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‘Sir—’ Giles lifted his hand to try to find the fastening and the man shook his head and leaned over. ‘The doctor will have my guts for garters, sir.’
The process was unpleasant enough to make him feel queasy. When the dressing was finally unwrapped Giles lifted the glass and stared at the result. His nose had been broken, his mouth was bruised, but down the right side of his face where he had expected to find a single cut on his cheek, perhaps reaching to his cheekbone, were two savage parallel slashes from just above his eyebrow, down his cheek to his jaw.
‘The swelling and the stitches made it look worse than it is, sir, I’m sure.’ Tompkins rushed into speech. ‘The doctor’s very good, sir, lots of tiny stitches he took. Lucky it missed your eye, sir. A miracle, the doctor said that was.’
A miracle. A miracle that had changed his face for ever in seconds. Giles stared back at familiar eyes, a familiar mouth, eyebrows that still slanted slightly upwards. As for the rest…He had always taken his looks for granted. His glass had told him he was handsome. Some women called him beautiful. It was nothing to be proud of: his looks came from his parents and good fortune and had proved enough of a nuisance in the past. He would get used to the changes.
He had forgotten Isobel until she stammered, ‘No…Giles…’ She fled for the door, wrenched it open and, with the barest glance around to check outside, ran from the room.
So this new face sent a courageous young woman fleeing from the room in revulsion, a young woman who was not a lover, but who had called him her friend. That hurt, he discovered, more than the injuries themselves. ‘Put back the bandage, Tompkins,’ he said harshly. ‘Then bring me hot water, coffee, food.’
‘But, sir, you should be resting. Her ladyship told Cook to prepare some gruel.’
‘Tompkins, I have a job to do and I cannot do it on gruel. His lordship requires my attendance today. Either you bring me proper food or I will go down to the kitchen myself and speak to Cook. And send for the doctor. I cannot go about looking like an Egyptian mummy.’
The valet left, shaking his head. Giles lay back against the pillows and told himself that it did not matter. He would heal in time and scars and a crooked nose were not the end of the world. But he could not forget the look on Isobel’s face when she had stared at him, appalled. That felt as though something had broken inside him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BY BREAKFAST ISOBEL was no nearer overcoming the guilt. Giles’s beautiful face was scarred for life and it was her fault. He had done it for her. The shock of how injured he was, her own helplessness, had made her angry—with herself as well as, irrationally, with him.
She should not have shouted at him, she thought penitently as she looked across the table to where James Albright sat, coping efficiently with bacon and eggs after a few moments’ discreet exploration of the table around him with his fingertips. Giles had fought for him, too.
Cousin Elizabeth pressed Lord James to stay on, but he shook his head. ‘You are very kind, but I will leave after lunche
on if that is convenient. I must go and tell my family the truth of this matter.’ He smiled in Isobel’s direction before turning back to his hostess. ‘I am sorry to trouble you for so long, but my groom tells me that one of the horses has cast a shoe and they must send to the village blacksmith. I thank you for your hospitality under such trying circumstances,’ he added.
‘Helping an injured man, and one who is a friend of the family now, is no hardship, Lord James. And I know Mr Harker insisted that you bring him, although what on earth he was thinking about, I cannot imagine. Surely he did not think that he would be in any state to work with my husband and his advisers today—’ She broke off and stared at the door. ‘Mr Harker!’
‘Good morning. I apologise for my appearance.’ Giles walked into the room with a deliberation that Isobel realised must be the only alternative to limping. She found she was on her feet and sat down again. He did not spare her a glance.
Giles had discarded the swathes of bandage, although there was a professional-looking dressing across his injured cheek. The swelling around his nose was less, although the bruising was colourful. He sat down next to his friend and touched his hand briefly.
‘Mr Harker, you should go back to bed immediately! What can you be thinking of?’
‘Lady Hardwicke, I assure you I am quite capable of working with the earl and his advisers.’ He accepted a cup of tea from Anne and reached for the cold meats.
The countess shook her head at him, but did not argue further, apparently recognising an impossible cause when she saw one. ‘Benson, please tell his lordship that Mr Harker will be joining him and Mr Delapoole after breakfast.’
Isobel ate in silence, almost unaware of what food passed her lips. Giles not so much ignored her as managed to appear not to notice her presence. When he rose to leave she got to her feet with a murmured excuse to her hostess and followed him out, padding quietly behind him until he reached the Long Gallery.
‘Giles! Please wait.’
He stopped and turned. ‘Lady Isobel?’ The beautiful voice was still slightly slurred.
‘Don’t. Don’t be like that.’ She caught up with him and laid her hand on his arm to detain him. ‘Why are you angry with me? Because I have not thanked you for what you did for me? Or because I slept in your room? I am sorry if it was awkward with Tompkins. If you had to give him money, I will—’
‘What were you doing in my room? In my bed?’
‘I was not in it, I was on it.’ She knew she was blushing and that her guilty conscience was the cause. She desired him. She had lusted after him. ‘I was worried about you. I came to your room to make certain you were all right. You were thirsty so I gave you something to drink. You were drugged and I thought someone should watch over you. The bed was wide. I only expected to doze, not sleep so soundly that anyone would find me in the morning.’
‘A pity you did not turn up the lamp and see at once just how repulsive I look now: then you could have fled there and then and not waited until Tompkins and daylight revealed the worst.’ His bloodshot eyes fixed her with chilly disdain as she gaped at him. ‘You have had time to pluck up the courage to look at me. Pretty, isn’t it?’
‘You thought I was repulsed? Giles, for goodness’ sake! No, it isn’t pretty, it is a mess. But it will get better when the bruises come out and the swelling subsides. Your nose will be crooked, but surely you are not so vain that will concern you?’
‘And the scars?’ he asked harshly.
‘Will they be very bad? The stitches will make it look and feel worse at first. My brother had them in his arm last year and they looked frightful. But now all there is to show is a thin white line.’
