Practically Wicked (13 page)

“I beg your pardon? I’ve done nothing wrong. I…” She trailed off when he moved his head and her foot became visible. “Oh, my.”

Apparently, she’d done something wrong. On the inside of her ankle, the thin cotton of her stocking was worn and stained pink with blood. A large blister must have formed and opened, and the exposed skin beneath rubbed raw.

“How did you let it get to this point?” Max demanded.

She scowled at her bloody stocking. “I hadn’t realized it was as bad as all that.”

“You were limping,” he reminded her, reaching for her other foot.

“I never said it didn’t hurt, I said I hadn’t realized it was quite so bad. Besides, I wasn’t limping. I was stepping with caution. There is a difference.”

If he had a particular reaction to that bit of nonsense, she’d never know it. He kept his head bent and refrained from comment.

The removal of the second boot revealed a stocking spotted pink at the heel and big toe. Two blisters, then. Both of them clearly less severe than the one on her first foot, but ghastly all the same. Anna sighed in defeat. Manure, mud, a mad dog, bloody blisters, and the presence of Max Dane. Her stroll about the countryside had now officially turned into a disaster.

Max cupped the heel of her first foot and gently turned it for inspection. “How long have you been stepping cautiously on these feet?”

“Not long.”

“‘Not long’ being a relative phrase?” he inquired, glancing up. “Or just a lie?”

“Not long being the politest way of informing you to mind your own business. Might have known the effort was wasted. Now, if you are done pretending to be a gentleman, might I have my footwear back?”

He released her foot and handed her the boots. “By all means. Let’s get you back to the house.”

“Thank you.” She accepted his hand and rose from the tree stump. The ground was cold and a little damp beneath her stockinged feet. “Now—”

“You’re welcome,” he cut in, and then, to her complete astonishment, he put an arm around her shoulders and bent in an attempt to put the other arm behind her knees.

She hopped away, quick as Clover. “What on
earth
do you think you are doing?”

“I’m going to carry you back,” he replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She gripped her boots against her chest like a shield and took another step back. “The devil you are.”

“You’re injured.”

“It’s a
blister
, Lord Dane.” One would think a bone was protruding. Carry her back, indeed.

“It’s several,” he countered, “and one is bleeding profusely.”

“Yes, gushing blood, really,” she replied dryly. “I do wonder if the physician will allow me to retain the limb.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “It’s a quarter mile back to the house.”

“It’s not half that.”

He gestured impatiently at her feet. “You’re practically barefooted.”

“Yes,” she agreed and took some pleasure in adopting a patronizing tone, “and no doubt I am in for a slow and uncomfortable return walk, but if you think for one moment I will allow you—”

“If
you
think for one moment I’m going to stand by while you hobble all the way back to the house, you are very much mistaken.”

She’d heard men could be autocratic in their misguided attempts at chivalry, but she’d never experienced the phenomenon firsthand. It struck her as distinctly ridiculous under the circumstances, and more than a little aggravating.

“This is not your decision to make, Lord Dane. My blisters and my morning stroll need not and do not concern you.”

“If that were true, I’d leave you to hobble, wouldn’t I? Now come—” He stepped forward again, hand outstretched.

She stepped back.

He dropped his arm and gave her a bland look. “Are we really going to do this?”

“Argue?”

“Play catch-me like a pair of eight-year-olds?”

She’d rather not. She didn’t think the scraps of her dignity could take the strain. But neither were they eager to accept another capitulation. She’d retreated from the billiards room and now she was retreating back to the house. Both were disheartening enough, but never let it be said she hadn’t retreated on her own two, blistered feet.

Max offered his hand. “One of us needs to take the higher road, sweet.”

Again, the use of an endearment. What the devil had changed in the last twelve hours? “Are you volunteering?”

His smile was slow, wicked, and filled with humor. “Darling, I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for it.”

She considered that statement and the light in which it had been offered. It was difficult to poke at a man who made jests out of his own sins and shortcomings. But, in this instance, she wasn’t averse to the challenge.

