Chapter 16

“My coat.” Isabella tried not to laugh as Griffith plopped his hat onto his head and looked around the room with a frown. He managed to get back to his feet with little help from her and Mrs. Ingham, but he’d yet to appear steady.

Mrs. Ingham pulled the garment from the back of a chair and held it up. “Here it is, Your Grace.”

A wide grin spread across his face, displaying both teeth and dimples. “Excellent.”

He took the coat in his right hand and then frowned down at his left.

“Why don’t I carry it?” Isabella slid the coat from his fingers, trying not to smile at the mountain of a man looking like a little boy who’d been denied a puppy.

“A gentleman needs his coat.” His frown darkened until he looked less like a boy and more like a disgruntled duke.

A compromise was definitely in order here. “Perhaps we could drape it around your shoulders?”

One haughty eyebrow lifted, but the imperious glare was interrupted by a hiccup. “What good would that do?”

“Er . . .” Isabella looked to Mrs. Ingham for help, but the older woman simply stared at the duke with wide, disbelieving eyes. There would be no assistance from that direction. With a serene smile pasted on her face, Isabella turned back to the duke. “It would get your coat home while covering most of your, um, dishevelment.”

He frowned down at himself as if just now realizing that he no longer looked like he’d come fresh from his valet. “I haven’t a sleeve.”

“Well, no.” Isabella wasn’t sure what else she was supposed to say, particularly since he had lifted his head at that moment and looked at her as if she were the one missing the obvious.

“Therefore I need my coat.”

Isabella managed to restrain the groan, but not the sigh of despair that rushed through her pursed lips in a gust of dread. They were going to have to put on the coat.

With great care she eased the sleeve over his injured arm. Now that he was getting what he wanted, Griffith was the model of patience, saying nothing when it became apparent that even Isabella’s greater-than-average height wasn’t going to be enough to smooth the coat across his shoulder without jarring his injured arm.

She gave him a stern look, or as much of one as she could manage in the face of his unfocused eyes and drunken grin. “Must we wear the coat?”

“I am a gentleman.”

And that was as much of an answer as she was going to get. With any luck he wouldn’t remember this tomorrow. Isabella climbed up onto the bench he’d sat on earlier. It would have been easier to have him sit back down, but she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get him back up.

It was certainly strange, looking down on the duke’s upturned face. She was probably the only lady in England who’d ever had such a privilege. His shoulders seemed even broader from above as she held the fabric wide and tried to maneuver his good arm into the other sleeve. The hat he’d already placed upon his head kept knocking her in the face as she tried to adjust the coat.

They must make the most ridiculous-looking pair.

A hiss escaped him as the coat pulled tight, but no other sound emerged. She smoothed the coat into place along his shoulders, trying not to think about the fact that two layers of cloth weren’t enough to stem his heat or disguise the strength and resiliency of his muscles. She remembered him poised on the roof, swinging a hammer and jamming reeds into the thatch.

Definitely not a typical aristocrat.

Warmth curled through her belly, and she snatched her hands back before jumping from the bench with an overly generous smile. “All set, then?”

Her smile dimmed as she saw that the duke looked even paler now than he had before.

“Perhaps a bit more whisky?” Mrs. Ingham held the nearly empty bottle up.

“That might not be a bad idea. The journey back to Riverton isn’t going to be easy.” Isabella clasped her hands together. Could she catch him if he toppled over? More likely they’d both end up sprawled across Mrs. Ingham’s floor, and the poor woman’s eyes would widen until they actually fell out of her head.

“It was for stitches.” He shook his head as if to clear it and then stumbled sideways before catching himself. “If I drink any more, Ryland will make me spread bat guano.”

Now there was a story she wished she could pull from him one day. “At least let me go for a wagon, then.”

“I’ll look weak in a wagon.”

Isabella sighed. “You are weak. I just stitched up a four-inch gash in your arm.”

He shook his head again, slower this time. “Can’t look weak. Dukes make decisions.”

“But, Your Grace, you . . .” Mrs. Ingham’s voice stuttered to a halt as Griffith snatched the bottle and took one more slug.

“Foul stuff,” he muttered before staggering his way out the door.

