It was one thing to have those desires, but another thing altogether to act on them.
“Yes, I’ve been beside you most of the time,” she replied, unaware of the depraved path of his thoughts. “Uncle George had to tend to that important patient of his, so he hasn’t been around much. He left me in charge of you. Fortunately, the stab wound to your side was the worst of it. And it was bad, if you wish to know the truth. The blade missed your vital organs by a hair’s breadth. You wouldn’t have pulled through otherwise.”
The notion seemed to distress her. It felt odd that she should care whether he lived or died. No one in his family did.
In truth, he didn’t either.
“I never lost faith that you would survive. You’re strong. And Uncle George is the best doctor in all of England,” she said with noticeable pride. “He cleansed your wounds thoroughly and stitched you up. Your arms weren’t slashed as badly as we’d feared, and the stab wound to your leg wasn’t very deep.”
She sounded efficient, as though she were taking inventory. Suddenly, she paused and there were tears glistening in her eyes.
Surprised, he reached out to run his thumb along the thin trail of water now sliding down her cheek. He winced as a painful jolt shot from his fingers to his brow. He’d braced himself against the expected pain, but it hurt like blazes anyway. One of those assailants must have sliced through muscle. Perhaps cracked one of his ribs. The mere raising of his arm would not have caused him agony otherwise.
No matter. Dillie was worth it.
“How silly of me.” She shook her head and let out a delicate laugh. “I don’t know why I’m crying now that you’re better.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Disappointment?”
Her smile faded. “How could you even think such a horrid thought? Of course I’m not disappointed. I would have been shattered if you’d died. In my bed, no less!”
“Right. Nobody likes a dead duke in their bed.”
She was frowning now, but made no move to remove his hand, which was once more caressing her cheek. Her blue eyes still shimmered with tears. “It would be especially difficult to explain away to the authorities.”
He nodded. “Or to the patronesses at Almack’s. My death would have been quite the scandal, and certainly the ruination of you.”
She tipped her head, turning into his hand so that he now cupped her chin. She didn’t notice, obviously distressed by his words. “Surely not my ruination.”
“Dillie, nobody would have cared that you’d worked tirelessly to save my sorry life. All they would have noticed is that I’d departed this world in Dillie Farthingale’s bed.”
“You’re simply being your cynical self, thinking the worst of your fellow man.”
“And you’re thinking like a wide-eyed innocent. People will always disappoint you. The sooner you realize it, the better.”
Her gaze turned tender. “Ian, who hurt you so badly to make you feel that way?”
He laughed, and then winced as the effort sent more shooting pains up and down his body. “No one.” Everyone. “I was born this way.”
“No you weren’t. Children aren’t born cynical.”
“I’m a man now. I’m as manly as they come.”
She rolled her eyes. “I suppose all the women you seduce tell you that.”
“Breathlessly and often.” Damn, she had beautiful eyes. A soft, sky blue.
“You aren’t as manly as you think.” She slipped away from him and rose to grab a clean cloth from a stack beside the basin of water on her nightstand. Grinning mischievously, she dipped it in the water and wrung it out. “I had to hold you down while Uncle George treated your wounds. You cried like an infant the entire time. Waah, waah, just like a baby,” she teased, making a pretense of rubbing her eyes and sniffling like a child who’d fallen and scraped a knee. “Amos, our strongest footman, had to help me hold you down.”
He laughed again, then winced again. “Good try, but not possible.”
“How do you know?” She arched a delicate eyebrow. “You were barely conscious most of the time.”
His merriment faded. “Dillie, you saw my body. These aren’t my first scars, and they’re not likely to be my last.”
She returned to his side and set the cool, damp cloth over his forehead. She didn’t sit down, but remained standing and slightly turned away, as though suddenly troubled. “Very well. You didn’t cry out. Not even once,” she said in a whisper.
“I know.” He’d shed his last tears at the age of four, spent every last one of them wishing... no matter, his life had been changed forever that day and he’d learned to endure.