“The paths you walk are low, indeed,” she agreed. “But surely if I were to provide a long, long rope along with a climbing hook, and point you in the right direction, you might find your way if I held aloft a great light and—”

He let out a frustrated laugh. “For pity’s sake—”

“You’re the one who began the analogy,” she reminded him smugly. “It’s not my fault you chose a poor one.”

“But it would be my fault if your injury worsened because of a long walk back to the house. Engsly would have my head.”

“And if I allow you to carry me all the way back to the house, Mrs. Culpepper would have my head.” Mrs. Culpepper would pronounce Lord Dane terrifically romantic, but Max couldn’t know that, and Mrs. Culpepper was too loyal to mind the fib.

“However,” she added, aware that some sort of compromise would need to be made. There was independence, and then there was unreasonable stubbornness. She hadn’t the experience to know for certain where the line separating the two fell, but she suspected that an argument over a blister and an eighth-to-quarter-mile walk indicated that it wasn’t far off, “the blistering does sting a bit and I would, of course, appreciate some assistance—”

“Excellent.” He stepped forward once again as if to sweep her up.

“In the form of your
arm
, Lord Dane.”

Max stopped and dropped his hands. He looked to the sky in the manner of one praying for patience, yet again, then looked to her in the manner of one sizing up his opposition, and then, at last, held out his elbow in the manner of one defeated.

“Very well, hobble it is.”

She stepped forward slowly, transferring her boots to one hand, and took his arm just as she had earlier, with great care.

“I’ll not bite,” he promised, starting them off slowly.

“So you say now.”

“And so you’ve little reason to believe,” he added for her.

She cast him a sideways glance as she gritted her teeth in discomfort. The green grass of the English countryside, which had always looked so invitingly soft in the drawings of her books, was not, as it turned out, especially soft or inviting. “Your conduct toward me has altered considerably since yesterday.”

“Indeed. The very reason I sought you out this morning, in fact.” He steered her away from a rough patch of ground. “I wished to apologize for my behavior yesterday.”

“Do you wish to apologize,” she asked with skepticism, “or do you apologize?”

It was the most minor quibble of semantics, and one she felt no shame at all in making. She rather felt she deserved a proper apology.

“I apologize,” he said in a clear, earnest voice. “I behaved badly and I am sorry for it.”

He seemed sincere, but while his unexpected confession of remorse was welcome, what she couldn’t understand was, “Why?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Why are you sorry now, all of a sudden? What changed over the course of one night?”

“Perception,” he offered. “A little time can effect a drastic change in perception…I can see by your expression you don’t believe a word of it.”

“A word here and there, certainly.” Time could change a great many things, but she wasn’t willing to accept that a single night had changed him. “But in this instance, I am uncertain of the sentiment.”

“Would you allow me an explanation?”

“By all means.” She rather felt she deserved that along with the apology. Perhaps a bit of groveling as well. His behavior really had been quite atrocious.

There was a brief pause before Max spoke. “I had not thought to see you again,” he began at length. “I’d not realized I’d be seeing you again when I arrived at Caldwell yesterday. The news of your imminent arrival came as a considerable surprise.”

“My arrival at Caldwell shocked you into behaving like an arse?”

“More or less,” he replied with a slight shrug. “I said I had an explanation, not an excuse. If I had an excuse, I wouldn’t need to be apologizing.”

She considered that with pursed lips and silently conceded he had a fair point. “Do you always respond to surprise with anger and contempt?”

“Do you always respond to apologies with suspicion and criticism?”

She had no idea. The only other person she’d ever truly fought with was her mother, and the woman never apologized.

“I don’t mean to be difficult.” She reconsidered that. “Or perhaps I do. I daresay I’ve some call to be. Either way, I simply do not understand the why of it all. Why should seeing me again cause such an unpleasant reaction in you?”

“If you had asked me before last night, I’d have told you I was merely being protective of a friend. But the truth is, I used my affection for the Haverstons as an excuse to behave badly.”

