The Cheer in Charming an Earl(7)
“Did you hear that?” Footsteps sounded at her ear. “Even as she dreams, she seems to care what becomes of our pathetic friends. Isn’t that sweet?”
Elinor could almost hear the other man rolling his eyes. She would have, in his place. “I wouldn’t get too close,” Mr. de Winter warned. “We don’t know where she came from. What if she’s after your coffers?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She can’t snatch my inheritance right out of my pocket. Besides, she’s an injured young woman, not a succubus. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“Do you have twenty thousand pounds a year or not?” the stranger asked. “That sort of rare fortune is enough to turn anyone avaricious. Even as we speak, she could be hatching a plan to get her claws into you.”
A lesser man would have stepped away. Grantham crept closer. He reeked of tobacco smoke and brandy, yet his breath bore the faint trace of mint, as though he’d attempted to conceal his earlier activities. When his fingers touched her brow she inhaled sharply.
Well, there was no longer any point in feigning near-death.
The two fingers on her brow disappeared, leaving cold spots where Grantham’s warm skin had touched hers. The tobacco scent cleared as he moved away.
Whether he and his friend already suspected her of trickery or not, it was time to execute the next phase of her plan. She stretched her arms out and contrived a big yawn. “Ah-hmm-mmm,” she pretended, rubbing at her eyes. But she jumped wide awake when her fingers touched bandages. “Am I hurt?” she cried, her shock very real. There shouldn’t be bandages!
She tried to remember when a dressing might have been wound around her head. She’d been awake the entire time, hadn’t she? She clearly recalled the deafening crack of the carriage wheel splitting apart. Then the whole thing had gone topsy-turvy, and the horses had whinnied in terror, and Mr. James had cursed something foul—
She bolted upright. None of it was amusing anymore. “Is Mr. James all right?” She started to get out of bed, but an awful dizziness washed over her and she almost vomited. “What of the horses? Please, tell me no one died.”
She sank against the stack of pillows and held her hand to her lips. When the nausea passed, she craned her neck to see her host. Even the sight of Grantham didn’t quell her fear that everything had gone horribly wrong.
“Your driver survived,” he said, “for I was told he was brought inside and given a tonic. I can’t say for certain about the condition of your horses. I’ll inquire after them.”
She clutched at the rough sheets until her fingernails dug into her palms. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll worry myself ill until I learn their fate. It was a terrible accident, wasn’t it?”
Grantham glanced at the other man. Her handsome earl looked just as she remembered him: straw-colored hair, eyes the tarnished silver of a horseshoe, a strong jaw set off by the most flamboyantly folded cravat she’d ever seen. But the doubt in those gray eyes troubled her. “Truthfully, I can only speculate on the severity of their injuries. We came straight here.”
“We were told you’ll likely recover from your ordeal,” Mr. de Winter said, “though your head may ache for some time yet. The physician en route may be delayed by the storm.”
She pressed her lips together and did her best not to cry. What a frightful mess. Even the thought of her brother’s carriage reduced to a tangle was enough to catch a sob into her throat, and she’d meant for it to be wrecked!
“The doctor is only a precaution,” Grantham explained quickly, as if pinning her distress on her injury. “No real damage has been done, except to my kitchens. And I did want for a reason to modernize.”
The other man smiled faintly. Mr. de Winter was a handsome fellow, too, taller than Grantham but with a dangerous edge his dark blue superfine couldn’t conceal. “Your optimism is a model to us all, Chelford.”
Grantham shot his friend an exasperated look. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I think that will be all for now, Miss—?”
He couldn’t leave, not yet. She’d dreamed of this introduction for far too long to have it ruined by her mistake. Nevertheless, when she opened her mouth to make a coquettish remark all that came out was, “Miss Elinor Conley. But please, my lord, tell me what has happened to your kitchens?” Gingerly, she touched the bandage again. At least her head didn’t pain her.
He stepped forward. Tobacco smoke, brandy and mint enveloped her again. “Nothing bricks and mortar can’t fix. I’d prefer you rest here rather than worry yourself over the state of my house.”