Chapter 13
S
imon had had a hellish day. He’d spent the afternoon and evening holding the hand of a reluctant investor who could not see the benefit of sinking his fortune into a passenger railway system. Hauling coal and iron he could understand—inanimate objects could not complain over rough terrain and belching smoke. No civilized persons would consent to being loaded aboard a train like cattle, and so he had said. Over and over. Simon had plied the man with drink and a rich dinner, but had failed to part him with his money. Add to that this morning’s fight with Lucy and the worrisome news MacTavish gave him as he crossed the threshold, and Simon was in sore need of comfort.
And not apt to receive any from his mistress, who was still, apparently, carrying on with Lord Percival Ferguson.
Faugh. What had Lucy ever seen in the earl?
The answer was distressingly obvious. Even though Ferguson had lost the money he had lured Lucy with, she still had feelings for him. According to MacTavish, she’d embraced him in the garden and let him wipe her tears away—tears of misery that she was forced to be with Simon now, no doubt. Then she’d taken the man up to her cozy sitting room and closed the door. Who knew if they’d slipped into the bedroom through the connecting door? MacTavish had timed the earl’s visit, and perhaps its brevity was a function of Lucy’s skill or Ferguson’s lack thereof.
Damn it all to hell and back. Simon was jealous—jealous of the flamboyantly-dressed dandy. Percy the Peacock. Simon’s own clothes were good quality, the first stare of fashion, but they were conservative—a man of his background could not afford to risk impropriety. He wondered if Lucy would like him better if he wore a scarlet waistcoat and too many watch fobs.
Six years was a long time to be one man’s mistress. Some of the men Simon knew picked up and discarded women with alarming alacrity. He had to give Percy credit—the man knew how very special Lucy was.
Could Ferguson
love
Lucy? Worse, could Lucy love him back?
Och. There was no point to fash himself. Lucy belonged to him now. He would make her see reason and marry him. He would ask her. Tonight. There was no point in waiting—they’d waited thirteen years.
Of course, he had asked her once before, although Simon could not recall his precise words. It had been assumed by both of them that they would wed once their financial circumstances improved. He seemed to recall that Lucy had wanted him to stop stealing first, and he would have—he just never had the opportunity to quit until he ran away into the arms of the army. Now he had more money than he knew what to do with, although not quite enough to finance his ambitious railway project on his own. He didn’t want to beggar himself again, either. As a frugal Scot, he had money tucked away for a rainy day. For a snowy one, too.
Aye. He’d propose. He should have brought a bouquet of flowers. Or a ring. Simon pictured Lucy tossing either item at him—she was so snappish when he wasn’t fucking her.
That’s how he’d do it! Get her wet and hot beneath him, bring her to the brink, then whisper in her ear. She’d scream yes before she knew what she was saying.
With a growl of satisfaction at a problem solved, Simon began to unwind his neckcloth as he mounted the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom. He wouldn’t jump on her right away at this late hour, although God knows he longed to. Nay, he’d woo her a little. Wake her slowly with feathery kisses along her swan-like white neck. Warm the gentle swell of her breast in the palm of his hand. Circle a tender pink nipple with his tongue.
With every step he stiffened, aching for Lucy in a way he couldn’t explain. Simon was not a poetic man by nature, much better with his hands than his words. But Lucy—her flaming hair and alabaster skin and brandy-colored eyes—unlocked something within his humble heart.
He paused at the sitting-room door. The room was in darkness, but a flickering light beneath the connecting door told him Lucy was still awake. He moved quietly, trying not to bump into the odd collection of furniture Lucy had crammed into the space. He almost made it when he tripped over a stack of books piled next to a crewel-work chair. He reached for purchase, but the chair toppled right along with Simon. He landed awkwardly on his chin and his cock and heard the unmistakable crack of breaking bone.
