Page 17 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

He straightened and watched her expression grow even more pained as she pulled the boot off.

“Sit still. I’ll send for the doctor.”

“Oh, no.” She groaned. “Please don’t.”

“It could be broken.”

“It isn’t. It’s twisted.”

He regarded her skeptically—how could she possibly know? Moreover, this was his house. Which put him somehow at fault. He sat on his haunches at her feet.

“So this is what we will do. A test. If you cry out, I call the doctor. Whimper, and I’ll send you home for Lynch to deal with.”

She scowled at him. “If you must. Go on.”

He took her foot in his hands and pressed gently on the ankle. She bit her lip but stayed quiet. He bent her toes. Nothing. Then he slowly turned her foot inward. He stopped the instant she yelped.

“That doesn’t mean it’s broken!” she protested.

“It means I send for the doctor. He can dress your shin, too.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Ophelia, stop,” Dessie commanded. “You know what Daddy says. If you dive out of windows, you have to let the doctor examine you.”

Eli finally broke his silence. “What?”

“He never said that.” Miss Delancey huffed, then rubbed her nose. “Just something close.”

Trentham strode from the room, feeling shaken. The lady would be fine. But he had an image in his head that he couldn’t quite dismiss. If the latch had been locked, and she’d fallen through the window…broken the glass…landed on shards… It didn’t help that for the first few moments, he’d thought she had.

He gave Henson the order to send for Dr. Ballantine. “Urgently. Have Tom fetch him in the phaeton.” Then he detoured to his study to grab a bottle of brandy and four glasses before returning to the music room. He was glad to see that Dessie had fussed. There were pillows propped under Miss Delancey’s leg and a throw draped over her. Eli was playing what he must think was soothing music. Idiot. The whole thing was Eli’s fault. Or Dessie’s, for urging quiet, to let the scene unfold like some ridiculous bit of theater. She’d whispered, “Don’t be a fuddy-duddy.” Fuddy-duddy? “Ophelia has dealt with handsy music masters before.”

But not with Eli. And Miss Delancey had been regarding the blackguard with an adoring expression that had hit Trentham in the pit of his stomach. This was Lynch’s sister-in-law!

“Can we get a fire in here?” Dessie asked. “Not that it’s cold, but Ophelia’s a bit damp.”

“Yes, of course. I should have…of course.” His voice was too gruff for a response to so reasonable a request. “Here.” He held out the bottle and stacked glasses. “To warm her while I start the fire.”

“Well, she doesn’t need four glasses,” Dessie said, taking them from him. She set three on the floor and poured a finger of brandy for her sister.

Trentham knew he could call a maid, who’d do it faster, but having a task satisfied his need to keep moving. He laid crumpled paper and crisscrossed kindling in the grate, used tongs to add a bit of coal without dirtying his hands, struck a match, and touched it to the paper. When the flame fizzled out, he tried again, inwardly cursing himself for not calling a maid. On the fourth match, the paper and kindling caught, thank God.

“Should I push her chair closer?” he asked Dessie.

“Not unless you want to set me ablaze,” Miss Delancey said. “And it’s my ankle that may be broken, not my ears.”

“Sorry.”

“If you are looking for something else to do, why don’t you play a duet with Mr. Cameron?” Miss Delancey suggested. “Play your piece.”

This was emasculating. Bad enough he’d barely managed to start a fire. Surely no mortal man in history had ever impressed a woman by playing a harp. No Englishman. On the other hand, it was doubtful any other woman in history had won a man’s heart by tripping over a windowsill.

Not, of course, that his heart was won. It was merely agitated.

“Eli,” he said, resigned, “we’re going to play the flowery thing.”

“The flowery thing?” Miss Delancey asked.