Isabella ran to catch up, hoping Mrs. Ingham wouldn’t mind their poor manners. Given everything else she’d seen today, Isabella rather thought their lack of good-byes was the least of the woman’s concerns.

Griffith was stopped by the ladder he’d fallen from. He placed his right hand on the rungs. “I didn’t finish the roof.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Isabella rushed forward, not knowing what she would do but knowing she couldn’t let the man put one foot on that ladder. She threw her arms around his middle, thankfully remembering to avoid grabbing his injured arm.

“It won’t take long. Just need to trim the reeds.”

She planted her feet wide and pulled him back with all her might. With her face plastered against his back, the smell of cedar and grass meshed with the whisky for a very heady combination. It was better to think about that than the fact that her hands were pressed once more against parts of his body no woman had ever touched. No woman other than his wife should know how hard and strong his midsection was or how it felt to nestle into the dip along the center of his back.

One more sin to blacken Isabella’s scoreboard. At least this one had a bit of enjoyment to it.

Despite using all her strength, she couldn’t budge the duke. Even inebriated, he had a strength to match that of his will. Thankfully the same couldn’t be said for his coordination. He placed a foot on the bottom rung and it slid right off.

“We’ll leave the blade for her son to finish the reeds.” Isabella grunted with the effort to keep the duke on the ground and not hit his injured arm, which he’d yet to use in his ladder-climbing endeavor. Did that mean it was more injured than she thought? Had there been some internal damage that rendered it useless?

“If any of her sons could do it I wouldn’t have been up there in the first place. None of them can swing a tool straight, unless you smash them between two walls.”

Isabella smothered a laugh against his back. She even heard a chuckle from Mrs. Ingham. Griffith would be beside himself tomorrow if he remembered issuing such a bold insult.

“Perhaps . . .” Isabella took a deep breath to calm the chuckles that still wanted to escape. “Perhaps you could return later in the week, then, when your arm is better?” And when he wasn’t drunk.

He swung away from the ladder, flinging her in a circle until her hip bumped the ladder and sent it sliding along the edge of the roof to topple harmlessly into the garden.

At least now he couldn’t try to climb it.

The reluctance that accompanied the release of Isabella’s grip around his middle surprised her. She should have been ready to step away, anxious to avoid such an impropriety, but she wasn’t. It had been such a nice moment, and her life had far too few nice moments lately.

Griffith turned again until he was facing her. “You’ll return with me?”

“Oh, er, yes?” It was more of a question than an answer, and Isabella would never hold him to such an invitation, but it was rather thrilling that, even drunk, he wanted to spend time with her.

“Exshellt . . . Eggsell . . .” He coughed. “Good.”

They collected his horse and started the slow walk back to Riverton. The horse plodded along behind them, its reins loosely clasped in Griffith’s right hand, and Isabella walked on the duke’s left to make sure nothing accidentally bumped his arm. As they rounded the trees, Isabella bit her lip. Should they take the straight path back to Riverton or go by the place she’d left Frederica? It had been well over an hour since Isabella had left her and Arthur. Odds were that he had secured another way back to the house for her when Isabella hadn’t returned.

At least, Isabella hoped that was true. Because she didn’t think the duke was drunk enough not to notice if Frederica joined their little party, and Freddie wasn’t likely to thank Isabella for putting her in such a compromising situation. It was bad enough that the duke was likely to question Isabella’s lone wanderings.

The duke seemed to know where he was going, despite his inebriated state. That or the horse was leading the way. Isabella was going to have to leave Freddie to fend for herself and hope Arthur was the man both girls thought him to be.

“And what brought you to London, Miss Breckenridge?”

Isabella smiled at the thickening of his voice and the slight slur on the word Miss. “I believe, under the circumstances, you may call me Isabella. Or Bella if the s troubles you.”

“Isssa . . . Itha . . . Bella it is.” He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.

“I came to London for the reason most young ladies come to London.” She looked out over the field they were crossing, not wanting him to see the lie in her face.

“Not enough society in . . . Where are you from?”

