weariness when she climbed the incline to the house. Her shoulders hurt, her legs hurt, her fingers were numb with cold. She was beginning to feel sorry for herself when a piercing shriek from inside the house stopped her in her tracks.
Ben!
All her aches and pains were forgotten. She picked up her skirts, raced up the incline, and burst into the entrance hall. All she could hear now was the low murmur of voices coming from the back of the house. Lance led the way to the kitchen.
A makeshift bed was drawn close to the fire with Ben in it, naked to the waist and propped up with pillows. His complexion was parchment white, and tears stood on the tips of his lashes. Lord Caspar was holding a cup to his lips and pressing him to drink from it. She detected the aroma of Mrs. Trent’s “marmalade tea,” a medicinal brew, made with equal parts of Scotch whiskey and boiling water, sweetened with marmalade to mask, Jane supposed, the awful taste of the whiskey.
“There you are, lass!” exclaimed Mrs. Trent.
She was at the oven, removing hot bricks with a long paddle, then wrapping them in towels. Obviously they were meant for Ben, to keep him warm.
“Did you find Razor?” asked Mrs. Trent. “I was that worried when he came trotting into the yard, with no buggy and no Ben. I couldna imagine what had happened, but I knew you would all be chilled to the bone when you got back, so I put bricks in to heat and made marmalade tea.” She went on cheerfully. “There’s marmalade tea for you, too. On the table.”
Jane sagged against the door. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she burst into the kitchen, but not this scene of cozy domesticity. She felt suddenly overwhelmed by the heat. The fire in the grate was blazing like a blacksmith’s furnace, as was the fire under the oven. The room was quite small, and someone had closed the window. She couldn’t breathe.
“Jane.”
She turned her head slowly and met the steady, reassuring gaze of the earl. He saw the strain on her face and quickly got up. “Mrs. Trent,” he said, “see that Ben drinks this.”
“What?” The housekeeper followed his gaze, noted her mistress’s expression, and hastened to obey.
On seeing Jane, Ben cried, “I tried to stop them taking Miss Drake away, honest I did, but they hurt my arm, and Miss Drake said she
wanted
to go home.”
Jane gathered herself enough to reply, “You did well, Ben.” Then anxiously to Case, “What’s this about his arm?”
Case removed her gloves, coat, and cap, led her to a chair at the table, and pushed her into it. His voice was matter-of-fact. “His arm was out of joint. I had to reset it. It was painful, but only for a moment or two. And after a good night’s rest, he’ll be more like himself. He’s fine, Jane, so stop worrying.”
Her huge eyes met his, then moved to Ben. He wasn’t keen on swallowing the marmalade tea, but he screwed up his face and did it manfully. Only then did his grandmother set the cup aside and pull the covers over him. Jane swallowed hard.
As she studied Ben, Case studied her. He hadn’t known that her hair was so long or so fair. Now that he’d removed the hideous cap that covered it, it fell in waves to her shoulders. There was a smudge of dirt on one cheek and her gown was mired in mud along the hem.
It seemed incredible to him now that she’d been attending the opera regularly with Sally Latham, yet he hadn’t noticed her until last Wednesday. He felt as though his worldview had shifted dramatically. He didn’t know whether she was beautiful or not. What he did know was that fashion plate or country dowd, spitfire or damsel in distress, she was utterly compelling.
He picked up the cup of marmalade tea, curled her fingers around it, and told her to drink. That she obeyed him automatically told him how shaken she was. After a few mouthfuls of Mrs. Trent’s elixir, however, she began to show signs of regaining her equilibrium. Her spine straightened, her
Ben!
All her aches and pains were forgotten. She picked up her skirts, raced up the incline, and burst into the entrance hall. All she could hear now was the low murmur of voices coming from the back of the house. Lance led the way to the kitchen.
A makeshift bed was drawn close to the fire with Ben in it, naked to the waist and propped up with pillows. His complexion was parchment white, and tears stood on the tips of his lashes. Lord Caspar was holding a cup to his lips and pressing him to drink from it. She detected the aroma of Mrs. Trent’s “marmalade tea,” a medicinal brew, made with equal parts of Scotch whiskey and boiling water, sweetened with marmalade to mask, Jane supposed, the awful taste of the whiskey.
“There you are, lass!” exclaimed Mrs. Trent.
She was at the oven, removing hot bricks with a long paddle, then wrapping them in towels. Obviously they were meant for Ben, to keep him warm.
“Did you find Razor?” asked Mrs. Trent. “I was that worried when he came trotting into the yard, with no buggy and no Ben. I couldna imagine what had happened, but I knew you would all be chilled to the bone when you got back, so I put bricks in to heat and made marmalade tea.” She went on cheerfully. “There’s marmalade tea for you, too. On the table.”
Jane sagged against the door. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she burst into the kitchen, but not this scene of cozy domesticity. She felt suddenly overwhelmed by the heat. The fire in the grate was blazing like a blacksmith’s furnace, as was the fire under the oven. The room was quite small, and someone had closed the window. She couldn’t breathe.
“Jane.”
She turned her head slowly and met the steady, reassuring gaze of the earl. He saw the strain on her face and quickly got up. “Mrs. Trent,” he said, “see that Ben drinks this.”
“What?” The housekeeper followed his gaze, noted her mistress’s expression, and hastened to obey.
On seeing Jane, Ben cried, “I tried to stop them taking Miss Drake away, honest I did, but they hurt my arm, and Miss Drake said she
wanted
to go home.”
Jane gathered herself enough to reply, “You did well, Ben.” Then anxiously to Case, “What’s this about his arm?”
Case removed her gloves, coat, and cap, led her to a chair at the table, and pushed her into it. His voice was matter-of-fact. “His arm was out of joint. I had to reset it. It was painful, but only for a moment or two. And after a good night’s rest, he’ll be more like himself. He’s fine, Jane, so stop worrying.”
Her huge eyes met his, then moved to Ben. He wasn’t keen on swallowing the marmalade tea, but he screwed up his face and did it manfully. Only then did his grandmother set the cup aside and pull the covers over him. Jane swallowed hard.
As she studied Ben, Case studied her. He hadn’t known that her hair was so long or so fair. Now that he’d removed the hideous cap that covered it, it fell in waves to her shoulders. There was a smudge of dirt on one cheek and her gown was mired in mud along the hem.
It seemed incredible to him now that she’d been attending the opera regularly with Sally Latham, yet he hadn’t noticed her until last Wednesday. He felt as though his worldview had shifted dramatically. He didn’t know whether she was beautiful or not. What he did know was that fashion plate or country dowd, spitfire or damsel in distress, she was utterly compelling.
He picked up the cup of marmalade tea, curled her fingers around it, and told her to drink. That she obeyed him automatically told him how shaken she was. After a few mouthfuls of Mrs. Trent’s elixir, however, she began to show signs of regaining her equilibrium. Her spine straightened, her
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