The countess nodded. In her worry, she held an air of vulnerability in which he could see glimmers of Anne in her expression. “Since Anne has met you, she fairly sparkles, shines as if she’s been lit from within. I’ve never seen such a change in her before. I wanted to thank you for that.” She pressed her lips together. Concern etched into the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. “I’m afraid Doverton and I have been rather unfair to her in recent years.”
He kept his own counsel on that. “Anne has always been that way, Lady Doverton. At least to me. You merely needed to see her for herself, the woman she’s been meant to become.” His grin faltered, for with his careless words at the crash site, he’d introduced doubt into her dreams. “Besides that, I… I love your daughter. Perhaps that makes all the difference.”
The countess’ eyes rounded with surprise. “How can you love her, Lord Worthington? You only just met her naught but a week prior.”
“There are times that two souls are destined to find each other and the connection between them won’t be denied.” Benedict shrugged. “Once she wakes, and if she’ll have me, Anne and I will never have cause to part again. I want her under my protection and my care, even if she fights me every step of the way.”
Yet, could he truly do that? She had a strong will and even stronger determination, and if she wished to continue putting herself into harm’s way, she would.
And take his heart with her.
Lady Doverton shook her head. “Anne is stubborn. She’s not inclined to wed, even if she shares your sentiments on love.”
“I’m a patient man, and I’m learning how to be fearless thanks to her.” He shot her a wry grin. “It’s a long process for me, though. Everything she does terrifies me.”
She smiled and briefly touched his arm. “Don’t give up on her, but if you’re searching for a proper ton wife, I rather think you should leave her alone.” Sadness clouded her eyes, and that emotion went deep in the guttering light from the oil lamp resting on a nearby table in the corridor. “My Anne was never cut from that cloth.”
“Don’t I know it?” Gently, he escorted her toward the stairs. “However, that’s one of the reasons I love her, Lady Doverton. Keep the faith. It will all turn out right as rain before we’re done.”
Perhaps an hour following the break of dawn, Anne woke. He’d collapsed into a fitful doze at her bedside. When she touched her good hand to his hair, he was immediately alert.
“Benedict.”
“Welcome back, Anne.” He couldn’t take his gaze from hers. Pain clouded those cornflower depths. “How do you feel?” He kept his voice low, for he desperately wanted this time alone with her before her parents arrived.
“As if I’ve been trampled by a traveling coach and then hit by a runaway cow.”
Dear God, the woman was a piece of broken pottery, but the shards didn’t detract from that beauty. Not only from this most recent crash, but from the slings and arrows she’d suffered in society and perhaps the death of her brother, and she’d put herself back together, time and again, with her own hands and willpowers. Yet, the critical world of the ton, being what it was, continued to judge her for those cracks while they completely missed the wonder of how she’d made herself whole again.
That’s why he loved her, why he would never stop loving her.
“Give it a few days. The pain will lessen.”
“Perhaps, but the bruises won’t fade as promptly.” She frowned as her attention fell to the yards of gauze that were wrapped about her right ankle. With her fingers, she explored the sticking plaster at the back of her head. “Do I look as terrible as I think?”
“Not at all.” With a shaking hand, he touched her arm, slid his fingers down and held her hand.
“You’re not a good liar.” She squeezed his fingers. “Tell me the truth.”
He allowed a small grin. “You’re ghastly, quite frankly, but you survived the crash.”
“Small miracle, that.” Anne shook her head. “I can still remember every bump, every branch I hit on the way down.” Her voice was small, and a certain vulnerability had snuck into her expression.
Cold fear buzzed at the base of his spine, for he would say everything that he felt to her before his smattering of courage fled. “Are you well enough to talk?”
“I assume so.” A wide yawn followed the response.
“We’ll need to do so quickly before your parents come in or the surgeon returns to dose you with more laudanum.”
“All right.” A frown took possession of her kissable mouth, and it took all his willpower not to claim those lips. “Why would my parents care?”
The poor thing. “True me, they do, and they’ve been as worried as I have waiting for you to return to consciousness.”
“Very well. Help me to sit somewhat upright. I’m afraid I’m an invalid without the full use of my limbs.”
“But take heart. The distance you covered over Cranleigh was impressive. You nearly made it.” Benedict gently eased her upward and fluffed a mountain of pillows behind her. Then he began the speech he’d rehearsed in his head for hours. “It’s been a week since we first met—”
“Where is my balloon?” she interrupted with a wince when she attempted to move her left arm.