Candice Hern (66 page)

Meg wanted to throttle Gram, but first she silently damned all her red-haired, fair-skinned ancestors when she felt the heat of a blush color her cheeks. She had no doubt her face was as bright as a strawberry. She turned away slightly, allowing the blush to subside. She would not—
she would not
—allow Gram to further humiliate her in front of Lord Sedgewick. Turning back, she raised a hand to interrupt Gram's continued approbations of her heroic nursing, when her eyes met Lord Sedgewick's.

He stared up at her with an odd, blank look. She feared for a moment that his mind must still be addled by the effects of the fever. Then, all at once, his face shifted and transformed itself into the most endearing, most boyishly charming, most devastatingly attractive smile she had ever seen. And had feared she might never see again. His lips stretched into a broad grin that revealed even, white teeth. The flat planes of his face had been rearranged into a series of deep creases that fanned out like pairs of parentheses from the corners of his mouth, almost to the edges of his ears. These lines were echoed by matching creases spreading out from the corners of his eyes, which had crinkled up into tiny slits.

Meg had watched Lord Sedgewick's face so often in repose, or occasionally in pain, over the last four days that she had almost forgotten the power of that smile. Oh, she had never truly forgotten it, of course. It was the one thing about Lord Sedgewick she recalled most vividly. But to have it turned on her again just now almost caused her knees to buckle.

Meg's hand was still raised, to quiet Gram's chattering, and the room had fallen silent while she and Lord Sedgewick shared a smile—for it was almost impossible not to smile in return. In that instant, while they smiled at one another, all Meg's uneasiness flew out the window.

"Please, Gram," she said, still grinning like a fool, "you will tire our patient. You must forgive her, my lord, but I am her only granddaughter and she dotes on me, I am afraid. You are, unfortunately, a captive audience and will no doubt be forced to suffer endless exaltations of my charms and accomplishments. And those of Terrence, my brother, for she loves us both. She is shameless, you see. But, alas, we cannot muzzle her, for she is our grandmother, so what can we do?"

Lord Sedgewick's smile broadened slightly, if that was possible.

"But tell me," Meg continued, "how are you feeling? Has Gram forced her herbal on you, yet?"

The smile became a grimace, and Meg laughed.

"I thought she meant to poison me," Lord Sedgewick said with a shudder. "Awful stuff!"

"But you must listen to her, nevertheless, my lord," Meg said. "She is one of the most knowledgeable herbalists in the county. In some other age, she might have been known as the local witch." Meg grinned at her grandmother and placed her arm around her shoulder once again, hugging her close. "But most folks around here take her advice quite seriously. As should you, my lord, if you know what's best for you."

"I place myself in your capable hands, ladies." Looking down at his leg, he grinned again. "It seems I have no choice, in any case."

"Do not fret too much over the leg, my lord," Meg said. "It was a simple fracture, easily reset. It should heal nicely, without a limp."

"Another bit of good news," he said. "Things seem to be looking up, indeed. I have never broken a leg, though I did break my arm once as a boy. Is this"—he nodded toward the leather straps that tied the splint to the bed frame—"normal?"

Meg looked at Gram, uncertain how much to reveal about his delirium.

"I am afraid you thrashed about a great deal during your fever," Gram told him. "The doctor simply wanted to immobilize the leg as much as possible so the bone would set properly. I am sure he would have no objection to removing them now."

"Thrashing about, was I?" Lord Sedgewick looked thoroughly embarrassed. "Good heavens, I have been a poor houseguest, have I not?"

"Your conversation has left something to be desired, my lord," Meg said with a teasing grin, "but otherwise you have been fairly well behaved. Better than many other Thornhill guests, to be sure."

"What sort of farm is Thornhill?" he asked.

"A horse farm," Gram replied. "Terrence and his father and his grandfather before him have all raised horses at Thornhill."

"Hunters, mostly," Meg added as she watched Lord Sedgewick's eyes widen.

"My God.
That
Thornhill? Why, some of the finest bits of blood I've ever seen came from Thornhill's stables. By Jove, don't you have that spectacular black stallion—"

"Blue Blazes?" Meg smiled to think their prime stud might be that well known. "Yes, he is our pride and joy, a purebred Arab. He sired the majority of our present stock."

