Page 22 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
"You are a lovely young woman of humor and fortitude. No tears for your injury."
"Ah, yes. Just biting words to my physician."
He shrugged a shoulder. "Forgivable. When one is hurt, one can be blunt. It is allowed. You were allowed."
"How did you become so profound a philosopher?"
His features fell, sadness lined his mouth. "One learns to read the faces of those in pain. And one excuses much in the interest of saving another and restoring them to health."
"I see that is so. You must forgive me, dear sir, for being such a child about my injury. I'm certain what you have endured onthe battlefield was much worse."
"You are a lady of society, not a soldier whose duty is to fight hand-to-hand and maim and kill another. Physical pain strikes at the core of a person's acuity. You are not used to that. You can complain and should."
"How can I possibly thank you?"
He smacked his lips. "You can let me re-wrap your poor ankle in a better bandage."
She raised her glass to toast him. "I will."
He stood, surveyed the supplies, drained his glass, put it aside and returned to her. He gazed at her, serious to a fault. "You'll have to raise your skirts once more."
She finished her own brandy, placed the glass to the table and inched up her skirts to her knees. "Enough?"
He smiled at her with a pure delight. "Well done."
"Set to work, sir."
"Rory."
"Pardon me?"
"My name is Rory. I invite you to use it."
"Oh, I shouldn't."
"Would you like to touchmybare foot?"
She fell back, laughing. “Only if you have nice knees. Do you, sir?”
"Rory."
She fixed him with a frank look. "Do you have nice knees? Rory?"
"I do. May I call you Fifi?"
Her mouth fell open. "Who told you that?"
"Lord Bridges...and I think I heard your friend Mary call you that."
"Yes. Rory. I will be Fifi to you."
"And I shall be Rory to you. Only when we are together alone."
"Yes." His last two words sent quivers of longing through her. Years ago she had met him, valued him and felt her soul twine with his. Whatever her misperception of his identity, the commingling of her heart with his had not been wrong. Simply...postponed. Her imagination flew to what joys they might discover together in days ahead. She wished to rise up and hug him, kiss him. She cleared her throat, her cheeks burning in a blush as he sat down again before her, all his supplies of scissors and flannel, ice and burlap to hand. "Only then."
The tenderness of his words matched the sweetness of his ministrations to her foot. She sat, for the second time in her life, enjoying the brush of his fingers, the delicacy of his touch. Never knowing a hug or a kiss from her father, she'd not imagined men might offer that to any woman. In fact, what had drawn her to him that night so many years ago was his jovial nature as well as his genteel respect for her. For her as a young woman. For her.
She not forgotten it. The thrill. The compliment. The comfort. Now she had it again...and she wished to never let it disappear again. She was content to sit and let him work his magic on her, heal her ankle, heal her heartache, heal her longing for him that had dwindled...but had never lost its lustre.
