I grimaced and forced a smile. “I believe the injury is survivable. But your handkerchief is beyond all hope.”
“And I am so very concerned about a bit of cloth.” He dabbed his rag in the warm water, then eased it over my bruised thumb once more. “Once we have this cleaned, keep it elevated above your heart so it does not throb as much. And you ought to bring in a bit of ice from the icehouse to help with the bruising.”
I gave him a quizzical look. “Farthingdale does not have an icehouse.”
He paused, his brow crumpled, and looked up. “So, it does not. But Pemberley does. I will have some sent for you.”
I laughed. “Thank you, kind sir. But I would not wish for you to… ooh.” I closed my eyes and sank my teeth into my lower lip. “I must have done a good job there.”
“You certainly did. Can you bear up a little longer? Nearly finished.”
I nodded, but every proprietary brush of cloth against my torn skin made me flinch at a visceral level. Who knew a simple bruised thumb could hurt so badly? And so, I found something to distract myself. It was not difficult—Fitzwilliam had removed his hat. I am sure his valet sent him off into the day with perfectly groomed locks, but they were so no longer, and the effect of his mussed hair falling over that thoughtful brow… the broad shoulders hunched over my hand… Well, who was George Darcy, anyway?
As if sensing my sudden confusion, Fitzwilliam abruptly stepped back, features shuttering swiftly. “There, not too brutishly done, I hope? Not that I’ve had overmuch practice, past battlefield scrapes.”
“What battlefield?” I scoffed. “Unless you mean your sticks and slingshots with George and Richard.”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “Quite so. It fell to me to stay home and endure peaceful years while others must away to the battlefield.” He grimaced down at the water and rag he had used to clean my thumb, then offered a tight smile. “Apologies if my clumsy efforts pained you overmuch.”
“You have not told me where Richard is,” I accused softly.
He blinked, and his eyes focused on my face. “I suppose I have not. The truth is that I do not know. He was in Spain with Wellington when last we had word, but letters have been… delayed. I know it distresses the earl greatly, but he says little of it.”
“I am sorry.”
He had begun to roll the ruined handkerchief up around his finger but looked back up in surprise. “It is not your fault.”
“But I can see it worries you. You hide it well, but you forget how long I have known you.”
He smiled a little and finished the task of putting the damaged handkerchief in his pocket. Why he bothered, I did not know—perhaps he thought it could be saved. “Just as you think you are playing a game with me, Miss Elizabeth?”
My stomach dropped. “What game?” Oh, blast, he had come to warn me off of George. I knew it.
He leaned closer. “Pretending all is well. Acting as if you haven’t a care in the world. When did you say Mr. Gardiner was coming to carry you back to Hertfordshire?”
Well… perhaps this was not about George, after all. “It… it could be any day. His letter to Aunt said he had a matter to tend to before he could leave London, and then he would be arriving. He wrote that letter on Wednesday last, so…” I shrugged. “We might see him as soon as tomorrow.”
Fitzwilliam studied me carefully, then backed away. He seemed not to know what to do with himself—his hands flexing, glancing about the kitchen. Finally, he moved to the bowl of cherries I had pitted and inspected them. “You cannot cook these with your hand injured. Come, tell me what we must do.”
I laughed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Indeed, I am. If it is cherry tastes you are craving, then cherry tarts you must have. Before they are out of season.”
“Very well. I would not turn away help. We need to boil them in sugar.”
I watched Mr. Darcy set gingerly to work on the bowl of cherries, entirely too conscious of how dashing his forearms appeared with sleeves rolled up. Had they always looked so... sturdy? No, no they had not, for I would have remembered that. And the way his dark hair fell boyishly over one eye as he concentrated on spearing the stubborn fruits ought not to incite such unaccountable reactions within me! I blinked rapidly, showing him how to stir the boiling cherries with burning cheeks. Heavens, was I truly admiring the precise elegance of Mr. Darcy’s fingers? This would not do! How the deuce had demure thoughts unraveled to such mad fancies?
I peeked sideways through my lashes, careful not to betray the way my insides were slowly melting and turning to jelly like those cherries. Yet my wayward gaze lingered too long, drinking in his proximity. Was that a dimple flickering at one corner of his mouth? How had I never noticed that arresting indent lending his features such unexpected charm?Look away, look away!
A cloud of his scent enveloped me unexpectedly, clean linen and soap mingled with leather and open sky. Why did my knees suddenly require gripping the table edge? This was surely just the lingering effects of earlier distress. Mr. Darcy remained the same steady anchor, providing comfort in chaos. Only somehow stronger and more compelling than in my childhood memories...No!I sternly smothered such wayward musings.
Some minutes later, he proclaimed victory over the cherries with such endearing awkwardness that laughter bubbled up unbidden. Was he trying to set me at ease? How kind. And yet, such tantalizing glimpses of playful humor lurking beyond that serious visage only amplified everything virile and masculine surrounding me.Oh mercy,I hardly recognized myself! Since when did Mr. Darcy, of all men, incite such unruly awareness within me? Perhaps the oven’s warmth was merely too stifling for rational thought. Yes, of course.
“Capital,” I praised him. “Let them cool a bit while I roll out the dough.” I moved to the worktable and dusted it with flour so I could begin.
“And how, exactly, do you mean to do that?” Fitzwilliam took the bowl of flour from me and continued tossing such a liberal coating of flour that it looked more like a pillow than a worktable. “Is that enough?”
It was all I could do not to snicker at the flour now rising in the air and settling in his hair. “I should hope. If you insist on helping, fetch that bowl of dough over there and turn it over on the table.”
