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“One. I do not pity you.” She jabbed two fingers. “Two, you are obviously in pain, as any dimwit could tell, and I amfarfrom being a dimwit. I suspect you could be suffering the torments of hell and you’d still insist you were fine.”
“I’ve already suffered the torments of hell. Once you’ve done it, everything else seems tame by comparison.”
“And three,” she added, “I have no wish to be held responsible for a relapse. Your brother would probably murder me with his dirk or some other equally horrifying Scottish weaponry.”
He mustered a smile that might look more like a grimace. “I’ll sign an ironclad waiver absolving you of responsibility if I do relapse.”
She eyed him in silence.
“Really, there’s nothing to worry about,” he said in a softer tone.
“It’s not that, precisely,” she said.
“Then what, precisely?”
“Itdoeshurt a great deal, does it not? Even though you pretend the opposite.”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly.
“Worse than usual, too. I can tell.”
That startled him. “How?”
Even when the pain clawed at him like a thousand demons, he schooled his expression and forced a consistent gait. The new exercises were helping in that regard. Nick had finally found a doctor who seemed to know his business, unlike the other high-priced quacks they’d seen since their arrival in London. The first physician had morosely shaken his head and recommended a stout cane and a lifetime of laudanum. The second had actually had the nerve to suggest Royal’s leg be amputated.
That particular appointment had not ended well.
“Because when your pain is worse, you go white around the lips,” Ainsley said. “And your right eyelid often twitches.”
Royal gaped at her. He knew he often turned pale as a ghoul when his pain was particularly bad, so that was no surprise, but noticing the tic in his eyelid? No one had ever picked up on that except for his grandfather. Not even Nick, who watched him like a bloody hawk.
She shook her head. “The fact that you never complain is amazing to me.”
“There’s little point in complaining, since it won’t change anything,” he said gruffly.
Ainsley slowly unfurled her fan to study a painted scene of nymphs cavorting amongst a ruin. “You never boast about it, either,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “Most men would. After all, you’re a legitimate war hero.”
“Only a bloody coxcomb would boast about something that all but killed him.”
She shot him an irritated glance. “I’m not talking about your injury, you booby. I’m talking about the sacrifices you made for your country.”
He snorted. “Sacrifices that got me and all the other poor fools nothing but pain and suffering. When you’re bleeding out on the battlefield, it doesn’t matter one damn bit what you’re fighting for. English or French, the blood runs the same red.”
He’d seen rivers of the stuff, including his own, leaching into the dirt and mud. It had rained the night before that last battle, and Royal could still feel himself sinking into the horrendous, foul-smelling muck. Too weak to even turn himself over, he’d almost drowned in a shallow ditch before an infantryman had dragged him away to the temporary shelter of a British line.
Ainsley stared at the opposite wall. “This was a mistake,” she said in a flat tone.
His heart cramped, but he managed a sardonic smile. “I realize that penniless, crippled soldiers are not in your usual style.”
She shot him a resentful look. “You can be remarkably unpleasant at times, Mr. Kendrick.”
“So I’ve been told.” And he hated himself for it, hated that anger and sarcasm seemed the only defenses left to him, other than despair.
She clambered to her feet. “Do you need help getting up?” she asked, half turning away from him.
“I’m not helpless,” he gritted out as he pushed himself to stand. “You’ve done your duty by the poor invalid, my lady. You can return to your friends with a clear conscience, knowing you’ve accomplished one good deed for the evening.”
Ainsley flinched, looking set to flee to the refuge of the glittering lights and laughter of the ballroom. It was certainly what she should do, what part of him wanted her to do. Then the inevitable rejection would finally be over, and he could get on with the business of forgetting how much he adored her.
