Page 59 of The Work of Art

No better than the Duke of Moreland? She didn’t believe that for a moment.

Yet, Arthur was utterly convinced of it. He was determined to condemn himself on every count, and it all stemmed from those few seconds when he’d woken from his nightmare and seized her by the throat.

She cast about for something she could say that might help to alleviate his anguish over what he’d done, but couldn’t think of a single thing that would make any difference. How was she to handle such a situation? Her experience in helping and healing was in the realm of animals, not men. She could hardly treat Arthur as she would an injured dog.

And yet, in essentials, it couldn’t be so very different, could it?

“I’ve upset you,” he said quietly, when, after a time, she still hadn’t turned back to him.

She looked up. “I’m not upset. I’ve just been thinking about some of the things you’ve said to me.” Slowly, and a bit distractedly, she began to pull off her York tan gloves. “Arthur, I want to show you something, but I fear I might shock you.”

“I doubt you could.”

Philly took this as tacit permission, and before she could lose her nerve, hoisted up her skirts to just above her knees, revealing her stocking-clad legs.

“What the devil!” Arthur moved quickly toward her, positioning himself to shield her from view.

“No one will see me,” she assured him. “The clearing is very secluded.” She untied her right garter and set it down on the bench beside her gloves. The cool afternoon breeze instantly blew it into the grass at Arthur’s booted feet.

He swept up the delicate bit of satin up, staring at it intently for a moment before thrusting it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Philly expected he might raise an objection, but he said nothing more, only looked at her and her exposed legs as if his emotions were warring within him. She felt the heaviness of his gaze as she rolled her stocking partway down her leg, baring her knee and calf. “You’ll have to come closer in order to see it.”

“What is it exactly I’m supposed to be looking at?”

“Just here. On the back of my leg. Right above my knee.” She attempted to angle herself so he could get a better view. She knew the very second Arthur saw her scar for she heard him mutter an oath.

And then his large hand closed gently around her calf, holding her leg still so he might examine the faded marks more closely.

“What did this to you?”

Philly’s breath caught as the pad of his thumb brushed just over the surface of the scar. “It was a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yes, I know. It looks as if it had been something more serious.” She began to roll her stocking back up and he removed his hand. “May I have my garter, please?”

He retrieved the dainty little ribbon from his pocket, holding it out to her on the palm of his hand.

She secured it back around her stocking. “Sometimes in Fox Cross the fog would come in early in the morning and blanket the village.” She lowered her skirts. “Once, five years ago, it came in so heavily that you could hardly see in front of you. When it lifted, there was a dog lying injured in our kitchen garden. We didn’t know where he’d come from or how it was he’d found his way to Satterthwaite Court.”

“He must have been a very large dog by the look of that scar on your leg.”

“He was. He was also near death. He was starved, and bleeding from a terrible gash on his side. I knelt down next to him so I could see to his wound, and quite unexpectedly, he lunged at me and caught me by the leg. Had he not been so weak, I think he might have done me a greater injury. As it was, the apothecary insisted on bleeding me, applying horrible poultices, and subjecting me to a month-long course of cold baths.”

“They thought him a mad dog.”

“Some of the servants did, yes. But my grandfather and I knew that he wasn’t. He was only insensible with pain. He thought he was defending himself.”

Arthur looked at her for a long time before he spoke again. “Philly, you can’t compare what I did to you to what you suffered because of that dog.”

“Indeed not. What the dog did to me was far worse.”

“It’s not the same. Some things are—”

“Unforgivable. Yes, I know. As you’ve told me. I can’t imagine what terrible condemnation you would’ve had for that poor dog. By your measure, he’d have been a thoroughly irredeemable creature. It wouldn’t have mattered under what circumstance he hurt me, only that he’d done so.” She looked out across the clearing to where her dogs had come to rest in the tall grass after their fruitless pursuit of the squirrel. “Had I judged that dog as harshly as you’re judging yourself now, I’d have been deprived of my most loyal and fearsome protector.”

Arthur followed her gaze. “It was Basil?”