Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,28

becoming for my wife to chase another man in the streets.”

“You’ve only yourself to blame for that. Mr. Martin and I could have met in a civilized manner, but you had to blackmail me with your daughter. So if you think I won’t exploit an accidental meeting, you should be run over by an omnibus for your stupid arrogance.”

She yanked her arm free and ran, bittersweet memories flashing before her eyes: Andrew’s long-ago shy confession that someday he hoped to author a book worthy of being published by her; a shower of pressed flowers falling out of his letter to land at her feet, one for every day they’d been apart; walking along the Norfolk coast, Andrew telling her that it was his heart’s fondest wish to still amble those rough, beautiful cliffs with her when he was an old man, and, when they were too decrepit to walk, to be carried there in chairs to sit hand in hand as they gazed out to the North Sea.

She rounded the street corner but could not see him. Then, as if she’d conjured him, he materialized on the opposite side of the road.

She raced into the street, trying her best not to shout his name aloud. He was walking slowly. She was closing the distance between them. But he’d yet to become aware of her.

And now he was. He turned around. There were shouts. He, too, shouted, his face contorting with horror.

All too late she saw that she was directly in the path of a carriage-and-four. The coachman tried desperately to rein in his horses, but already those in the front reared, their screeches lost in the general din.

The last thing she saw was a hoof the size of a dinner plate coming directly at her face.

CHAPTER 7

The silence choked Hastings.

Compared to the chaos and black fear of the morning—on his knees before Helena’s inert body, the scent of her blood pungent in his nostrils, the shouts of the gathering crowd surging like his panic, the screams of the still shying horses piercing his ears—this quiet and order should have seemed a paradise.

And it had for a while. After she’d been brought back to Fitz’s house under Miss Redmayne’s supervision, after the dining room had been made into an emergency surgery for stitching the wound in her scalp, after Miss Redmayne assured everyone that her life was not in immediate danger, still shaking, but relieved beyond measure, Hastings had sat down to wait for her to wake up.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

He’d waved away offers of elevenses, luncheon, and tea—this last twice. The third time Millie set the tray down on his lap and ordered him in no uncertain terms to eat or be ejected from her house.

Helena, her face bruised and swollen, her head wrapped in white gauze, lay quietly. Much too quietly. From time to time Venetia, her teeth clenched over her lower lip, would lift her wrist and feel her pulse. They’d all tense—and breathe again only when Venetia nodded, signaling that all was still, if not well, then at least no worse.

Someone came to take the tea tray from Hastings. He had no idea whether he’d eaten anything or merely guarded the tray for a while. Fitz sat with his hand gripping his wife’s. Venetia, still wearing the mismatched shoes in which she’d arrived in the morning, had one hand on her husband’s sleeve, the other around a handkerchief.

There had been a burst of conversation following the first “Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” They’d grilled the nurse Miss Redmayne had stationed in the room. The nurse assured them that Miss Redmayne had not used any narcotics, only a surface analgesic. There was no morphia or opium in Lady Hastings’s body, holding her consciousness hostage. But yes, she had most certainly suffered a concussion, so perhaps the wait would be slightly more extensive?

For the past hour, no one had spoken a single word.

“Would anyone mind if I read to her?” Hastings broke the silence at last.

There were no responses for a moment; then Venetia dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and said, “Go ahead.”

He was seated next to the small shelf Helena kept in her room. Her clothes had been taken to his house, but the possessions that truly mattered to her, her books, had stayed behind. He pulled out the book nearest him, moved his chair to the side of the bed, and began to read.

The question is often asked, “Shall I go to the