on the tip of his tongue to agree with her assessment, but she was doing quite well on her own. Even so… “I don’t hate you.”
She sniffed but then sent him a wobbly grin. “That’s big of you.”
“I’m like that,” he teased. “Big.”
She shook her head.
Miracle of miracles, she was acting nothing like the spoiled debutante he’d become accustomed to. She looked nothing like her, either.
Most of her golden hair was dangling down her back and around her face, her gown was muddied, wrinkled, and torn, and rather than taunting him for his lack of lordliness, she was acting with—was it really possible?—humility.
He could tell her the cut was nothing. He could explain that his eye would return to normal in a few days. And it wasn’t necessary for her to know that he suspected one of his ribs might be bruised. But who was he to stop this delightful bout of remorse on her part?
“You’re welcome to tell me that you told me so.” Her bottom lip protruded slightly more than her upper one did when she pouted.
“I told you so.” He chuckled, unable to help himself, and then regretted it when he was rewarded with a painful stab on his left side. He knew she’d had it rough when she didn’t rise to his bait.
“You were right.” She was stroking his jaw with the cloth now. Stone took full advantage of her repentant moment, relaxing into the bed and enjoying her touch. “He wasn’t going to be worth it. He was horrible.” She made a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t even close to laughter. “All he wanted was my dowry. Of course, I understood that the money partly compelled his proposal. But I assumed it couldn’t be the only thing that attracted him.” Another sound. This one, a definite sob. “What have I done?”
A mournful wail followed her question.
And as much as he was enjoying her conceding that he’d been right all along, Stone couldn’t stand to watch her fall apart completely. Ignoring the pain in his side, he pushed her hand away and sat up.
“Sit.” He patted the mattress beside him.
“I’m filthy.” But she lowered herself onto the mattress anyway. To comply so easily, she truly must be feeling low.
“Can I ask you something?” He watched her closely.
She frowned but nodded.
“Why a duke?”
“I need to be a duchess.”
“No one needs to be a duchess.” So much determination had to come from somewhere.
“I do.” She lifted her chin, showing some of the spirit he was used to.
“Why?”
She crushed the linen cloth she’d been using in her fist, and then opened it and smoothed it on her lap. “Because—"
A knock sounded at the door, cutting her off quite effectively.
“Either that’s our food, our bath, or both.” He spoke to the top of her head and then rose to allow a handful of servants to enter, one carrying a large tray of food, three others with steaming buckets of water who efficiently filled a small tub that was tucked behind the screen on the opposite side of the room.
“Can we bring you anything else, Mr. Chester?” the woman who’d brought the food asked.
He examined the contents of the tray. Bread, cheese, olives, fruit… champagne. “A bottle of whisky? Perhaps two?”
“Of course, Sir.”
Five minutes later, he was alone with the demoralized debutante once again. Her misery weighed heavily in the silence.
“If you don’t take advantage of the hot water, I will.” He glanced at the forlorn creature on the bed and then crossed to the chair. “Down, cat,” he ordered.
Archimedes glared defiantly back at Stone until, apparently sensing he had softer, more comfortable options, hopped off and jumped onto the bed instead. At least it wouldn’t shed.
“I don’t have my maid. I haven’t for four days now.” Tabetha had roused herself and was standing with her back to him, holding her hair off her nape. “Could you unfasten me?”
Stone wondered if it had been difficult for her to make her request. Not that she doubtless enjoyed being fussed over, but by her lady’s maid, or her sister or brother.
He groaned but rose to his feet again. It cannot have been easy for her to ask him for help with anything—a person she’d openly disdained since making her come out.
When he touched the top button of her gown, a shiver ran through her. And damned if his fingers didn’t fumble with it. Soft golden tendrils brushed the backs of his hands. Had her tremble been an instinctive response, or