Page 19 of Discovering the Duke

“Oh, Julia, I’m terribly sorry.” Nancy rushed forward and pushed a wad of linen into William’s hand.

It was cold against his palm, the cloth filled with snow to act as a cooling compress. “I’ll see to her upstairs.”

Nancy blinked rapidly and dabbed at her glossy eyes. “Yes, of course,” she choked. “Please do let us know if you need anything.”

Bursbury was at his wife’s side at the show of distress, his arm around her. “Perhaps we should resume games tomorrow.” He snapped his fingers. “Bruiser, out.”

The white fluff of a dog slunk away from the table holding an abandoned pile of raisins.

“Naughty thing.” Julia gave a good-natured chuckle. A solid sign she was not severely injured.

“He must be used to someone feeding him the food meant for his betters,” William muttered and slid Julia a side glance. “Let’s get you seen to.”

In the few moments it took to arrive at their chambers, the Bursbury staff had already delivered a healing salve and fresh linen for binding. Hodges remained as the only servant in the room.

“Edith cannot tolerate the sight of injuries,” Julia said by way of explanation.

“How terribly inconvenient.” He extended her arm. “Let me see.”

Julia obeyed, shifting her elbow to display the burn. “I don’t get injured often.”

William nodded to Hodges, silently conveying he would see to Julia and the servant was dismissed. Hodges slipped from the room, while William studied the splotches of red on his wife’s forearm.

“Was it the fire?” Julia asked.

“I’m certain this did not come from feeding Bruiser under the table.” He lifted his gaze from her injury to meet her wide blue eyes.

“Not my arm,” she said softly. “Your parents.”

And just like that, with the simple reminder, the wound in his chest ripped open anew. “Yes.” He plucked the stopper from the salve.

“What happened?” she asked, her tone the vocal equivalent of a tiptoe.

I killed them. With my indecision and hesitation. I lived, and they died.

“I don’t talk about it.” He dipped his fingers in the greasy salve. “This may hurt.”

He was exceedingly careful when spreading the balm over her arm, almost not touching her at all. He remembered far too well how the slightest of brushes on charred skin brought pain. Her injury was not as bad as his had been, but he would not take any chances.

She did not flinch, not from the touch, nor from his refusal to answer. “Who did you live with after the fire?”

Her words prodded at his wounds, even as he so gently administered a balm to hers. “My aunt.”

“Until your maturity?”

“No.”

She bit her bottom lip and watched him with a quiet intensity. “How old were you when it happened?”

He put the top back on the jar of balm and wiped his hands clean on an extra square of linen. “Seven.”

She gave a soft cry. He jerked his attention back to her, thinking she’d injured the burned part of her arm. Instead, he found her staring at him in horror.

“Only seven?” Her fingertips went to her lips. “You were just a boy.”

He brushed off her concern. “It didn’t exactly happen last year. At any rate, it’s old news that no one need talk about any longer.” He lifted up the gauzy white bandage the Bursbury’s had provided.

She cradled her arm to her chest, keeping it from him. “Frustrated or angry?”