Lord Perfect (22 page)

He had no idea how long it went on. He only knew that it
did eventually abate, leaving him short of breath and lightheaded. It
wanted effort to stand erect and wipe his eyes, and stagger down the
passageway to the back of the inn and outside to the pump.

He could feel the women's eyes upon him as he went.

Still, they only watched. They didn't follow to try to
nurse him, so that was all right. Thomas did follow a short time
afterward, but that was Thomas's job.

Outside, when Benedict had rinsed off the worst of the
filth and cooled down several degrees, Thomas proffered a towel and
said he was glad to see that the master had not taken any serious
hurt.

"Certainly not," Benedict said. "I had no
trouble with those louts—except the once when they knocked me
off my feet. I might have suffered some damage then, if Mrs.—
er—my dear wife—had not intervened." He squelched a
chuckle.

"Mrs. Woodhouse, sir," said Thomas. He drew
closer and lowered his voice, for as Mrs. Edkins had noted, the place
was not entirely asleep. The inn yard in particular tended to be more
awake than other parts, with vehicles arriving at intervals
throughout the night to change horses. Salt Hill was another popular
stop.

"Madam told the landlady that you are Mr. and Mrs.
Woodhouse," Thomas explained. "But I couldn't make out
whether she gave you a Christian name of John or George."

"It hardly matters what she christened me,"
Benedict said. "We shall be gone in a trice."

Thomas cleared his throat.

Benedict looked at him. The inn yard was adequately lit.
Still, it was difficult to read the footman's expression.

"What is it?" Benedict said.

"Mrs. Woodhouse has obtained a private parlor,"
said Thomas. "I would have come sooner, but she wanted the fire
built up."

"And you obeyed her," Benedict said. 'Though
you knew it was my wish to be gone as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you afraid of her, Thomas?"

"I seen her jump right out of the carriage when the
men knocked you down," said Thomas. "She was quicker than I
was, or it would've been me, like it should've been. I couldn't help
thinking she had your best interests at heart. And if it comes to
being afraid or not, my lord, I'd just as soon not be in her black
books. So I built up the fire, like she wanted."

"I see," said Benedict.

"She ordered hot water and bandages and food,"
the footman went on doggedly. "She says you must eat something—
as soon as she tends to your injuries."

"I have no injuries," Benedict said. "Did
I not say so?"

"My lord, meaning no disrespect, but the ladies are
always wanting to pill, plaster, or poultice us," said Thomas.
"It don't matter whether a man needs it or not. He might as well
go along, as it makes the lady happy and saves the time of arguing."

Though he saw the simple wisdom of Thomas's viewpoint,
Benedict also saw the suicidal stupidity of letting Bathsheba Wingate
put her hands on him, even to apply a medical remedy. His
self-control was showing alarming cracks as it was: the brawl, the
hug in the carriage, the laughing fit. At present he was far from
calm and he was growing fatigued, which would not help his
self-control a whit.

If she touched him, if she stood too close for too long
while he had no other important task, like driving, to occupy him and
take his mind off her, he was all too likely to make a fatal error.

Benedict could not follow Thomas's advice.

He could not indulge Mrs. Wingate's fears about injuries
or her feminine need to nurse.

His mind made up, Benedict returned the towel to his
servant. In lieu of a comb, Benedict dragged his hand through his
hair, which he had no doubt was standing up in curly clumps. He was
tempted to ask Thomas how bad it was, but resisted the urge.

It was not fair. He and Rupert had inherited their
mother's coloring, but Rupert's hair never fell into ridiculous
ringlets or sprang up on end in this absurd manner.

Not that he was in the least envious of Rupert, who was
always in one ridiculous scrape or another and whose life was chaos.
How the logical, brainy Daphne tolerated the unpredictability,
disorganization, and disorder, Benedict would never understand.

In any event, the state of Benedict's hair didn't
signify. He was not attending an assembly at Almack's. He was not on
display as a matrimonial prize. He was not trying to find and win the
Perfect Wife.

