A Wicked Pursuit by Isabella Bradford Page B

particularly,” he said. “What else is there?”
    She cleared her throat, and returned to reading. “‘A Description of the Duke of Bridgewater’s navigable canal.’”
    “I’ve seen the canal for myself,” he said, “and a modern marvel it is. But why should I now wish to hear of some scribe’s impressions? The next article, if you please.”
    “‘Doctor Watson’s improvements to prevent the ill effects of lightning to buildings.’”
    “That is supposed to keep me from boredom?” he asked. “Next.”
    “‘The Oracle,’” she read. “‘A most extraordinary tale drawn from the Greek.’”
    He mimicked a long, loud, ill-bred snore. “Next.”
    “Does politics interest you, my lord?” she said. “Here’s an article: ‘On the use which the fallen ministry makes of the name of Mr. Pitt.’”
    “No politics,” he said with a sigh of resignation, “especially not old and dusty politics. Perhaps this is all quite futile, Miss Augusta. Instead of reading aloud, we would do better with conversation.”
    “Conversation?” she repeated, smoothing the cover of the rejected magazine with her palm. “Whatever subject should we discuss?”
    “We could be blandly predictable, and try the weather,” he suggested. “Or we could embark on a topic that I’m sure I’d find fascinating, such as why you have no desire to follow your sister to court.”
    “You are inventing again, my lord,” she protested. “I didn’t say that.”
    “You didn’t have to,” he said easily. “I determined it for myself. And here I thought every young lady dreamed of the day she’d be unleashed upon the world of unsuspecting bachelors.”
    “I don’t,” she said, with such emphasis that there’d be no question. “From Julia’s telling, it all sounded quite dreadful, and nothing I would enjoy. I do not shine at balls and routs, my lord, nor would I—yes, what is it, Price?”
    The footman bowed and leaned close to deliver his message in a discreet murmur.
    “William has returned, Miss Augusta,” he said. “He is waiting to speak with you.”
    She looked up with surprise. “He is alone, Price?”
    “He is, ma’am,” the footman said.
    “Then I must go to him directly,” she said, rising. “My lord, I am sorry, but I must attend to this—this matter at once.”
    “You’re leaving?” Harry asked, though it was obvious that she was. He was more disappointed than he’d expected, sorry—very sorry—to have their conversation interrupted exactly when it had begun to be interesting. “Is this one of your other, more pressing responsibilities?”
    “I fear so, my lord,” she said absently, her thoughts already far from him as she left the magazine on the table beside his bed. “I am sorry, but this cannot be helped.”
    “You will return?” he said, sitting upright and trying not to beg, though beg he would if it might keep her here. “When you’re done doing whatever you must do, you’ll come back?”
    She was nearly to the door when she remembered to turn toward him and dip a belated curtsey. “Forgive me my haste, my lord,” she said, “but I shall return when it is possible.”
    He didn’t want to be left behind. He wanted to follow her, join her, see exactly what was drawing her in such haste. He felt hopelessly trapped on the bed, as mired by the leather splints bound to his leg as if they’d been iron bands chaining him in place.
    “Miss Augusta, wait!” he called out in desperation.
    With obvious reluctance she paused and turned.
    “Miss Augusta,” he said again. He’d have to say something of more importance than just repeating her name, and he did. “Miss Augusta. I’ve heard that I owe my life to you. Is that true?”
    That stopped her. “Who told you that?”
    “Tewkes said the surgeons told him it was so,” he said. “That your care and quick thinking saved my leg, and my life as well. Is it true?”
    “I could not have done such a thing alone, my lord, not