devastating.” He repeated slower this time, intently regarding her for a pregnant moment.
“Of course,hisanimals were much more properly trained.” She shot a pointed glance to the horse cart, where the beast, Mercury, was now blinded and hobbled between the four mares.
The man’s lips—why couldn’t she stop glancing at them?—did the opposite of what she’d expected. He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’tnotsmiling, either.
Those lips parted, then paused.
She likewise hesitated, sensing an as yet unidentified awareness hovering over them like a curious bee. The buzz of silence grew louder the more still they stood.
Should she make some sort of introduction? They’d already broken the rules of civility by exchanging so many words without a presentation by a third party. However,judging by his broadcloth trousers and mud-stained shirtsleeves, he wasn’t a man who lived by civil rule. Nor by that of nobility. Indeed, he was indolent about his attire. As though he couldn’t be bothered to have dressed properly to go into town.
He finally broke the silence. “It is… fortunate you’re unharmed, Miss…”
“Lane. Alexandra Lane.” Her first inclination was to curtsy, but she ultimately decided to do what she’d done with most men of his social standing from students and factory workers in America, to stone masons and professors in Cairo. She offered her sullied hand for a congenial shake. The working class tended to like that sort of greeting nowadays.
Heregarded it as though she’d shoved a rank fish beneath his nose.
Alexandra faltered. Just who was he to put on airs? No gentleman, certainly. For what gentleman would wear his hair longer than his collar? Or work in public without a vest? Or grow anything more unruly than a trim mustache, scars or no scars?
Right as she’d decided to retract her offer, she found her hand once again enveloped in warm solid steel.
He shook twice, the calluses on his palms catching on her skin as his hand slid away. Little shocks rasped at her, as though every insubstantial ridge on his fingertip was electrified with sensation.
“May I inquire as to your destination, Miss Lane? Or is it Mrs.?” Something smoothed the gravel from his voice, as though he’d poured honey over the shards of stone.
“D-doctor,” she blurted.
The muscles about his neck tensed, as he went instantly alert. “I thought you said you didn’t need a doctor.”
“No, it’sDoctorLane.”
His chin rose a few notches. “Women aren’t allowed to practice as physicians in England.”
