Page 9 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 4

Constantia had a headache. Not a garden-variety headache either; not the sort caused by concentrating too long on one detail of a sketch or forgetting to open a window when mixing paints. Not even a megrim. This pain was bone-deep. No, deeper. As if her very brain was bruised.

And not just her brain either. Every bit of her hurt, from her hair to her toes . . . She wiggled them experimentally. The movement made her wince and also wonder:

When had she taken off her shoes?

She remembered lacing up her ankle boots, knowing she had a long walk ahead of her, though she hadn’t the faintest notion, now, where she’d been headed.

Or where she’d ended up.

The tips of her toes brushed against the covers, and she dared to crack one eye. Yes, definitely a bed. Not her bed, however.

Which made the prospect of a dark-haired man approaching her as she lay in that bed all the more alarming.

Especially when that man was the Earl of Ryland.

Of all the rotten, no-good luck . . .

They had met face-to-face only once, but she had observed him at other times, trying but never succeeding to make sense of a fundamental inconsistency in his character. Ryland kept close company with Viscount Deveraux, the most notorious rake in all of Christendom. Yet he dressed and behaved and spoke as stodgily as a clergyman who considered style a sin.

In public, he abstained from vice, or even much in the way of comfort, but obviously, given his choice of friends, he must indulge in private, or at least smile on those who did. Since he was a titled nobleman and not unattractive, the most likely explanation for the disparity was that he shared his friend’s rakish proclivities but did not want the world to know.

Perhaps it was hypocritical of her to be bothered by another person pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But a duplicitous man could do untold damage to others, while she only lied about her identity to keep herself safe.

Of all the people Constantia did not trust, she did not trust two-faced men the most.

Flight, though instinctive, was out of the question. Her painful limbs recoiled at the prospect, and she had to settle for shrinking back into the pillow and squeezing shut her eyes, praying that he did not notice that slight movement.

Her luck, it seemed, had not improved.

She listened to his footfalls against the carpet, counting the steps until he reached the bed, then willed herself to limpness when he picked up her hand where it lay against the coverlet and patted it vigorously. “No, Miss C. Don’t go back to sleep.” She longed for the strength to jerk her fingers away, to resist even that gentle command. “I know it’s tempting, but you’ve had quite a blow to the head, and I think it would be better for you to stay awake.”

A blow to the head? Well, that would explain the dreadful ache. But . . . “How?”

Even to her own ears, which were ringing, the question sounded muffled. Almost indecipherable.

Decipher it he did, however. “How did you hit your head? An accident. Onlookers said you darted into the roadway from an alley and met with a passing carriage. A wonder you weren’t struck by a wheel. Or trampled beneath the horses’ hooves. But it must have been a glancing blow—knocked you down, onto the cobblestones. Physician says you haven’t broken any bones, at least, though your wrist may be sprained.”

She remembered none of it. Even in her current state, she was appalled by her own carelessness. Darting into the roadway? Without looking? “Why?” she managed, though her jaw ached, too—she must have clamped her teeth together when she fell.

“Why? That’s a question I can’t answer, I’m afraid. It seems as if you were in a hurry and weren’t looking where you were going. Or do you mean, why did you fall? Because that would be a question for Sir Isaac Newton.” He had the nerve to chuckle. “You know, gravity . . .” He sat down beside her, still clutching her hand, and she winced again at the dipping of the mattress. “I’m sorry. This is no time for jokes.”

No, it bloody well isn’t.

Though one corner of her mouth wanted to quirk all the same. The feebleness of his attempt at humor somehow made it even more amusing.

Evidence he could wield rakish charm when he chose?

Refusing to reward him with even the wryest of smiles, she countered the involuntary twitch of her lips by screwing her eyes more tightly shut, as if that could block out the sound of his voice. She had the vaguest memory of running . . . running away . . . but from what?

Pain was a wall between the present and the recent past, and she hadn’t the strength to scale it.

“Fortunately,” he went on, his tone and his touch gentle, “the accident happened in a place where you have friends.”

Friends.

So he had recognized her.