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Authors: Catherine Palmer
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send it here at once for both of you. Then I shall go into town and find the doctor. We should return to Slocombe within the hour.”
When he started to get up, Miss Watson caught his arm. “No, my lord, please do not go. You are wounded yourself. Your arm . . . ”
He glanced at the tattered flesh of his shoulder and frowned. “Dash it all. This is a devilish circumstance.”
“Please guard your tongue, Lord Blackthorne, I beg you,” Miss Watson whispered. “Anne is a minister’s daughter.”
Studying the injured woman for a moment, he decided he had no choice. “I must go for the chaise. If she loses more blood—”
“No—that cannot be! I shall go myself. The gamekeeper has no reason to shoot at me. I shall send the chaise to you and fetch the doctor from the village.” Miss Watson scrambled to her feet, clapped one hand over her bonnet, and darted away.
“Miss!” He called after her, but she was already flying around a bend in the road, her tattered, blood-spattered skirts dancing at her ankles.
Four
He supposed it had something to do with the way she had woven a royal tale of imagination for the little beggar girl in the kitchen. Or perhaps it was the manner in which she had boldly demanded the return of her lace panel. Maybe it was nothing more than the range of emotions that had flickered across her face during his farcical marriage proposal—indignation, amusement, anger, shy pleasure.
Ruel lifted Anne’s shoulders and rested her head against his arm. Whatever the reason that drew him to this woman, she captivated him. He stared in dismay at her pale face. The thick hedge cast blue shadows beneath her cheekbones and over her neck. Though a tiny pulsebeat flickered in her throat and her breath came regularly, she had lost too much blood. Even now, it soaked through the binding on her thigh and seeped onto her bare leg. He rubbed his fingers together, aware that they, too, were stained with her bright blood.
A strange sensation crept over Ruel as he looked at the woman. He had always viewed his own existence with the cynicism of the rake that he was. Both Ruel and Alexander had been born late in their mother’s life. Though the duke clearly loved his elder son, Ruel’s mother preferred the younger brother. “That dark, vile little thing,” she called Ruel as she chose either to abuse or to ignore him. Yet the duchess doted on Alexander: “My golden gift from God.”
Ruel had learned not to care. All women, he had decided while still quite young, were useless except as entertainment. Claire, sixteen years his senior and the eldest of the five lovely Chouteau sisters, had done her best to encourage tenderness in the little boy by playing with him, teaching him songs, bringing him toys from London. But Claire had married the Viscount Eagon the year after Alex was born, so he saw her rarely. His other sisters—busy with fashion and beaux and the goings-on of Society—could hardly be bothered with him.
Ruel touched the tip of his knuckle to Anne Webster’s cheek. He had always thought of women rather the way a huntsman views his prey. They were to be admired for their appearance, pursued, and, one hoped, conquered. As many as possible, as often as possible.
A man could be respected for a variety of things—his intellect, his wit, his shooting skill, even his wealth and position in Society. Women focused their whole existence on balls, gowns, and romantic intrigues. They spent their time on such fripperies as playing the pianoforte, stitching fire screens, beading purses. Thus, Ruel had nothing but a passing carnal interest in the female gender.
He had little use for religion either, thinking it a grand collection of gibberish intended to give the weak-minded hope. He agreed with his friend George Gordon, Lord Byron, on the subject. The poet had commented to him one day, “We are miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon another.”
Women. Religion. Balls.
When he started to get up, Miss Watson caught his arm. “No, my lord, please do not go. You are wounded yourself. Your arm . . . ”
He glanced at the tattered flesh of his shoulder and frowned. “Dash it all. This is a devilish circumstance.”
“Please guard your tongue, Lord Blackthorne, I beg you,” Miss Watson whispered. “Anne is a minister’s daughter.”
Studying the injured woman for a moment, he decided he had no choice. “I must go for the chaise. If she loses more blood—”
“No—that cannot be! I shall go myself. The gamekeeper has no reason to shoot at me. I shall send the chaise to you and fetch the doctor from the village.” Miss Watson scrambled to her feet, clapped one hand over her bonnet, and darted away.
“Miss!” He called after her, but she was already flying around a bend in the road, her tattered, blood-spattered skirts dancing at her ankles.
Four
He supposed it had something to do with the way she had woven a royal tale of imagination for the little beggar girl in the kitchen. Or perhaps it was the manner in which she had boldly demanded the return of her lace panel. Maybe it was nothing more than the range of emotions that had flickered across her face during his farcical marriage proposal—indignation, amusement, anger, shy pleasure.
Ruel lifted Anne’s shoulders and rested her head against his arm. Whatever the reason that drew him to this woman, she captivated him. He stared in dismay at her pale face. The thick hedge cast blue shadows beneath her cheekbones and over her neck. Though a tiny pulsebeat flickered in her throat and her breath came regularly, she had lost too much blood. Even now, it soaked through the binding on her thigh and seeped onto her bare leg. He rubbed his fingers together, aware that they, too, were stained with her bright blood.
A strange sensation crept over Ruel as he looked at the woman. He had always viewed his own existence with the cynicism of the rake that he was. Both Ruel and Alexander had been born late in their mother’s life. Though the duke clearly loved his elder son, Ruel’s mother preferred the younger brother. “That dark, vile little thing,” she called Ruel as she chose either to abuse or to ignore him. Yet the duchess doted on Alexander: “My golden gift from God.”
Ruel had learned not to care. All women, he had decided while still quite young, were useless except as entertainment. Claire, sixteen years his senior and the eldest of the five lovely Chouteau sisters, had done her best to encourage tenderness in the little boy by playing with him, teaching him songs, bringing him toys from London. But Claire had married the Viscount Eagon the year after Alex was born, so he saw her rarely. His other sisters—busy with fashion and beaux and the goings-on of Society—could hardly be bothered with him.
Ruel touched the tip of his knuckle to Anne Webster’s cheek. He had always thought of women rather the way a huntsman views his prey. They were to be admired for their appearance, pursued, and, one hoped, conquered. As many as possible, as often as possible.
A man could be respected for a variety of things—his intellect, his wit, his shooting skill, even his wealth and position in Society. Women focused their whole existence on balls, gowns, and romantic intrigues. They spent their time on such fripperies as playing the pianoforte, stitching fire screens, beading purses. Thus, Ruel had nothing but a passing carnal interest in the female gender.
He had little use for religion either, thinking it a grand collection of gibberish intended to give the weak-minded hope. He agreed with his friend George Gordon, Lord Byron, on the subject. The poet had commented to him one day, “We are miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon another.”
Women. Religion. Balls.
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