“It seems as if the count has effected one last injury,” Meggie said, nodding toward his hand where a patch of red had appeared. He lifted his hand and blanched.
A long gash covered his palm.
Charles appeared from a side door. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“What the devil does it look like!” he roared, an edge of panic in his voice. “Do you think I’ve been playing…”
“Charles,” Meggie interrupted her husband. “Would you be so good at to fetch a bandage or some strips of linen and some honey, if there’s any in the house?
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Ask Mrs. Draper if you’re unsure,” she said. “We’ll be in the library. And I’ll need some alcohol.” She glanced at her husband. “Preferably something the master places little value on.”
Charles gave a bow and disappeared.
Meggie gestured toward her husband. “Will you come into the library?”
He remained still.
“Please?”
He sighed. “I can deal with it myself, Margaret.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I’m sure you’d not want any more of your blood mingling with the ashes of a murderer.”
A smile played on his lips again, and he followed her into the library.
Chapter Ten
Dexter sat at his wife’s direction while she inspected his hand with silent, detached professionalism. Unlike most ladies, she came to the fore at the sight of blood, rather than fainting in a fit of hysterics. Elizabeth would have swooned, throwing herself into his arms in an attempt to elicit chivalry—even though he was the most unchivalrous man in London.
When Charles appeared, brandishing a tray laden with a small pile of linen, a jar of honey, and a decanter, she took it and bobbed a curtsey. The footman raised his eyebrow, but more out of surprise than contempt. She flushed and lowered her gaze.
Dexter dismissed the footman, but he hadn’t the heart to admonish his wife for her faux pas. He made a mental note to instruct Mrs. Draper to warn Charles not to gossip about his wife’s unladylike demeanor.
“May I?” she asked.
At his nod, she knelt at his feet and set the tray on the floor. Then she reached for his hand. Gentle fingers uncurled his, and he grimaced at the sight of the red liquid pooling in his palm. He closed his eyes, but the memory was too strong—the stream of red at his feet and the pain across his back, which burned like a flame.
“Husband?”
He opened his eyes to see her staring up at him, concern in her expression. Her eyes, which he’d thought an unremarkable brown, bore the warm, comforting hue of chocolate, punctuated by golden flecks that reminded him of the sun.
For a brief moment, another memory flashed past him—a different woman at his feet, taking him in her mouth to exert her sexual power over him. But rather than lust, he felt only shame at the memory when faced with the purity of his wife’s expression.
Would he never be free from Elizabeth?
“Get on with it,” he growled.
The light in his wife’s eyes died. She reached for the decanter and tipped it up, soaking a piece of linen. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.
Whisky—disgusting stuff. Fit for cleaning the silverware, and little else.
“Hold still,” she said. “This might hurt.”
“I know that.”
She pressed the soaked linen against his palm. A sharp sting caught him unawares as if a knife were being drawn across his hand.
“God’s teeth, woman!” he roared. “Did you have to do that?”
“It’s necessary to prevent putrefaction.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a doctor.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she continued to clean the wound, then dropped the blood-soaked bandage on the tray. He turned his head away and swallowed. When he looked back, he saw she watched him, understanding in her eyes. Yet she said nothing of his weakness. She dipped her fingers into the honey and smeared it over his palm.
“To aid healing,” she said, anticipating his question. “It forms a barrier over the wound.”
“It’ll make my hand taste sweet if nothing else.”
She smiled and picked up another strip of linen, then bound his hand, finishing with a neat knot.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.
“At Mrs. Preston’s.”
“Who the devil is Mrs. Preston?” Shame at his weakness at the sight of his own blood fueled the harsh tone to his voice. She frowned, and for a moment, he glimpsed, once again, the fire in her eyes.
“She runs the school.”
“What school?”
“The school at Blackwood Heath,” she said. “The one my father threatened with ruination if I didn’t marry you.”
She stood, rolling up the rest of the bandages, and moved toward the desk where she set the tray next to the chessboard.
He lifted his bandaged hand. “Thank you,” he said.
She gave a tight smile, then gestured to the chessboard. “This is beautiful.”
“Don’t touch the pieces,” he said.
“I wouldn’t move them without your leave,” she replied, an edge of irritation in her voice. “I presume you’re playing a game with someone.”
“Have you heard of chess?”
She nodded.
“Do you know how the pieces move?”
A smile curled at the corner of her mouth. “A little.”
“Shall I show you?” he asked. “I can teach you the basics, but the game of chess itself is somewhat complex.”
“Oh?”
He could swear he heard amusement in her voice.
“It’s a game of tactics and strategy,” he said. “Not something most women would be able to understand.”
Her smile disappeared. “You think women lack understanding?”
“Most women of my acquaintance believe themselves to be masters of manipulation,” he said. “But they lack the foresight or understanding to form a strategy for success.”
“Perhaps that’s a function of your choice of female acquaintances rather than a general rule applicable to the whole of my sex.”
For such an ignorant creature, her level of perception unnerved him.
“Perhaps it is,” he said, “but it needn’t concern you. You’re leaving for Hampshire tomorrow.”
“I thought we were leaving the day after?”
“I’m staying here,” he said. “I have business to attend.”
“You’re not coming?”
“You needn’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be safe on the road. I have a private coach and will instruct my men to watch over you at all times.”
“And you want me gone?”
He averted his gaze before she could assault his heart with those pleading eyes of hers.
She sighed. “May I ask you a question?”
“That depends on the question.”
“Had you married Elizabeth, would you have sent her away?”
“No,” he sighed. “But Elizabeth is not…”
“A bastard?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t use such language.”