“Northumberland.” She’d already told him once, so it didn’t hurt if she repeated it, even though her uncle had started telling everyone her father’s estate was in the more acceptable county of Yorkshire. “And no. There aren’t a lot of people there at all.” Which was the main reason her family had been able to hold on to the farm for as long as they had. Even as they plummeted into debt, there were few people who wanted to live in the craggy loneliness of the northernmost English county.

“I didn’t know about you.”

She raised a hand to his back to guide him around a collection of rocks in the middle of their path. “I would be surprised if you had.”

“But I checked. I researched your cousin for a year. And then you showed up.”

“Freddie is very private. I doubt she mentioned me to many people. We’re very close, though.” Closer than sisters in some ways. Even when Uncle Percy forbade Freddie’s visits, the letters had continued.

Writing to Bella was one privilege Uncle Percy never took from his daughter, even allowing Freddie to send money to cover Bella’s quills, ink, and paper. It was an extravagant use of the money as things became harder, but writing to Freddie had been her only escape, the only place where she could truly talk about everything she feared and felt.

“I can tell. I never see you apart.” He frowned and turned to look at her, dislodging his top hat until it slid a bit down his forehead. “’Cept now. Where is Missss . . . Mithh . . . Freddie?”

That was a very good question. Isabella dearly hoped that her cousin had made it back to the house. The bigger question was how was she doing. Was she crying herself sick over Arthur’s fate or worried about Isabella’s? Either way, the duke didn’t need to know they’d both gone wandering off from the party. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

“You intend to marry, then?”

It took Isabella a minute to realize Griffith had returned to his previous question of why Isabella was in London. She opened her mouth to lie to him but made the mistake of turning to look at him. He’d pulled his horse forward and draped his good arm around the brown steed’s neck so he could lean on the horse. It made his walk a bit strange, but it kept him upright.

And allowed him to look directly at her.

Isabella stumbled.

Griffith reached his arm out to catch her but winced and stopped as she righted herself. “You should ride Abacus.”

Isabella scoffed. “I think not.”

“He’s a wonderful horse.”

“And he’s not wearing a proper saddle. Not for me, anyway.”

Griffith frowned. “I suppose not. Whom do you intend to marry?”

Was there no distracting this man? Of all the things for the whisky to affect, his tenacity couldn’t be one of them? “Why does it matter?”

He shrugged his right shoulder. “Because I’m not going to marry Freddie. But you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to marry Freddie.”

“You want me to court her.”

“I want you to pretend to court her.”

Griffith stopped and waited until Isabella had turned to face him. “You are not what I wanted in a wife. You are much too popular and far more beautiful than I planned. But you care. And you like trees. I find myself thinking about you when I shouldn’t be.”

Isabella sucked a deep breath in through her nose but could think of nothing to say that would stop his confession. If he remembered this in the morning he was sure to hate himself. And her.

“And I find myself wondering why a girl would come all the way to London, capture the attention of a duke, and then try to direct it elsewhere. You are a puzzle, dear Bella, and I find myself wanting to solve it.”

He was really, really going to hate that he’d revealed this. She needed to stop him before he said anything else. “I’m flattered, truly. I just don’t want to hurt Freddie.”

“But Freddie loves Lieutenant Arthur Saunderson. He’s alive, you know. Ryland told me last night. I had him check.” He started walking again, but it was a few moments before Isabella could get her feet to move again, and she had to rush to catch up.

“You checked?”

“Of course.” Griffith frowned. “Miranda said I could never compete with a dead man, so I had to learn about the dead man. Only he isn’t dead.”

The top spires of Riverton became visible above the trees, glinting in the sun. Fortunately her uncle would not question her making excuses about coming down to dinner. With all this new information about the duke, the headache she would soon be pleading was likely to be quite real. She already felt a bit dizzy.

“He’s a good man, you know. A lieutenant in the Dragoons.” Griffith tilted his head in Isabella’s direction, and his hat toppled clean off the mop of twisted blond waves.

Isabella reached out to catch it and ended up smashing it against her chest. “Oh dear.”

Griffith shrugged. “Just pop it back out.”

A giggle escaped as Isabella tried to reshape it as best she could. It still looked like a squashed top hat, but Griffith set it back upon his head anyway, causing her to give up on restraining the giggles and laugh outright.