Damn him for a clumsy oaf—once he’d been like a cat in the dark, climbing trellises and trees, nimble and stealthy. Now, if he wasn’t mistaken, he had snapped his left wrist because Holy Mother of God and all his Saints the pain was excruciating.
Lucy flung the door open. “What are you doing on the floor?”
Simon swept the blood from his tongue. “Inspecting the carpet.”
“Well, get up and let’s get this over with. I’m tired.”
“What an enticing invitation to your bed. Just what a man wants to hear.” Perhaps he wouldn’t propose tonight after all. He rolled onto his back, the corner of one book biting into his shoulder blade. “Lucy, would you please ring for MacTavish?”
“What for? From the smell of you, you’ve had enough brandy. No wonder you’re falling on your face.”
“It was the damned books,” Simon ground out. “I am not drunk.”
“Ha. I suppose you’re going to tell me it was only a business dinner.”
“It
was
only a business dinner. I admit I had a brandy. One.”
Now he wished he’d had more. Simon closed his eyes, willing the spiraling stars away. He heard Lucy take a long sniff, and couldn’t resist looking up at her to see her lovely nose twitch. She had some nerve being so judgmental when she was dead drunk that first morning he found her in bed.
“Lucy, I’m sorry if the smell of my breath offends you, but you must get MacTavish. I believe I’ve broken my wrist.” Simon’s stomach flipped and he wondered if he was going to puke on the carpet. He devoutly hoped not.
“What?” She stepped closer and bent over, a long braid dangling above Simon’s face. “Your chin is bleeding!”
“My tongue, too.” He hoped his cock was in one piece. “I landed funny. Broke my—dignity.”
“Devil take it! Let me see your wrist.”
Simon realized he had been squeezing it with his right hand. Good thing it was only the left, although he was ambidextrous. He’d made his fortune with his hands, and damn him if he was out of commission for any length of time.
Lucy was on her knees now, a lovely sight, backlit from the firelight of her bedroom. She was all copper wire and porcelain, her eyes narrowing as she examined him without touching. “Does it hurt?”
Simon considered telling the truth. But he was a man, and men did not complain of pain. “I’ll be all right.”
“Of course you will! It’s only a broken bone. Maybe just sprained.”
He wanted to tell her there was nothing ‘only’ or ‘sprained’ about it, but held his bloody tongue.
Lucy bit her lip in concentration. “It doesn’t look right.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m telling you. Fetch MacTavish.”
“Don’t you trust me to splint it?”
Simon considered. Lucy would probably love to torture him as she wrapped his wrist, wiggling and waggling it until he’d want her to cut his hand off. On the whole he thought he’d rather have MacTavish. Or a doctor. Or, if it came to it, a priest. The priest could marry them and then give him extreme unction.
Lord, but he was being missish. It was, as Lucy said, ‘only’ a broken bone. He was nowhere near to dying, just wishing he was.
“MacTavish has experience with this kind of thing. He raised two boys.”
“Yes, boys are known to be daredevils. I remember
you
.”
“I’ll not be scaling any walls tonight. Please, Luce, get MacTavish.”
It was all he could do to screw his eyes up and not cry. The pain was shooting to his elbow now, like sharp shards of glass pricking up under his skin. He’d escaped injury in the war—he’d been hustled off the battlefield once his superiors recognized he had a brain to go with his brawn, and had lived a relatively charmed life. One broken wrist was not going to get the better of him.
“Don’t move.”
As if he could. He watched the flounce of Lucy’s nightgown flutter around the doorjamb. He wished he’d asked her to remove the book out from under him before she left.
What rot. He didn’t have to lie there like a beached whale on wool carpet. Simon struggled to sit up, the room spinning unhelpfully. He looked down at his cuff, suddenly much tighter than it had been. Clumsily he unfastened the small knot of gold that pierced the linen of his shirt and tossed it aside. His hand was swelling and turning red. Blast.
