Page 17 of The Duke's Impetuous Darling
Light from the hall candles flickered over her face. Surprise and delight had mingled so sharply that for only the second time since he'd known her, love for him shone in her eyes. "In pain? Oh, my dearest."
He relished her endearment, choking on his sadness. "I couldn't come sooner."
She searched his eyes. "They wouldn't let you?"
"Not that, no. You see there is much to explain. I was not myself."
"I understand." Her hands were busy, brushing the sling for his twisted arm, smoothing the wool of his frock coat across his shoulders. Her touch was the fire he'd imagined in his delusions of home and hearth. Though he knew not his own name, he knew hers and the potential of their mutual love, as yet unclaimed.
He took both her hands in his. "Come out of here. I must sit in the light. I must tell you what happened. How I am now. And who."
* * *
Still aquiver with shock and joy, Bee let him take her hand and lead her down the hall to the back parlour. A verdant green, the room was always warm from its proximity to the adjacent orangerie. Tonight the staff had set a steady fire burning behind the grate. Once inside, he closed the doors behind them and indicated she should sit closest to the flames on the end of the upholstered tapestry Turkey Sofa.
He, however, did not sit. But placed his hands behind his back and stared at her. "What I am about to say may shock you."
"Alastair, nothing further could surprise me this evening." She grinned at him.
He threw her a wan smile. "One thing I do love about you is your ability to deal with surprising circumstances that are presented to you."
"You pay me a compliment greater than my abilities."
He frowned. "No, you are—”
"Rash. You once said it yourself. Had not my aunt and my sisters led the way out of the salon, I would have kissed you there amid all those very high steppers."
He did laugh now.
"Tell me, Alastair. Tell me all. And then we will be done with it."
He took a breath. "This is difficult. A long story. You must see I am not the man who left you in the spring."
She considered the sparks dashing upward from the fire. If he told her he was posted to India, if he said he would never gain the promotion he expected, if he said he wished to retire to his father's small estate and manage it to never leave, all of that she could accept. "Very well. Tell me what you will."
"I was very badly injured." He raised his arm in the dark sling. "This is as high as I can lift it. My arm is weak. I have use of my fingers, but that is all. I must have fallen on it when I fell on the field. I cannot recall how I broke it, but I did. The bone was not set for days and so it healed poorly."
Alarm and insult mixed. She indicated his fashionable clothes. "Do they not want you in the Army because of it?"
"Nothing like that. They'd have me. I'm to have my promotion to colonel. But I won't need it. As you can see,"—he lifted his good arm and opened a hand to indicate his attire—"in London before Griff and I traveled south, I ordered new clothes. Not new uniforms."
"Very well." She settled backward into the plush cushions. "Go on."
"I will resign my commission. Sell it. I'm done with war."
So, India was not the possibility. And yet he would be a colonel, if he wanted to remain. She was confused. "I'd hope we all are done with war. The costs have been too high. Your brother William. Our brother George. Now your injury."
"Yes. But not just my arm."
She tipped her head. "What else? If you mean to say you're face is—”
"No. I don't. Oh, certainly I'm not pretty, but—”
"You are," she told him with a gleaming smile of reassurance.
Did he blush? He shook his head and refuted her. "The gash is not as ugly as it once was. In time, it might be less apparent."
"I'd say you're right."
