“What did Dr. Graves recommend?”
“He gave me a powder. Didn’t help.”
His breathing became less labored. “Now, tell me about this man.”
Even now when he was in pain, he was concerned about her. And even though she was alone in his bedchamber—in his bed for that matter—he was being a perfect gentleman. She’d always thought of Lucian Langdon as a rogue, a scamp, and far more unflattering terms, but she was discovering the legend of Lucian Langdon was far removed from the reality. The legend was a man to be despised; the reality was one that she thought she could very easily come to care for a great deal. She wanted to end his discomfort and bring him what comfort she could.
“I don’t know. I’m probably being silly, but I keep seeing a gentleman. I think it’s the same gentleman. It’s difficult to tell, because I’ve only been able to catch glimpses of his face. He always turns away, and it would be entirely improper for me to approach him.”
“Then perhaps it’s nothing.”
“That’s what I tried to tell myself, but it’s his not trying to garner attention that captures my attention. Yesterday I went into various shops, made unnecessary purchases, and he always seemed to be waiting when I came out. When I looked away to see if anyone else was about, and then looked back to where he’d been, he’d disappeared.”
“Perhaps he’s one of your many admirers.”
She scoffed. “I have no admirers.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
He sounded as though he was on the verge of drifting into sleep, and she couldn’t help but believe her ministrations were causing his pain to recede. She tried to squelch the spark of envy that flared with the thought of Frannie being here and ministering to his needs. She liked Frannie. She truly did. She was sweet, and kind, and so unpretentious. Catherine understood why the young woman feared moving about in aristocratic circles, where ladies were so much more confident.
“This fellow…is there a reason for him to follow you,” Claybourne asked.
“None that I can think of. You don’t suppose he’s responsible for last night’s attack, do you?”
His eyes flew open, concern furrowed his brow. “Why would you think that?”
“It just seems too coincidental. I can’t think of a reason for anyone to follow me.”
“I’m certain the attack last night had more to do with me than you. A description of the fellow would be helpful.”
“Helpful for what?”
“For determining who he is.”
“Oh, you know all the ruffians in London, do you?”
“I know a good many. So what does he look like?”
“He wears a large floppy hat pulled low so I’m not certain of his hair color. Dark I think. His features are very rough-looking, difficult to describe because there’s nothing distinctive about them.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Possibly, but you shouldn’t worry about it right now,” she said softly. “You need your pains to go away.”
He barely nodded before closing his eyes again.
“Keep talking,” he ordered, so gently that it was more of a plea.
“About what?”
“Tell me…how it goes with Frannie.”
She sighed. She should have expected that he’d want to speak of his love.
“It goes very well. She is bright as you said. But I think we need to expand the lessons beyond her workplace. I think it might be better to have them here. For example, there is no tea service at Dodger’s. No drawing room. It is not a lady’s world.”
“Here…is not a lady’s world.”
“But it will be, once you marry. We’ll discuss it when you’re better.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You don’t like losing arguments.”
“I didn’t realize we were arguing, but honestly, does anyone want to lose?” She leaned up and whispered near his ear, “Go to sleep now. You’ll awaken to no pain.”
Her arms were growing tired. She moved up so she could rest her elbows on the bed. She’d hardly given any thought to the notion that her change in position would place her breasts against his chest. But he was too far gone to notice, while she was acutely aware of her nipples tightening. Almost painfully so. Perhaps they’d both be in pain before the night was done.
Yet she couldn’t deny she was content to remain where she was.
She continued to rub his temples. With her thumbs she began to stroke his cheeks.
All the while taking note of the fine lines etched in his face. He was not much older than thirty, and yet strife had chiseled at his features. That first night in the library, she’d studied the portrait of the man who should have been earl before him. It wasn’t difficult to see the similarities. Even though Claybourne claimed she’d find none, she almost imagined that she had. How different the portrait might have looked if the man had lived a life as rough as the man she now comforted.