Lord Sedgewick groaned. "Just my luck. Here I am, housed at one of the finest stud farms in Suffolk and confined to this wretched bed! Blue Blazes. Gad, but I'd love to see that horse."

"You will, my lord, you will," Meg said. "In time. But for now, you may satisfy yourself with his portrait, just there across the room, over the mantel."

Lord Sedgewick craned his neck and squinted, then smiled as he found the painting. "Ah, but he's a beauty," he said, and then heaved a resigned sigh.

"Never fear," Meg added, chuckling lightly at his frustration, "you will be able to see him in the flesh soon enough. When you're able to walk again."

"Mrs. Lattimer, hand me another dose of that foul-tasting brew," he said. "I wish to be up and about—soon!"

"Good man!" Gram said, reaching for the cup on the night- stand. "Meg, dear, you help Lord Sedgewick to drink this. I must see to mixing up another batch in my stillroom."

"Gram, I—"

"I shall return shortly," she said. "Meg, do keep Lord Sedgewick company for a bit. He will need to sleep soon, though. You mustn't tire him."

With that, Gram swept out of the room without a backward glance. Oh, Gram! How could you be so obvious? Meg felt another blush heat her face. Blast those fair-skinned ancestors, anyway. Her easily flushed skin revealed far too much for her liking. She kept her head bowed and slightly turned toward the door, too embarrassed to meet Lord Sedgewick's eye.

"Miss Ashburton?" he said in a soft voice. "Miss Ashburton, please do not hide your blushes. I find them most charming."

Meg jerked her head up to find the devastating smile turned on her once again.

Chapter 5

Sedge did indeed find Miss Ashburton's blushes charming.

Another incongruity, along with the freckles, in such an elegant-looking woman. She turned at his words, and he captured her with his smile. Thank God his face had not been injured, for he was quite aware of the effect his smile had on people. Especially women. Though he never quite understood why his smile was any different from anyone else's, he nevertheless recognized its power, and had used it to win many a friend and woo many a lover. He used it now to beguile the Amazonian beauty at his bedside. The blush faded, but she still looked charmingly embarrassed.

"You must forgive my grandmother, Lord Sedgewick. It is just that she ... well, she thinks I... Oh!" She gave an exasperated shake of her shoulders. "You know exactly what she was about. She could not have been more obvious."

"She is fond of you," he said. "That is only natural."

"Yes, she is, but she also believes me to be at my last prayers. So, when fate dropped an unmarried viscount on our doorstep ... well, you can imagine what she has been plotting and planning during your illness."

"Surely not your
last
prayers?" he teased. "Are the gentlemen of East Anglia so blind? Or merely stupid?"

She shrugged and looked embarrassed again, though she did not blush. "I spend a lot of time with horses," she said. "I am afraid I have never been the lady Gram would like me to be."

This elegant beauty, not a lady? Impossible.

"Mrs. Lattimer tells me you and I have met before," he said. "I confess I—"

"Do not worry yourself, my lord. I would not expect you to remember me. We only met twice, and very briefly."

Not remember her? How could he fail to remember this glorious creature?

"And yet, you remembered me?" he said.

Miss Ashburton threw back her head and laughed—a lilting, musical laugh.

The laugh nailed it. Sedge was thoroughly smitten.

"How could I forget," she said, grinning, "the only gentleman taller than me in all of London?"

"How, indeed? I am told we danced together. When ..."

"Good heavens, my lord. It was six years ago. Of course you do not remember."

Sedge furrowed his brow as he tried to bring to mind the spring of 1808. Each Season consisted of a similar round of balls, routs, card parties, and other endless and repetitive social events, so that there was almost no distinguishing between one year and the next. But there was always something, some event or other, that set apart one Season from another. Sedge began counting backward.

