Page 13 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

They’d been strong enough to support her when he’d carried her down the stairs. Would he perform the same service to get her back up again, or call for a sturdy footman?

She felt herself blushing. “Your fingers work well enough now, but must have been very painful to begin with. You are right-handed, I take it?”

“Indeed. It was a damnable nuisance when I hurt my hand, but I try not to think about it now. Here’s the old ballroom. Regrettably unused since last century, when I was but a babe. I always enjoyed going over to Thatcham for balls when I was younger.”

A shadow clouded his face, and she squeezed his arm. “Your mama told me what happened to your fiancée.”

“Indeed.” He turned his dark gaze on her. “I shouldn’t imagine she told you everything. At least, I hope not.”

“Your secrets are safe, sir.” Feeling uncomfortable, she looked around the ballroom. It was extremely grand—she’d only ever been in such a place when attending regimental balls with her parents. It was at one of these she’d met Frederick, though they hadn’t danced together. Their affair had been one of whispers behind potted palms, trysts in alcoves, and stolen moments when he climbed the wall into the garden of her home. So thrilling, so exciting—he’d quite turned her head with his appetite for danger.

But that was a long time ago. She was much changed, and alas, not for the better.

“I pray, don’t let my wounds—either internal or external—depress you, Hestia. I’ve been managing, as you can see.”

His voice, low, moderate, and warm, shook her out of her reverie. “You have some enormous paintings,” she said, indicating a vast battle scene on one wall. “But where are the mirrors in which the guests can admire themselves?”

There was a moment’s silence before he answered. “My steward had them removed. Every mirror in the house in fact—except those in mama’s room—was put away after my accident. I have not yet thought to have them replaced.”

She spun to face him. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I wasn’t thinking.” Oh heavens, here she was, concerned to spare this man’s feelings, when he was supposed to be the enemy, allegedly a ruthless monster. Frederick’s portrayal of him couldn’t have been further from the truth. Although she understood some men could be totally implacable when roused.

“So, you don’t know how much damage was done to your face?”

“I do. I’ve seen it. They gave me a glass eye to admire, but it’s very uncomfortable. If one can’t see through it, what’s the point of revealing it? I can’t swivel it when I move my gaze, and people talking to me won’t know at which eye to look. So, you see, I keep the patch on for altruistic reasons, not selfish ones.”

She raised a hand to his cheek, and the air around them stilled. Her focus narrowed to the the rapid rhythm of her heart and the shallowness of her breathing.

“May I see?”

He placed his gloved hand over hers, his gaze intense, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

“You’re very courageous. But I promise you, Hestia—the last thing you’ll ever get off me will be my eyepatch.”

The noise and movement of the day returned in a rush. The clocks were ticking, a blackbird whistled from a shrub outside, and in the passageway, one of the servants rattled by with a tray.

Conall was examining the stitching on his glove, his high cheekbones suffused with colour, and the heat rose in her body as she found herself imagining him naked. But for the eyepatch.

He recovered first. “A poor choice of words. Forgive me. Are you ready to return to your room?”

They were back to formal again. She took his arm and a firm grip of the walking cane, and they made their way back to the foot of the stairwell. Suddenly, she felt tired. Her back ached, and her mind was confused, panicked by her reaction to his suggestive remark, albeit unintentional, and terrified that she might have somehow given away the fact she was not as innocent as she wanted him to think.

Her hesitation spurred Conall into hefting her into his arms once more and holding her across his body. The next few moments were an exquisite torture as he carried her up the two flights of stairs, and along the passageway to her room. The muscles of his chest and stomach flexed against her flank as he walked, and his bicep bulged at her back. He was every bit as powerful as his broad shoulders suggested. What would he be like as a lover? Tireless, no doubt.

Her pulse quickened. Frederick had said she might use seduction to vanquish their enemy, and she’d been horrified he should value her so little that he was prepared to share her with another man. Especially when he’d already described that man as a disfigured monster.

She ought to hate Frederick for his lies and manipulation. But she belonged to him—he’d ruined her for anyone else. The primal urges of her body, awakened by his volatile lovemaking, must be quelled. If she was to rescue herself and her future husband from penury, she must keep a clear head, and keep Conall Methuen at a distance.

All the same, when he set her gently down on her bed and rang for her maid to undress her, she conjured up a vision in which he first kissed her thoroughly, then removed her clothes himself.

This awakening to his touch, this awareness of him as a man, would make the remainder of her time at Spyle Court a cruel torment. She must invade his study and get those papers for Frederick at the earliest opportunity.

Otherwise, she could end up doing something thoroughly reprehensible.

Chapter 8

“I can’t deny that girl has done you a world of good.”

Conall raised an eyebrow at his mama. “Would it surprise you to learn that I agree with you? Hestia is a pleasant and amusing young woman.” One who fired his blood, but that wasn’t the kind of thing one told one’s mother.