“Why did you want to behave badly at all?”

“Because…Our last meeting…” Looking uncomfortable, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and mumbled, “Never underestimate the awful power of wounded pride.”

“Your pride?” What absurdity, she thought. “Why should
your
pride have been wounded?”

He stopped them both and dropped her arm as he turned to stare at her intently, his expression unreadable.

“What?” She demanded after a moment. “What is it?”

“I am trying to puzzle out if you’re being deliberately mean or deliberately stupid.”

“I beg your pardon?” She stiffened, inside and out. “I have never been either.”

“Accidently stupid, then?”

“If this is how you issue apologies, I’ll do without—”

“You refused to see me,” he accused suddenly. He looked away, giving Anna the impression he was both angry and a little embarrassed. “You asked for a promise and then refused to see me.”

“I…I don’t understand. Last night? I retired early, and I’d no desire—”

“No, not last night,” he bit off, still refusing to meet her eye. “At Anover House.”

There was a moment of silence as she tried to wrap her head around his words. The moment didn’t help. “I refused to see you at Anover House?”

“Yes, you…” Finally, his gaze came back to her. “Didn’t you?”

“Just…Before? In London, you mean?” Of course in London, she thought with irritation. Was there a different Anover House? “You called on me?”

“I did. Repeatedly, in fact.” He tilted his head, his hazel eyes studying her face. “You didn’t know, did you?”

She shook her head. “I still don’t understand. Did you call on me recently?”

“No. I came to see you a week or so after our meeting…As I said I would.” The embarrassment and aggravation were gone from his features. In their stead was the light of dawning realization. “I was told you wished not to be disturbed, that you would not receive me. That wasn’t the case, was it?”

She shook her head slowly, mutely.

He’d come? He’d called on her? A spark of excitement lit beneath her skin, but she was careful to keep it banked.

“Told by whom?” she asked, afraid she already knew the answer. There was really only one person it could have been.

“Your mother.”

“Oh.” A tight knot formed in her stomach. “Oh, I see.”

She didn’t see, not really. There was a swirling cloud of questions and fury and hope and she couldn’t see much of anything past it. Why would her mother have done such a thing? No wonder he’d been less than eager to see her again.

He’d come. Just as he’d promised.

“There were letters as well,” he told her.

“Letters,” she repeated softly, stunned.

“A couple. May I presume you did not receive them?”

“I never saw them. I never heard…” She shook her head, feeling adrift. “You wrote to me. You came to see me.”

“Yes.” He tipped his head a little, studying her. “You truly had no idea?”

“No. None at all. I give you my word.” She wished she had something better to offer. The word of a courtesan’s daughter held little weight. Fortunately, in this case, it only had to hold more than the courtesan’s.

He had to believe it was Madame who lied. He had to believe she’d not have treated him so callously.

“I believe you,” he said.

Oh, thank heavens.

She offered a tentative smile. “And I believe you came as promised.”

“Thank you.”

For several long moments there was silence between them. Her smile wanted to waver, but she kept it firmly in place. What did she say now? What did they do?

“Would you have met with me?” he asked suddenly.

She hesitated in her response. Not because she was unsure of the answer, but because the question felt weighted. As if she might be admitting to something vastly more significant than
certainly I would have sat with you of a Saturday morning in my mother’s parlor
.

“Yes,” she said at last, though the answer was delivered to her own feet. She’d never known such a strange mix of awkwardness and hope. “This is most uncomfortable.”

“Is it? I find it…” He paused, considering, then landed on “…interesting.”

That was certainly one word for it.

“I don’t know what to say.” She swallowed audibly. “I apologize for my mother’s interference and any discomfort or—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “If it wasn’t your doing, then I don’t want an apology from you.”

What
did
he want from her? She may have found the courage to ask just that, but he spoke again before she could.

“I feel doubly foolish now, for my earlier behavior.”

“I feel more inclined to forgive it.”