Last year had been the Season his friend Jack, Marquess of Pemerton, had come to Town looking for a rich bride and had become engaged to Lady Mary Haviland. The year before that was when his other good friend, Lord Bradleigh, had broken off a miserable engagement at the last minute so that he could marry Emily Townsend, a young woman Sedge had actually been courting himself. That was also the spring the Prime Minister had been assassinated. Sedge recalled. The year before that had been the year the Prince of Wales was declared Regent, and had given that outrageous grand fete. Sedge kept counting backward, but his mind went blank when he reached the spring of 1808. He beetled his brows until his head throbbed, when, finally, it came to him.

"Ah," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. "That was the year everyone was agog about what was happening in Spain. King Ferdinand had been abducted and forced to abdicate."

"And that scoundrel, Bonaparte," Miss Ashburton said, "put his brother on the throne. Yes, I remember. It was the talk of the Town."

"And I danced with you twice amidst all that buzz?"

"You were only being polite to a tall, skinny wallflower, my lord."

"You? A wallflower?"

The musical laugh tantalized him once again. "Oh, to be sure," she said. "Not many gentlemen care to dance with a young woman whose eyes are at a level several inches above their own."

Sedge tried to conjure up an image of a tall, red-haired beauty but came up blank. He could try to recall all the wallflowers he had danced with, but that would be a monumental task. Sedge was every hostess's dream, for he never failed to give all the wallflowers at least one dance.

This particular practice, which kept him in the good graces of every hostess or patroness in Town, was not based on any manner of calculation on Sedge's part, but rather on a deeply felt personal commitment. He had never forgotten the day his younger sister Georgiana, in Town for her first Season, had sobbed in his arms begging his intervention with their mother in allowing her to return to their home in Lincolnshire. Georgiana, plain and shy, was miserable at having spent yet another ball seated among the dowagers and chaperones, without a single partner during the entire evening. She knew she would never take, but her mother was determined to keep trying. Sedge's heart had almost broken at his sister's obvious unhappiness, and he had in fact talked their mother into returning to Witham Abbey. But he had never let go of his anger over the shallow stupidity of the gentlemen of the ton who could not see beyond Georgie's physical imperfections to appreciate her sweet nature and gentle spirit.

Georgiana had eventually married, though the memory of her shame and humiliation had never faded. From that time on, Sedge had made it a point to seek out the plain-Janes and wallflowers at each ball or assembly, to offer them at least one opportunity to dance. And, more often than not, his cheerful attempts to draw them out had been so successful that others began to take notice. Many a young lady found herself with a much more respectable dance card once Sedge had made the first offer.

Could Miss Ashburton have been one of his wallflowers? Tall women were often overlooked, gentlemen of the ton generally preferring small, dainty women who made them feel protective. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to bring to mind various tall girls he may have danced with. He conjured up a vague recollection of a gawky redhead in an abundance of unfashionable ruffles. He opened his eyes and found it hard to reconcile that memory of gangly awkwardness with the statuesque beauty before him.

"Could it have been at Lady Sefton's ball?" he asked.

"Good heavens!" she said. "You
do
remember."

"I seem to recall a very thin, very shy, very tall young woman, in lots of ruffles."

Miss Ashburton laughed. "That was me. Gram dressed me up like a wedding cake, hoping to make me appear more ladylike."

"But," he said, his eyes narrowing as he studied her, "you do not seem overly shy, despite those charming blushes. And you are certainly not... well, as thin as I recall."

As expected, that comment elicited yet another blush, but at least this time she did not turn away. "I have filled out... that is, I have put on some weight over the last six years." She looked up to meet his eyes, and he turned the full force of the famous smile upon her once again. "Besides," she continued, more at ease, "I have never really been shy in familiar surroundings. It was only the strict rules of the Season that intimidated me, not to mention the frequent disdainful looks from so many people who saw me as an awkward country miss. I rather hated it all, in fact."

"Have you never been back?" he asked.

"Good heavens, no."

"You should," he said, stifling a yawn.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, you must be exhausted. Oh, I completely forgot about Gram's herbal. Here, take a bit more before you go back to sleep."

"Must I?"

She chuckled. "I am afraid you must." She held the cup for him and he shamelessly wrapped his fingers around hers and brought it to his lips. He grimaced after one swallow, but eventually drained the cup. Another yawn overtook him while she replaced the cup on the nightstand.