Lucy returned with MacTavish in tow, holding a leather satchel. The butler had donned his nightwear after delivering the bad news about Lord Ferguson, and he had apparently stuffed his nightcap into the pocket of his dressing gown. The tassel flicked forward as he bent to Simon.
“What have ye done now, lad?”
“You needn’t make it sound like finding me on my arse is a regular occurrence. Miss Dellamar will think I’m a bull in a china shop.”
“Hush. Can you move your fingers?”
Simon gritted his teeth and tried. The shards of glass united into one giant pane of pain.
“I see not. Aye, it’s likely broken. Miss Dellamar, if you will be so kind as to step out of the room?”
Lucy looked very pale above him, like an angel, or what Simon thought an angel should look like. He wasn’t really anxious to go to heaven anytime soon and find out for sure. He had plenty of time left on earth to atone for his faults, and the first order of business was to make Lucille Elaine Dalhousie his bride, even if she’d been sinful enough for both of them. He’d speak to God, explain. Build the Old Fellow an engine if words wouldn’t work. Good Lord, he was losing his mind and was very much afraid he was about to lose his expensive dinner.
His future wife twisted her braid between nervous white fingers. “Will he be all right?”
“I’ll see to it. Dinna fash yourself.”
Simon watched her swallow, her long neck a lovely thing. She should have diamonds around her throat, bright stars that proved his love for her. He would see to it tomorrow—not stolen jewels, but a set from Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. If the firm was good enough for Prinny—King George IV now—Simon supposed he could find something that suited his Lucy.
“Don’t worry about me, Luce. I’ll be fine. It’s only my left hand, after all.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lucy slipped from the room. “A chamber pot, Mac. Or a vase. Anything will do.”
“That’s the way of it then.”
For an older man, MacTavish stepped lively and supplied Simon with an empty receptacle into which he promptly vomited. “Sorry. Tried to keep it in.”
MacTavish nodded, pitching the vile contents down into the garden through a hastily opened window. “Trying to look the hero for your lady. If you ask me, you’ll use this mishap to your advantage.”
“I’m not asking you,” Simon said, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve. “What do you mean?”
“Anyone with an eye in his head can see you’re head-over-heels for the woman. And women like to play nurse. Let her take care of you and you’ll work your way into her heart.”
“It’s only a snapped wrist, Mac. It’s not a mortal wound.”
MacTavish knelt beside him, rummaging through the satchel for a splint. “Aye, I know it. You’ll soon be good as new. But think, man, you won’t be able to button up your own breeches.”
“You know I can do anything, even one-handed. And Jamie can help me if I have a spot of trouble.”
“Why use my useless son when you have a lovely lady with a soft heart?” MacTavish wrapped a length of linen tight around Simon’s hand, criss-crossing the fabric around his thumb. “I’ll brew up some willow-bark tea for the pain. You certainly can’t go home tonight in your condition. Let’s get you undressed and put to bed,” the butler said, fashioning a sling from another length of linen from his bottomless bag. “We’ll put this on you tomorrow. I’ll tell Miss Dellamar you’re half off your head from a complicated break and can’t be moved.”
“Damn it, Mac. My feet still work. She’ll think me a weakling.”
The butler winked. “Aye. There’s nothing a woman likes more for a while but to be in charge.”
Simon shook his head in exasperation and got to his feet with some assistance. “This is like some bad melodrama. Next you’ll suggest I cough up some blood.” He crossed into the bedroom. Wherever Lucy had gone, she was not hovering in here.
“That could be arranged. Not real blood, mind, but some substitute. Pity raspberry season is passed.”
“You are a diabolical man.” Simon stood as MacTavish efficiently stripped the clothes from his body without too many jolts to his arm.
“Aye, and you pay me too well for me to be anything else. How are the boys doing anyhow?”
“Jamie is on his way to being as stiff-necked as you,” Simon said as he stepped out of his smallclothes. “Hamish puts too much starch in my cravats, but he means well.”