Page 18 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“Might I remind you that Icouldhave let you die?” God help her, she had never been particularly skilled at keeping her tongue leashed. It had been a profound failing all throughout her life. Mama had often despaired of it, shaking her head in consternation and disappointment.It’s a pity, she had said, that your soft heart does not breed sweet words, my darling. But whatever proclivity Lizzie might once have had toward sweetness had been vanquished by the realities of being both mother and father to her siblings. Of running a failing household, whilst Papa blithely sold what little they had from out beneath them.
“Yes, well, more fool you,” the marquess said, pushing back his chair. “Still, you ought to be pleased to know that I have decidednotto have you hanged after all.”
Lizzie blinked. “Am I meant prostrate myself upon the floor before you in thanks?”
“If you like. A little gratitude certainly wouldn’t go amiss.” There was an odd curl to his lips, something she took for a suggestive bent, but could not quite divine its meaning. When the rejoinder fell flat, he at last cleared his throat and looked away, rising from his chair. “Shall we get on with this, then?”
Without waiting for an answer, he peeled the hem of his shirt from where it had been tucked into his trousers and pulled it over his head. And like some sort of scandalized maiden, Lizzie threw her hands over her eyes with a shrill little squeak of distress. “What are youdoing?”
A chuckle burned her ears. “It’s a bit too late to be quite so missish, Miss Talbot,” he said. “When one considers that you have seen me wearing significantly less already.”
He was right, of course—but he had been ill, then. Practically knocking upon Death’s door. And now he was not. And therewasa difference. The last time she had seen him on his feet was the morning she’d shot him, and that had been followed by dragging him to the master’s chamber, and since then he’d been more or less confined to a bed, weakened and feverish.
Now he practically towered over her, vital and…well, certainly healthier than he once had been. Clean-shaven once more, and garbed in—clothes that were certainly not his own.
“I suppose you felt entitled to rifle through the drawers,” she said, sourly.
“Do you know, I ratherdid,” he said. “Considering that I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of my own clothing for some days now, and I was wearying of being confined to the bed.” He reached for the bottle of gin. “Do you suppose I might have the trousers back at least? These are…insufficient.”
Of course they were. Papa was at least a few inches shorter, and the legs of the trousers ended above his lordship’s ankles. “They took some stains to the knees when you—” When he’d fallen into the dirt of the drive after she’d shot him. “I’ve brushed the mud out and laundered them as best I could, but…” But they would never be the same. The fine wool hadn’t been meant for such an activity, and they were just as ruined as his shirt and coat had been, even if she’d not had to cut the trousers off of him.
“As I thought.” It was followed by a long, petulant sigh. He removed the cork from the bottle and took a long drink. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”
“Of course.” She wanted to reach again for the gin, which he had placed back upon the table, but feared that it might make her hands less steady than already they were. Reaching into her pocket, she produced the shears—but instead of retaking his seat, he grabbed for the candle upon its plate and retreated toward the bed, where he placed the candle upon the nightstand and settled himself just at the edge. “I thought—surely the chair—”
“Why, Lizzie—are you afraid to be alone with me?” A lazy, mocking grin touched his lips, and the light of the candle shadowed that tiny cleft in his chin. “Set your mind at ease, you little prude. I cannot imagine the process of removing stitches is pleasant. I should like to be as close as possible to a bed when you are through.”
Reasonable enough, she supposed. There was no reason for her to be nervous. It was only her own distaste for such a messy business that made her so skittish. It was only her limited experience with men that made her distrustful and suspicious. It was only her own experience withhimthat made her so belligerent. Her breath seemed to stick in her lungs as she crossed the floor, attempting to find a position that did not block the light of the candle. God forbid her shaking fingers cause her to snip throughskininstead of thread.
“Turn, just—there,” she said, wedging herself between the nightstand and the bed, and curling her fingers around his shoulder to angle it better to see the thread that closed the wound upon the underside of his arm. “I suppose you’re lucky that the ball went straight through.”
“Lucky,” he grunted, in a tone that implied that he disagreed strenuously with her assessment. “Yes, I suppose.” He flinched as the edge of the shears touched the skin that must still be quite tender. The skin was raised, pink and healing—but unmistakably distorted by the closing wound. He would bear this mark for the rest of his life. She swallowed heavily, finding the thread with the very tip of the shears, and—snip. Only two more stitches left.
On the underside of his arm, anyway.
“Perhapsyouought to have had a drink yourself,” he said, rolling his shoulder, and Lizzie realized that she’d never quite let go of it. She’d been using him to steady herself, her nails pricking his skin, her grip so tight her knuckles had gone white with the strain of it.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted, retracting her hand—but the motion made the shears catch the next stitch and tug.
“Christ,” he bit off. “Careful!” He cast a censorious glance at her, but it faltered within moments. Those icy blue eyes slid over her face, appraising. “Hell,” he said, sounding strangely surprised. “You don’t have the stomach even for this, do you? You never intended to shootanyone.”
An odd little hiccough slid from her throat, and she swallowed down a wave of nausea. “I thought the threat was as good as the deed,” she admitted.
“Next time, you’d best make certain your weapon is not loaded, then.” A mild enough reproach, she supposed. And then, “Lizzie. It’s all right. Take a deep breath, and for the love ofGod, donotcast up your accounts. However did you manage to stitch me up without doing so in the first place?”
“I didn’t.” It came out a squeak, past the bile that was rising in her throat.
“Lord Jesus.” A fierce, wrenching sigh followed. He stretched his hand over his shoulder, wiggling his fingers. “Take my hand. Hold it tight. Breathe slowly.”
As if of its own volition, her free hand reached for his fingers, touching tentatively. He slipped his between her own, linking their fingers, pressing their palms together.
“Squeeze,” he instructed. “Breathe deeply, and cut on the exhale.Carefully, if you please.”
A curious calm descended over her as she did precisely as he had instructed. His fingers squeezed hers in an echo of her own grip. She breathed in, and out—and snipped through the next stitch. And the one thereafter. The shears dropped from the tight clench of her hand. “I’ve still—I’ve got to remove the threads now,” she said, and if her voice was high, at least it wassteady.
“Just do it as gently as you can manage,” he said, and his palm pressed once more against her own as his grip tightened. Her stomach pitched again as she saw those threads, loosed now, dark against his skin. She hadn’t placed them too deeply, but still it was strange to see them there, and she carefully found the tip of one thread, caught it within the pinch of her fingertips, and—slowly, gently—pulled it free.
She felt his fingers constrict upon hers. “I’m so sorry—does it hurt?”