“You should laugh more often.”

Bella shook her head as the laugh subsided into a wide smile. “It shows my teeth.”

“Ah.” He looked toward the last band of trees separating them from the manicured grounds around the house. “You wouldn’t want to mar perfection.”

They lapsed into silence as they made their way through the trees to the banks of a small lake that was, indeed, the color of Isabella’s eyes.

“Don’t trust him.” Griffith broke the silence as a shout rang out from across the lake and a groom started running toward them.

“Who?”

“Your uncle. He tried to get Arthur commissioned into the regulars. That’s why everyone thought he was dead. That troop was going into a battle that everyone knew was likely to kill them.”

Isabella didn’t know what to say. She’d known Uncle Percy hadn’t wanted Freddie to marry an officer, but to try to send a man to his doom over it?

“Don’t trust him,” he said again as the groom got closer. “I don’t think I like your uncle.”

Isabella swallowed and followed sedately along behind the group now collecting around the duke. That made two of them.

He wasn’t so far into his cups that he didn’t notice the shock riding the approaching grooms’ faces like a jockey at Ascot. Their wide eyes jumped from Griffith’s head to his feet and back again. They barely glanced at Isabella, which was good. He would have had to dismiss them if they’d said anything untoward about her.

He stumbled to a halt and blinked. What a strange thing to think. Had he ever threatened his servants with dismissal before, even in his mind?

“Your Grace?” The head groom shifted on his feet. “May we be of assistance?”

“Yes,” Griffith said, hopefully with some authority. “No one is to tell my mother.”

The grooms looked at each other, and a muffled giggle came from Griffith’s left.

“Of course, Your Grace.” The groom reached for the horse’s bridle. “Should we fetch a physician?”

Griffith frowned down at his arm. He’d been injured, but Isabella had patched him up. Did he really need to call the physician and risk having his mother learn of the incident?

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Isabella said softly.

With a sigh, Griffith nodded. The presence of a doctor increased the chances of the news of his injury getting out, but if Isabella would feel better having her ministrations checked by a doctor, then Griffith would have him summoned. “Bring him in the back and up the servant stairs. Don’t tell anyone you don’t have to tell. Including my mother.”

A small smile tilted the head groom’s lips. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Griffith nodded and allowed the men to help him the rest of the way to the house. He slipped in the back entrance and up the stairs, Isabella at his side. After they’d climbed the stairs to the first floor, he knew they had to part ways, as her bedchamber and his were on opposite sides of the house. He was surprised at his reluctance to do so. Even as he felt the effects of the alcohol begin to wane from his system, he knew that he would not allow himself to be this intimate with Isabella ever again. And he already mourned the loss.

“I should go.” Isabella backed away from him, moving toward the guest chambers. “Take care of your arm.”

Griffith nodded, reaching his good arm out to the wall to brace himself as the movement made the corridor spin.

He stumbled into his room and dropped into a chair by the fireplace to await the physician. Moments later his door opened, admitting his valet and a servant carrying a steaming tea tray. The earthy scent of willow bark tea made his mouth dry. He’d never cared for it, but if he was going to get through this week without letting anyone learn of his injury, he was going to have to drink buckets of the stuff.

He was halfway through the pot when the physician came in. His valet had managed to remove all of the torn and dirty clothing, and Griffith had managed not to say too many ridiculous things. Thankfully, he’d hired servants with discretion he could count on. At least he hoped he could. He’d never explicitly given instructions to hide something from his mother before.

“Whoever stitched you up did a fine job,” the old physician said after doing a thorough inspection of Griffith’s arm. “It’s likely to itch for a while, and have someone come to me if it turns red or swells.”

The man removed a bottle from his bag and set it on the table. He looked at the cooling pot of willow bark tea with a curled lip. “This should actually take care of the pain.”

Griffith recognized the laudanum bottle but saw no reason to tell the doctor he wouldn’t touch it unless he was on the verge of dying. He’d sooner go back and find Mrs. Ingham’s bottle of whisky.

The doctor looked at Griffith with a slight smile. “That would work as well, Your Grace.”

A groan ripped from Griffith’s chest as he dropped his head back against his chair. He was never drinking alcohol again.