Furthermore, Duty and Reason both forbade his trying to
make himself attractive to Bathsheba Wingate.

And so, hoping he did not too closely resemble Grimaldi
the clown, Benedict made his way back into the inn and to the private
parlor, determined to put everything, including Bathsheba Wingate, in
its proper place.

Chapter 10

BATHSHEBA HAD CLEANED OFF THE WORST OF the dirt, too,
but in a more ladylike way, using the washbowl and pitcher Mrs.
Edkins supplied.

The landlady had not provided a looking glass or
hairpins, however, and Bathsheba was trying to arrange her hair
without benefit of either when the door to the private parlor was
flung open.

"You have corrupted my footman," Rathbourne
said.

His damp neckcloth had been hastily tied. The collar of
his shirt hung limp. His coat and waistcoat were unbuttoned.

Gleaming black curls dangled over his brow. Here and
there others Stood up like corkscrews.

He had not simply washed his face but
stuck his head-under the pump, she saw with despair. He was
wet
.

She longed to drag her fingers through that unruly mass
of curls. She longed to peel off his damp clothes and let her hands
roam in places where they ought not to be.

It was the dratted fight in Colnbrook that was to blame.
His reaction when the drunkard touched her… the way the men
had come after him and he'd knocked them about and tossed them here
and there and made it all seem effortless… the danger…

She'd loved it.

She'd found it arousing.

Typical DeLucey reaction.

She shoved a hairpin into the rat's nest on her head. "I
am a DeLucey," she said grimly. "We corrupt everyone."

"You will not corrupt me," he said. "You
must make do with enslaving Thomas and making him cater to your mad
whims. I am not Thomas, however, and I am not accustomed to being
dictated to. Come, we must be off."

She stiffened. "I am not accustomed to being
dictated to, either," she said. "I refuse to stir from here
until I have made sure you haven't fractured a rib."

"I have not fractured any ribs," he said.

"You cannot be sure," she said. "Before,
in the passageway, you favored your right side."

"I was trying not to laugh," he said.

"You walked oddly afterward," she said.

"I was dizzy from laughing so hard," he said.

She had felt dizzy watching and
listening. When he'd laughed, he'd made her heart ache because he
looked so much like a boy and so much like a rogue, and so utterly
imperfect and
human
.

He
was
human, breakable like anyone else. Those paroxysms might have
worsened his injuries.

"It will only take a moment," she said. "Can
you not indulge—"

"I am not an idiot, Mrs.
Win—Mrs.
Woodhouse
,"
he said. "If I had broken a rib, I should know it. On account of
the pain, you see. My being so manly and stoical does not mean I
never feel pain. I have wit enough as well to recognize when I am not
in pain. I am not."

"There is often a delayed reaction," she said.
"Sometimes hours pass before the shock or excitement fully wears
off and the pain—"

"I am not shocked or excited and we are not hanging
about here for hours," he said. "I am going, madam. You may
come along or remain, as you choose." He turned away and went
out of the door.

He expected her to follow, like a sheep.

Bathsheba folded her arms and glared at the doorway.

A moment later, he stomped back into the room. "You
are being obstinate for the sake of being obstinate," he said.
"You are determined to challenge me at every turn. This is the
same as you did in London. Well, you cannot have your way every
time."

"But you can?" she said.

"I refuse to remain here arguing with you," he
said. "It is completely absurd."

"I will not be treated like a child," she
said. "You may not take that tone with me. You may not ridicule
my reasonable concern. Fractured ribs can prove fatal."

His expression abruptly softened. "Yes, of course
it is a reasonable concern. I should not make light of it."

She relaxed, unfolding her arms.

He moved toward her, face penitent. "You may tell
me all about it," he said, reaching for her hand. "In the
carriage."

She backed away, but he moved quickly, too, and scooped
her up.

"Oh, no," she said. "You will not use
these primitive tactics with me. I will not be flung about like a
sack of corn. Put me down." She punched his chest.