“I suppose only time will tell,” she said with resignation. “I believe if it’s a sprain, it could possibly heal in a matter of days whereas a break would take weeks to mend.”
So she was well informed. “Let’s hope it’s merely a sprain. It’s fortuitous I happened by when I did. I can carry you to my coach and take you home.”
“Yes, very fortuitous, I should say.”
“What does fortuitous mean?” asked the boy who had remained at his mother’s side like a miniature protector.
His mother smiled at him. “It means lucky.”
“We sure were lucky,” the lad said. “Did you see his coach and four?”
“No, I did not! I’m in pain, covered with mud, and cannot even see the lane, you horse-mad lad!” she said good naturedly.
David gathered the red knitted shawl that had fallen off when she tumbled. “Allow me to help put this on. It’s bitterly cold today.”
Then he scooped her into his arms. She was a slender little thing. It was no trouble at all climbing up the ravine with her. In fact, he found it rather pleasant—even if her dress was muddy. A little mud could not diminish her loveliness.
When she clasped her arms around his neck, he drew in his breath—again like an impressionable lad from Eton. This young mother made him forget he was a man of the world who’d kept mistresses and dallied with any number of women over the past decade.
“I’ll get your basket, Mama,” the lad said as he scurried off to claim the basket she’d dropped when she fell.
She turned her attention back to David. “I do hope I’m walking soon. I have so much to do. People need me. Poor old Mr. Knight’s not doing well. I’ve been checking on him every day. And, of course, it’s Christmas, and I’m all my little boy has.”
How was it this woman knew his neighbors so well? Come to think of it, why did he not know this woman? He sure as hell would remember her if he’d ever met her before.
As he reached the lane, his annoying neighbor Benedict Blatherwick brought his curricle to a halt and leapt from the box, his bushy blond brows lowered with concern. “What in the blazes has happened? I should have been here! Were I here to offer my protection, no harm could ever befall the lady.” He puffed out his chest. “For if I do say so myself—and far be it from me to boast. I only speak the truth—there’s not a braver man in two counties than Benedict Blatherwick.”
It was all David could do not to roll his eyes. The Buffoon was more interested in singing his own praises than in determining the extent of the lady’s injuries.
David’s sinfully wealthy former neighbor approached the stricken woman, and his voice gentled when he addressed her. “I do declare, my dear lady, I was in the process of paying you a call. You cannot see them now as I left them in my curricle when I saw that you were under distress, but I was bringing you a magnificent bouquet. As you know, I am noted for my gardens. They are the loveliest in all of Sussex. I spared no expense when having them designed, but then, as you know, only the finest of everything will do for Benedict Blatherwick.”
“Yes,” she said, “so you have told me before.”
He shrugged. “But, of course, my gardens are not in bloom in winter, but far be it from me to do without bounteous blooms the year around. Many a lovely flower grows in my orangery when the ground outside is covered with snow. You may recall my father commissioned the orangery from none other than Robert Adam himself.”
David had to force himself not to burst out laughing. Surely no woman could be impressed by a man like Blatherwick. He was like a wind-up toy. Now that he had started, he could not stop his string of boasts. “I do not say it myself, but others do say the woman who wins my affections will be the most fortunate woman in all of England.”
David was especially curious to know who in the hell—apart from Blatherwick himself—would ever think Blatherwick a fine matrimonial prospect. He could have howled with laughter.
The woman who was the object of Blatherwick’s attentions made no response to this latest absurd assertion.
Was The Blowhard ever going to actually inquire about the woman to whom he was paying a call, David wondered, impatience making him fume. The lady wasn’t heavy, but David did wish to put her into the coach.
“It was very kind of you,” she said to Blatherwick, wincing, “to be bringing me flowers.”
“But as you can see,” David said, “the woman’s not fit for callers now. She’s been injured and will have to be attended to.”
The fool had the audacity to lay his pudgy hand upon her delicate arm. “If only you would have allowed me to collect you and the boy as I constantly urge you to do. No harm would ever befall you. Now what have you gone and done?”
Finally!
“I merely slipped in the mud and tumbled a bit. I’ll likely be back to normal tomorrow.”
Blatherwick glared at David. There was no love between the two. David had bested him at everything. They’d been contemporaries at Eton, where David had excelled at the sports which were challenging to Blatherwick. David also rode better than Blatherwick, was more successful at gambling, and he counted more men as friends. Blatherwick, however, held such an inflated opinion of himself he was possibly not aware of any of his own shortcomings.
David finally put the injured lady into his coach, instructing her to stretch her leg across the seat. “You must keep the ankle elevated. It will hurt less.”
Then he turned back to his neighbor. “Good day to you, Blatherwick.”
Still glaring, the man merely bowed, clicked his heels together, and nodded before he returned to his costly curricle.
Then David helped the boy into the coach. “Where do we take you?” he asked her.
“To Darnley Lodge.”
He felt as if he’d taken a fist to the gut. He stiffened. This could mean only one thing. This genteel woman was The Schemer who’d persuaded his father to deny him his birthright. It was all he could manage not to throw her out of his coach. But he could hardly punish her child for her evil ways.
It was only with the greatest restraint he made it the short distance to Darnley without erupting into a fit of anger. The discovery of this woman’s identity had the effect of stealing his tongue.
But not hers. Once he was seated across from her, she eyed him amiably. “You may have noticed that I rather stared at you when you knelt beside me back there. It wasn’t shock. It was the strong notion that we’d met before, and now I know why.”
“I assure you we’ve never met before,” he snapped.
“Oh, I am aware of that, Lord Paxton.”
He raised a brow. “You know my name?”
“I would know you from among a thousand men. Your eyes, your chin…they are exactly like those of your father. God bless his dear soul.”
“Then you must be Mrs. Milne.” His voice was as rigid and cold as marble.
“You are David?” the lad asked him, excitement in his voice.
“Dearest, he’s a lord now,” she said. “You mustn’t refer to him as David. He’s now Lord Paxton.”
“But Lord Paxton’s in heaven.”
“Sons inherit their fathers’ titles.”