“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.
“Look out for my fractured ribs, my love,” he said with a laugh.
“I am not your love, you overbearing, sarcastic bully,” she said, trying to wriggle free. “You are not my lord and master. You will not—”
“You are making a scene,” he said.
“I have not even begun to make a scene,” she said as they came to the door. “Take one more step and I—”