Page 13 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
He wrapped his downy warm cravat around her ankle and pulled tight.
She shot forward. "Be careful, sir!"
He chuckled, rueful. "I won't kill you!"
"Do show it then! I am injured, sir." Oh, why bother? She sank backward, a hand to her eyes.
"My apologies, Lady Fiona. I am more used to tending my men in the battlefield than I am a lady in pain. Soldiers can be rough, surly creatures. I assure you I can be gentle."
His men? On a battlefield? Gossips declared that Northington had gone off frequently to the Continent during the war.
The night she and he had met, he’d told her he was in the army.
Sounding solicitous, he continued to wrap her foot. His ministrations did comfort her and the tautness of the makeshift bandage eased some of her suffering.
"There," he said at long last, two large hands firm around her afflicted foot. "We'll get you comfortable now."
"Thank you, I am already," she told him and shut her eyes, glad for the respite from their sparring.
He rustled and rattled about. Then clasped her hands and wrapped them around a cool flask. "Drink this," he said in that bass voice that could disturb and soothe at the same time.
She opened her eyes. He had the very devil in his. "I shouldn't."
"Do anyway." His firm lips quirked in a smile. “I won't tell a soul."
"Brandy?" She could hope, couldn't she?
"Irish whiskey."
She didn't wait for another invitation. The first sip was delicious hot heaven gliding down her throat and through her limbs. Sherry was pallid. Wine, invigorating. Brandy could have a dark edge. But this was what she needed. "Thank you."
He passed his flask to his friend, then pointed a finger at the hollow of her throat. "Unbutton your pelisse. No need to be formal. Drink more. You've had a shock."
He could be so kind. That she valued. Many men she'd known were more interested in dominating females.
She caught bits of Mary's and her friend's conversation and looked at her companion in a new light. Had she understood that they were to be together for the next few days?
She turned to him. ”You're both going to Lord and Lady Courtland's party?"
"We are. Bridges, here, was my guest at home and I thought to bring him with me to this. The Marquess of Northington is a distant relative of mine, and he marries the Courtlands' daughter, Esme in three days. I've an invitation from Lord Courtland and Northington to attend. Something about a May Day Frolic they've celebrated for many years."
She couldn't keep her jaw from dropping. This was not Northington. She swayed nearer to him to improve her vision. But that was to little avail. He and Northington were related and that's why they looked alike. Oh, my. She put a hand to her chest. What a fool she'd been.
"What's amiss? Are you well?” He bent near, his cologne making her head spin, his eyes full of fear for her. “
Not going to faint, are you?”
She shook her head. "No. Just noticing your resemblance to Northington."
"You know him?"
"Not well," she admitted, her smile strained.
"Many mistake us for each other. Luckily, we have taken different paths. He, to his estates and a few rather nefarious duties during the war.” He chuckled. “While I was off to the army."
"You've been abroad then. For many years?"
"Eleven."
