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her cheek and nose. It was a good thing Lucien was still confined to his sickbed; she was in no state to face a “dook.”
    Of course, it wouldn’t matter if Lucien did see her looking like a scullery maid. He had no real interest in her, even if he had attempted to kiss her every time he regained consciousness. That was the way of a rake—to flirt shame- lessly and then waltz away. Still, it wouldn’t do for him to see her looking like a positive ragamuffin. Perhaps she should run up to her room and—
    “Are you through gazing at yourself?”
    Arabella hastily replaced the pan and pulled a handker- chief from her pocket. “At least I don’t have a mangled cravat knotted about my throat! If you decide to leave the house, pray tie a napkin over that hideous thing. It has two lumps on one side while the middle stares out like a hideous eye.”
    He laughed, the tired lines on his face easing. “I may well have to do that: Aunt Jane has a burning desire to visit town. I suppose I shall have to accompany her.”
    “I daresay she also asked that I sit with our injured guest while she was gone.”
    Robert’s lips twitched. “I believe she did.”
    Arabella wiped her cheek one last time, then balled up the handkerchief and threw it at him. “Oh, yes, make light of my suffering! Just don’t come crying to me when you find yourself the victim of her odious matchmak- ing.”
    His wan smile faded. “That will never happen.” “Don’t be too sure. Once I marry the village smithy just
    to escape her hideous schemes, she will turn her evil eye on you.”
    His eyes flashed and he said vehemently, “What woman would ever want me ?”
    The despair in his voice stabbed through her like a knife. She refused to believe he would not awaken one day and be back to his old self, healed as quickly as he’d become ill. But she could see from the darkness in his eyes that he did not have such high hopes: Robert believed he would never walk again.
    Arabella bit her lip. She tried to take care of her family, to overcome all of the hardships that faced them. Yet she could not do this one thing—the most important thing of all. She was no better of a provider than Father.
    Desperately seeking to comfort them both, she swal- lowed her tears. “The doctor believes your paralysis is due to nervous tension. In time, when the memories—”
    “No.” His voice dropped into a cracked whisper. “Every night I see it all—again and again and again.” He closed his eyes and pressed his fists to the closed lids. “I see it until I would rather die than fall asleep.”
    Arabella reached out a hand. “Robert, don’t—”
    “I cannot help it!” The cry was torn from him. He dropped his fists to his lap and lifted haunted eyes to her. “The memories are with me all the time; I will never for- get.”
    She pulled back her hand and clutched the folds of her skirts to keep herself still. He would reject her sympathy and withdraw from her as he did from so many people. The wound was too new, too raw to be so directly addressed. She pasted a tremulous smile on her face and said with a confidence she did not feel, “Give it time, Robert. It has only been two months.”
    His mouth twisted. “I am going to find Wilson.” Arabella watched as he pushed the chair out the door,
    his dark head bowed. Her heart ached, as if it had swollen too large and pressed into her breastbone.
    The back door opened and Ned stomped in, Cook jab- bering as she followed. “The damper has gone and rusted closed, if ye ask me. Ye’ll have to shake it loose.”
    Ned nodded wisely. “Can’t let the dook go without his dinner.” Without another word, he went straight to work on the damper as if it were of vast importance.
    Cook watched Ned intently, saying over her shoulder, “Oh, Missus. I almost fergot to tell ye. Mr. Francot stopped by earlier and said he had some papers for ye. He said he would come back this afternoon.” Cook scrunched her nose. “I don’t