Page 17 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
He probably had the right of that. When she was under the weather, she worked through it, fearing if she showed any weakness at all, she’d succumb to the demands of the illness. “Would you care for a cuppa tea? Or whisky?”
He grinned. She did wish he wouldn’t do that. It caused her insides to riot. “Tea with a splash of whisky.”
“I shan’t be long.” As she headed for her kitchen, she rather regretted that before dawn, she’d be sending him home.
She draped a blanket over his shoulders before handing him the cup of tea with whisky. Surely it was only his imagination that caused him to feel revitalized by the brew. Or perhaps it was the woman sitting nearby working fastidiously to mend his clothing. She’d finished with his trousers and was now busily weaving needle and thread through the fabric of his shirt. As the white linen wasn’t stained with his blood, she’d obviously washed it at some point. He wondered what else she might have done of which he was unaware.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any boots for you to wear,” she said quietly. “I thought mine might do but I fear your feet are much larger.”
“A curse that affects the men in my family.” He couldn’t be certain but she appeared to be blushing. Interesting.
“I thought about asking one of my brothers to lend me a pair but then I’d have to explain...” Her voice trailed off as she lifted a delicate shoulder. Hard to believe now that shoulder had provided him with such solid support the first night, when she’d never waivered in her determination to get him up the stairs so she could tend to him.
“That wouldn’t do.”
“I’m afraid not. I know you’re not fully recovered, but I think you’ve healed enough that you won’t bleed to death in the carriage.”
“That’s jolly good news.”
She lifted her gaze to him. “My brother has a fine carriage. I’ll instruct the driver to go slowly.”
The time had come, the minutes left to them were slipping away, and there was still so much about her that he didn’t know, that he wanted to know. “I can’t imagine a merchant or trader would have allowed his daughter to work as a step-girl.”
“I should hope not.” Her focus returned to her needlework, and he found himself envious of his clothing because it garnered her attention.
“I’m striving to be delicate here, but you don’t speak as though you come from the streets. And if you own a tavern, you must have had a basic education.”
“A ragged school opened near where we lived and my mum made certain we went. She struggled to read and cipher, and always felt her lack of learning had limited her options for finding work when she became a widow. She wanted us to have better lives.”
He was familiar with ragged schools, so named because most of the children were destitute and came to school dressed in rags. The Earl of Shaftesbury was legendary for his commitment to establishing the free schools in the poorest sections of Britain, a good many of them here in London. Thorne didn’t like having the confirmation that she’d grown up in poverty. She’d obviously risen above it. His present surroundings were Spartan, but he recognized well-crafted furniture when he saw it. “You seem more educated than that.”
“I’ve picked up a few things here and about.” She lifted the garment until she was able to bite off the thread. “There. That should do it.” She tossed the shirt onto his lap and stood. “Do you think you can dress without my assistance?”
Apparently, he wasn’t going to learn anything else about her and rather regretted that. “I’ll do my best.”
“I’m going to let the driver know he needs to finish his pint as we’ll be needing him soon. I’ll return shortly, and we’ll see about getting you on your way.”
She headed out of the room, closing the door in her wake. He couldn’t seem to find the wherewithal to function, to put on his shirt and trousers. He should be happy, ecstatic, about leaving. He needed to return to his life, his quest, and his responsibilities. But he wasn’t happy—at all.
Near the hour when she’d first discovered him, with one arm securely wrapped about his waist, she ushered him out her door and began the slow, arduous trek down the stairs. From her box of items abandoned by customers, she’d managed to find a walking stick. Not a fancy one, but it would help support him so he could keep the bulk of his weight off his bad leg.
The tavern was closed up for the night. The streets were mostly inhabited by rodents, scurrying about. Mick’s carriage was not too far off.
“Good God, what’s this then?” the driver suddenly blurted, charging up the stairs, his heavy footsteps causing them to shake and rattle. He eased her aside, taking over her role.
She hated relinquishing her claim on Thorne, but it was pointless to argue with the coachman. Besides, the stranger who no longer seemed like a stranger didn’t belong to her, not really. She’d never see him again after tonight. Perhaps she should have given him another day to heal. Silly chit. She had a business to run and he had a life to get back to, chasing whatever dream had brought him here in the first place, a dream that no doubt involved the woman for whom he was looking, the one he’d mentioned during one of his less lucid states.
When they reached the carriage, he resisted being shoved inside. Instead, grabbing the door opening with one hand, he turned to her and ever so gently cradled her face with the other. “I don’t know how to properly thank you.”
“Capture that dream you were chasing, but do it with a bit more care.”
His grin was small, but a grin all the same. “And at a more reasonable hour, I daresay. Thank you, Gillie.”
She felt an odd stinging in her eyes. If she were the sort of woman who wept, she might have thought the discomfort was caused by tears. “You take care of yourself now.”
“I shall. You be happy.”
“I always am.” Or she had always been. Why wasn’t she overjoyed by the prospect of him being on his merry way so she could return to a life she’d always cherished?
