What if the village physician was already in his cups? What would she do then?
The facts, Alex, stick to the facts.
Cortland DeWitt could not stay in filthy, wet clothing, with an oozing head wound. And if the doctor wasn’t steady, she wouldn’t allow him to lift so much as a needle. Her crooked stitch was better than a foxed one.
Solving this dilemma was left to her, decisions regarding her childhood tormentor hers.
She swallowed past her apprehension and went in search of supplies and her staff.
It was three hours later before Alexandra had a chance to sit down.
She dragged a threadbare armchair by his bedside and tumbled into it, wilting like a daisy left too long in the sun. Glancing around, she searched for the time. The mantel clock hadn’t worked since she was a child and it was stuck at half past three. Which might not be far off, as it was the dead of night. The doctor had come and gone after placing five stitches on Cort’s brow and administering warnings about the uncertainty of head injuries. Cosgrove had located clothing suitable for a man a size smaller than their patient, but clean clothing, nonetheless. He’d insisted on disrobing that ‘DeWitt scamp’—as he’d referred to Cort—without assistance, grunting and massaging his lower back as he left the room.
She kneaded her own aching back and groaned softly. The room reeked of antiseptic and lilies, the only soap she’d been able to locate. Except for Cosgrove, who only resided in the house when someone was in residence, a man hadn’t lived at Hampton Court for going on ten years.
No one since her father.
Alexandra frowned, struggling to place the scent he’d worn. Bergamot, perhaps. Something exacting to match his inflexible demeanor.
After a battle between heart and mind, her gaze found the man tucked in bed, a crisp white sheet settled at his shoulders, the linen allowing a peek at the swatch of hair on his muscular chest. His jaw was heavily whiskered, giving his face a devilish air. If he stayed too long, she’d have to find a way to shave him. His hair had dried, ginger highlights mixed among the curling, mahogany strands. There were groves next to his mouth, earned on the battlefield, she presumed. His lips were parted, muted sighs slipping free to christen the air. His shoulders were straining the seams of the rumpled shirt Cosgrove had wrestled on him.
He’d grown up nicely, with a face one did not easily forget and a body easily coveted.
She couldn’t quite believe this dazzling creature was little Cort DeWitt, the boy who’d put a frog in her apron pocket one long ago summer night. Who’d locked her in the conservatory the day of the village festival because she’d threatened to go without him. Who’d tossed pebbles at her window before she’d stormed down to the garden to receive his clumsy kiss.
Before the kiss, she’d never given thought to the fact his actions meant he’d been infatuated with her. Not when there’d been at least five years between them, maybe more. Heart thudding a silent tune, she reached, then at the last second, drew her hand back and twisted it in her skirt. This was a man, not a boy. A stranger.
Merely someone she used to know.
Though there were ways to get a glimpse into the mystery.
Shifting, she dug in her pocket, retrieving the letter.
Claudine’s handwriting was exquisite, her message concise. And heartbreaking. Astonishingly, her husband had served in the King’s Dragoon Guards under Lieutenant Colonel DeWitt. They’d lost half the regiment, including her dear Harold, the highest casualty rate of any calvary unit. Following the battle, the remaining men, under their leader’s able direction, had made their way back to safety behind allied lines.
The slice of gossip came next. Lord DeWitt was believed to be the Countess of Rashford’s latest conquest, a particular vexation as she’d been Alexandra’s cruelest critic that first, beastly season.
Alexandra glanced at Cort between her lashes, then to his haversack resting by the wardrobe. It was partially open, begging entrance. She was on her feet without consideration of what snooping through a man’s belongings said about a person, on her knees and digging through the satchel seconds later. DeWitt was stitched above the fold in a faded blue thread. Alexandra traced her finger over the letters, wondering who’d cared enough to personalize the bag in this way. A lover, perhaps.
Her chest burned for no fathomable reason.
She rested the stack of papers she withdrew on her knee. The foolscap was damp and curling at the edges, mechanical sketches as her groom had stated. Quite detailed and elaborate. She tilted her head, studying them closely. An engine of some type, mathematical formulas scattered across the page like a teapot’s broken shards across a kitchen floor.
Alexandra pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh.
If these illustrations were his, Cortland DeWitt’s brain was as sturdy as his shoulders. Blast. Everyone knew mindless men were easier to control.
“Steam engine,” he whispered, the threadbare words jerking her from her musing.
Alexandra jumped up, scattering pages across her slippers.
Cort groaned and closed his eyes, his throat pulling with a tight swallow. From pain or her foolishness, she couldn’t say.
She crossed to him, lifting the glass of water from the bedside table. “The physician recommended liquids as soon as you could take them. I’m sorry. I was, that is, your rucksack opened during your accident, unseating your papers and…”
He held up a hand to halt her rambling. Elbowed to a swaying half-sit and grabbed the glass, gulping until she feared he’d heave it back up in his urgency. The shirt Cosgrove had jammed on his shoulders was gaping, the sheet having given way, granting an unparalleled view of his chest right down to his rippled-with-muscle belly. A sliver of one lean hip was exposed as well, drying the last trace of spittle in her throat.
She didn’t know what he did to maintain such a physique, but he did something.
