Page 21 of The Count’s Charade

“Jemima, go downstairs, if you please, and fetch up a glass of port.” She added, as the maid left the room, “I am sorry I have no cognac, but the port will serve to revive you, I hope.”

The change in her was not lost on Henri. He waited only until Jemima had left the room, and then caught at Grace’s hand.

“Do not look at me this way! I wished to spare you the trouble that comes.”

The hand wrenched out from his fingers. “You were going to go away in the night without telling me?”

“I confess it, ma chère. It is not fitting for you to be involved in this trouble of mine.”

Grace stared at him mutely, unable to say the hot words rising to her tongue. She found others, inadequate to express the storm raging in her breast. “Where did you have it in mind to go? What would you do in your condition? You don’t even know how to make it to the next village.”

He was silent, the frown causing a groove between his brows. Frustrated beyond bearing, Grace flung away, heedless of the inelegant drop and carry of her lumbering walk. Hardly aware of her own muttered words, Grace lumped about the room, driven by a confusion of fury and distress.

“Where could he go? How far before he collapsed? Does he have money? Where would he hide? Has he thought of any of this? No, I don’t think so. Of all the pigheaded, senseless —”

Henri heard no more, his attention catching on the cumbersome movements. Compassion swamped him. Without the protective boot, Grace’s disability was unmercifully obvious. He had seen worse, had witnessed unspeakable horrors these few years past that had inured him to such sights. Or so he had thought. But the vision of Grace floundering about his bedchamber had an unforeseen and deeply felt effect. Her spirit he had learned to admire. Now he was moved beyond bearing by her courage.

Almost as if she felt his thought, Grace halted in the midst of an unwieldy turn, her eyes flying to his face. She froze, instantly and horribly aware of herself. Was he sorry for her? It was the last thing she wanted. The thought flitted through her mind that what she did want, she could never have. But it was gone before it was fully formed, and she was left with embarrassment.

A horrid rise of unaccustomed bitterness drove her to reckless speech. “Pity me if you must. Your commiserations ought to rest with my parents, who little knew until too late how inappropriately they had christened me.”

Henri’s gaze did not waver. She read reproach in it, and felt abashed, thrusting ineffectually at the soft brown locks that fell, unfettered, about her face.

Jemima, with consummate timing, arrived at that moment carrying the glass of port. Henri’s attention shifted, and Grace was able to breathe again. But the protests she had been voicing had vanished. She felt cold suddenly, and desolate.

Long habit came to her rescue. “You may go back to bed, Jemima. I shan’t need you any more.” She was amazed to hear the normality in her own voice.

The maid yawned and grinned at Henri. “Long as he don’t go falling over again when he tries to get back into bed.”

“Merci, Jemima, but I will not fall again.”

Grace waited until the girl had left the room, and then thrust forward to the bedside, trying to ignore the repugnance she felt at her own inelegance. Henri was watching her over the rim of the glass. There was no clue to his thoughts in his face. She spoke with as little emotion as she could, aware of a tremor in her voice.

“If you wish to leave, I will not prevent you. Only you must l-let me re-bandage your wound and — and supply you with provisions. You must take food with you, and drink. And a coat. Yours is unwearable. If I can find it — it may be in the box room above — there is a greatcoat left here by my brother, and forgotten. You are welcome to take it.”

Henri reached out, and Grace stepped back quickly, almost falling. She grabbed at the door to steady herself. When she faced him again, she found the frown etched strongly, and his lips tight. The green eyes reproached her.

“You talk to me as a stranger, Grâce.”

“It is better so.” The curt note in no way expressed her real feelings.

“For me, or for you?”

His acuteness pierced her, and she winced. “It is what you want to be, Henri.”

“Because you limp, enfin? For what do you take me?” There was anger in his tone now. “In France I have seen things more ugly. It is a time of ugly things there. Do you think I am discomposed to see you like this?”

Grace looked away, dreading the threatening tears and fighting to thrust down the lump in her throat. It might not discomfit him, but he was both shocked and sympathetic. She could bear neither. Only she could not say so.

Henri finished the wine and set down the glass. A laugh escaped him. “It was most welcome, your port.”

“I am glad,” she managed.

His tone softened. “Grâce, I have no wish to leave here. I am yet weak, and you protect me well, I know. If these men do not take me, I will remain longer one day, perhaps two. Then I must go.”

“Why?” She had not meant to say it.

“Your reputation is one thing.”