“That’s a nasty burn,” Nicholas said. He reached for the boy’s sleeve. “May I?”

The boy started to snatch his arm away, but he couldn’t due to the bottle tucked under his arm. He quickly set it on the table, then tried to pull his too-short sleeve down as he took a step back.

“It’s nothing, sir,” the youth said, shooting a look over his shoulder. “I’ll be back with the rest of your food in a moment.” He gave a quick bow, said a “sir” and a “ma’am,” and fled.

Georgie watched Nicholas fix his gaze on the doorway through which the boy had disappeared. She watched him take a deep breath, look at the spread before him, hungry eyes flitting from the bread, to the cheese, and to the bottle of wine.

And then again at the door.

And back to the bread, which he started to reach for, then stopped. It was as if he only had enough energy to do one thing, and thinking about the boy meant he couldn’t figure out what to do with the bread.

He looked hungry … and resigned.

Georgie wanted to kiss him.

“He’ll be back in a moment with soup,” she said. Though to be honest, she had no idea if soup or the boy would be forthcoming. They waited, inexplicably leaving the food untouched, until a nervous-looking young woman came with two steaming bowls. She set them on the table and turned to leave, but Nicholas caught her with a “Mistress?”

The woman had to stop and turn. “Sir?” She bobbed a quick curtsy to Nicholas, but she looked as if she wanted nothing more than to run.

“The boy who was just in before you,” Nicholas said. “His arm—”

“He’ll bide, milord,” the woman said quickly.

“But—”

“Please, sir,” she said, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper. “Mr. Kipperstrung, he don’t like us tending to nothing but work until after the meal’s been cleared away.”

“But the boy’s arm—”

An older man—Mr. Kipperstrung, Georgie presumed—emerged from the door to the kitchens and made great show of planting his fists on his hips. The young woman turned back to the table and made more of a show of slicing the bread that sat between Georgie and Nicholas.

“Martha!” Mr. Kipperstrung gruffed. “Dinnit be justen thand.” His words made no sense to Georgie, but his intent was clearly to summon Martha away from their table.

“Martha?” Georgie said quietly. “If you please, how did the boy burn his arm?”

Nicholas looked at Georgie and for the life of her she couldn’t tell if he was being stern, encouraging, or something else entirely. All her life she’d felt confident that she could read him, or at least his general mood. Now that she’d gone and married him, it was as if he was a stranger.

“Please, ma’am,” the woman practically begged while making a mess of the bread. “We’ll be turned out.”

Georgie tried to meet her eyes, but Martha turned back to the bread, slicing another two ragged pieces before setting down the knife.

Georgie then looked at Nicholas. Was he going to say something? Should she say something? Was it even their place to do so?

Nicholas let out a breath, and for a moment he seemed to sink further into his chair.

Then, with a weary inhale, he stood up.

“Milord?” Mr. Kipperstrung called out. “Did Martha make a mess of the dinner? She’s as useless as her—”

“No, no,” Nicholas said, and Georgie watched him spread a smile across his face that did not reach his eyes. He patted Martha on the shoulder as he stepped deftly around her. “She’s neat and quick. My wife and I are most grateful.”

The burly man did not look convinced. “You need only tell me and I’ll have ’er—”

Nicholas did not let him finish. He held up a hand, then turned to Martha and said, “If you please, my wife is hungry and tired. Would you see her to her room and make sure she has whatever she requires?”

And before Georgie could say, “Now wait just a moment,” to Nicholas, he’d started for the door.

“My good man,” he said in a tone that Georgie thought almost pompous, “I am a doctor, and the boy I saw a moment ago has a burn on his arm in which I am quite interested.”

Mr. Kipperstrung let out a loud snort. “’Tis but a scratch, milord. He’s a clumsy boy, and he’s lucky I keep him. He needs to learn his job proper and he won’t get hurt.”

“Nevertheless,” Nicholas said, his voice just slightly clipped. “I haven’t treated a burn of that nature in quite some time, and I could do with the practice. After all, it’s not like we can go and burn people for the purpose of healing them later.”

Georgie choked on a highly inappropriate bubble of laughter. That last sentence had been for her benefit, of that she was sure.

Mr. Kipperstrung seemed not to know what to say, especially as Nicholas was already walking smoothly past him. In fact, he only seemed to regain his power of speech once Nicholas had already disappeared through the doorway, and even then, all he could do was splutter and stomp after him.

Several moments of extended silence followed. Georgiana blinked. Then she blinked again. Had she just been completely dismissed?

“What just happened?” she said out loud.

Martha eyed her warily, clearly not sure whether the question was rhetorical.

Georgie set down the spoon she only just realized she was still holding. She looked up at Martha.

Martha managed the weakest of smiles. “Should I take you to your room?”

Georgie shook her head, murmuring to herself, “I can’t believe he just left me here.”

“I … ah …” Martha wrung her hands, watching the kitchen door as if she expected flames to shoot forth at any moment.

“I could help, you know,” Georgie said. She looked at Martha. “He didn’t even ask.”

“Ma’am?”

Georgie stood.

“Ma’am.” Now Martha sounded a little panicked.

“Please take me into the kitchen.”

“What?” Martha’s face drained of color. “I mean, are you sure?”

“Entirely so,” Georgie said in her best I-am-a-woman-of-means-and-I-shall-not-be-crossed voice.

It was a somewhat new voice for her, but she’d had very good role models.

“But ma’am, it’s the kitchen.”

“I assume that is where Mr. Kipperstrung just took Mr. Rokesby.”

“You mean the doctor?”

“The very same.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Martha said. “You don’t want to go there.”

Which made Georgie quite sure there was no place she’d rather be.

Georgie held her smile firmly in place. “I rather think I do.”

“But you’re a lady.”

This didn’t seem to be a question, so Georgie did not answer it. Instead she started to make her way around Nicholas’s now abandoned chair. Martha looked fit to cry.

“If you please, ma’am, my lady.” Martha scurried forward, practically throwing herself between Georgie and the door. “The doctor—your husband, he said—”

“I believe he said something about whatever my needs were.”