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"Unlikely. Please leave."
Hart shifted back a little, startled by the hardness of her words. Her hazel eyes met his in unflinching scorn. "I apologize, Lady Denmore, for my earlier words."
"Fine. Now go."
"I was taken aback when I saw you in danger—"
"I can't imagine what you mean, Your Grace. We do not know each other. And I sincerely have no wish to be chalked up as another of your paramours, so please leave my room."
"I see." Hart stood, the movement quickened by a rush of anger. "I'm sorry I bothered then."
"Sorry you bothered to check on my well-being? Only because I don't wish to be in your bed?"
He blinked, caught by her logic. "No, I—" Her smirk dissolved any awkwardness he might have felt. "Good day, Lady Denmore." The nod she gave was no more than a jerk of her head.
Hart stared down at her, perched so stiffly on the bed, her back straight as a column of iron. He looked to her hands, one clutching the bedspread, the other her skirt. The knuckles of both were livid white, pushing against the skin. And her jaw ticked forward and back, forward and back, shifting the tiniest fraction of an inch against clenched teeth.
Hart felt the shift in his own jaw and sighed. She may very well find him irritating, but the anger she showed had little to do with him and more to do with pain striking through her body. A tap at the door saved them from further sparring.
Opening the door to find the maid bobbing another curtsy, Hart fished a sovereign from his pocket and slipped it to her as he took the ewer of hot water and stack of towels.
"An inconvenience, I'm sure, but could I bother you for something more? We need clean linen and a salve if you've something good at hand."
"Of course, sir," she bubbled, bobbing again as he closed the door.
Lady Denmore glared. "I thought you were going."
He gave her a shrug and knelt at her feet again, like a supplicant to her sharp tongue. Before she could even open her mouth to protest—loudly if the set of her chin was any indication— Hart flipped her skirts up and settled them over her knee. The flat of his hand held them down despite her attempts to dislodge it.
"I believe I made clear that I would not invite you to toss up my skirts."
Hart looked down, away from the slits of her eyes, and grimaced at the bloody mess she'd made of her leg. A fine leg—slender and long.
"I will do that," she growled when he dipped a cloth into the hot water. "Ouch!"
"Sorry. This'll sting a bit."
"A bit!"
Her breath hissed sharply through her teeth when he dabbed at the blood again, drawing another wince from Hart. He nearly gave in to her demand to leave her alone when he saw the bright glint of tears in her eyes, nearly shoved the towel into her hand and fled the room, but he was no coward. Still, he was relieved when she closed those glittering eyes and eased herself back to lie on the bed.
Hart tried not to see the twist of her fists in her skirts as he did his best to manage the twin feats of cleaning the wound and not hurting her. Impossible.
"This will scar, I'm afraid."
She gave a huff that he took to be laughter. "Best to deposit me directly on the shelf then. I'm ruined."
Sassy chit. "You're right. No one will want you like this. You might consider locking yourself away in a tower." He'd cleaned the easiest parts first, and now found himself left with only the rawest area of the scrape. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, steady rhythm. Best to distract her from the next bit. "I seem to find myself surrounded lately by ruined women. I wonder why that is."
"Surely that's not one of the great mysteries of the world." She tensed when the hot towel touched her, but his sacrifice was well rewarded when she pressed on. "You're a rake."
"I disagree." When he dabbed at a particularly nasty spot, she gasped and twisted the yellow velvet of the bedcover. "Sorry."
"How . . . how can you disagree? You're a rogue. A connoisseur of women. And I understand you spent the better part of your youth perfecting your sense of taste."
"Taste, hmm?"
Her head popped up, eyes wide with shock at what she'd said. "I didn't mean . . . I only meant that you spent a good many years sampling . . . Ow! Good God, isn't it clean yet? It's not as if I fell into a pig trough." Her face disappeared again, though he could still make out the occasional growled curse.
