Just a little.
But how? I had little enough experience with this. I had never had to try to gain female notice. They just… found me. Even when I did not wish to be found. How did a man set about pleasing a lady he admired when she barely noticed him?
I could ask her to take a turn in the garden. Or sit in the drawing room and see if she would debate Byron or Milton with me. That might do. I had no designs of seducing her or falling for her myself. This was just… a diversion.
But all my schemes shattered abruptly at the sound of a loud crack ahead, followed by some rather indecorous language. I forgot contrived obligations, cantering urgently round the house toward the odd disturbance. But the figure struggling to raise an axe as tall as herself was no angry cook. My heart clutched as my mouth dropped open. “Miss Elizabeth?”
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth cried in dismayed surprise, color rising swiftly. She scrambled to tug her skirts over her ankles, where they peeked from beneath her hem as the abandoned tool crashed down just shy of her slippered foot. “I did not hear your approach.”
I swung down from the saddle. “I do not wonder. You probably could not hear anything at all over the epithets I heard just before I rode up.”
She picked up the axe and tucked it behind herself, ducking her head in a guilty snicker. “And you are too much the gentleman to accuse a lady of such language.”
“I fear it would not be the first time I have heard such from you. Let me see your hand.”
She swallowed, hesitated, and cautiously offered her left hand. It looked as if she had tried to mash her thumb along with the wood, because the flesh around the nail was bruised and split, dripping blood. How ever had she managed that? I glanced at her eyes, then wordlessly, I pulled a clean handkerchief from my pocket to wrap it over the offended appendage. And I was alarmed to notice blood soaking through it almost immediately.
“We must get you inside at once! You may need stitches.”
“Please, it is nothing!” She recoiled slightly, hiding her hand again. “Just a scratch from attempting tasks beyond my skills.”
“Why would you try to split kindling in the first place?”
She shrugged. “I was craving a cherry tart.”
“Sorry?” I gently circled her wrist with my fingers and tugged her hand back into view. “How does craving a cherry tart lead to a mangled thumb?”
“Mr. Westing is out inspecting the fields, and Joseph was supposed to split the wood, but I do not know where he went. As Martha disappeared about the same time, I…” she cleared her throat. “Well, suffice to say I thought it might be better if I brought in wood for the kitchen fire myself. And now I shan’t be able to roll the dough.” She held up her bleeding thumb and inspected it with a sigh.
I mastered my amusement, bending swiftly under the pretense of collecting scattered logs. “Perhaps you will permit me?” I handed her my hat, then stripped my coat and waistcoat off, preparing to take up her abandoned post.
Soon, I had split enough kindling to fuel a small forest fire. Elizabeth gathered what she needed, but once I plunged the axe head into a stump, I took the load from her. “After you,” I insisted.
Elizabeth let me take her load, but she didn’t turn to lead me into the kitchen. Instead, she just stood there, cocking a strange look up to me from under the brim of her bonnet.
“Something amiss?”
She shook her head. “Only my gratitude. Thank you… Fitzwilliam.”
I paused, permitting myself just a moment to drown in those chocolate depths.Delicious… why, I believe my heart puddled into my boots and my mouth filled with drool like a dog.
Perhaps I had overestimated my fortitude.
Elizabeth
MyhandthrobbeddespiteFitzwilliam’s makeshift bandage as we entered the kitchen. I winced as I went to inspect my dough, clutching my thumb to my chest. Meanwhile, my unlikely rescuer deposited the kindling and bent to start the kitchen fire. Flecks of bark and woodchips still clung to his shirt. His tousled hair and bare forearms revived long-buried memories of the awkward boy who used to trail at Father’s heels. But there was nothing awkward about Fitzwilliam Darcy now… unless one counted that bashful look in his eye or the hesitant quality about his smile every time he glanced at me.
Clearing my throat, I tried distracting my wayward thoughts. “Do take care with your cuffs. Wood sap leaves the very devil of a stain.”
He blinked then grimaced, brushing ineffectually at soiled linen. “You must think me the veriest clod mucking about your kitchen so.” His glance held such chagrin that I relented instantly, waving off his apology.
“On the contrary! Why, you assumed the role of knight errant perfectly. What lady could be so churlish when thus rescued? Truly, no olde worlde gallant or mythical hero ever made a grander entrance, I daresay. And besides, I warrant you have never tried to light a kitchen fire before.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled, his features easing as he located and struck the flint box. I leaned against the table, watching flames slowly kindle in the grate. How many more intriguing facets remained to discover about this man fate had so unexpectedly restored to me? As rewarding as probing that mystery promised, it would surely prove as foolhardy as sticking my hand in that fire would be.
He shifted, scattering my wayward reflection. “There now. Rest that poor hand while I fetch linens to bind it properly.” I obeyed meekly, sinking onto a stool as discomfort throbbed anew. Pensive still, I endured his gentle ministrations. With the care of a mother for her child, Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, bent over my damaged thumb and cleaned away the blood, pausing to look at me in alarm every time I hissed in pain.
“How badly does that hurt?”
