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Well, he could, actually. Hadn’t they always been like this? Except, unlike when they’d first met, he no longer saw their sparring as an annoyance. Instead, seeing Emily before him, irritable, stubborn, andalive, he felt himself vibrate with thatemotion that had been creeping into him for weeks now, the thing he hadn’t dared recognize, let alone name.

Its identity seemed obvious now. Leaving it unspoken would be the act of a fool, and Benedict might be stubborn, but he was no fool.

Even if he did, every so often, let himself be a bit ridiculous over his wife. But who could blame him, really?

“You’re speaking to a physician,” she told him imperiously.

He scoffed—which was, incidentally, the same reaction a physician would have if a man like Benedict came to him over a mere bump on the arm.

“Youare speaking to a physician,” he countered. “You’ve been stabbed.”

“I wasscratched!”

“Scratches,” he said, “can grow infected.”

She rolled her eyes, the little minx. “So, next time I prick my finger on an embroidery needle, should I seek immediate medical attention?” Her tone was smug, as if this was a deciding answer.

“Splendid idea,” Benedict returned with a saccharine smile. “So glad you’ve suggested it.”

“You are not funny,” she informed him.

“I’m not joking. Step to, now. Let’s go home and summon the doctor.”

“I shall see a doctor if you do as well,” she wheedled.

“Done,” Benedict said, leading her out of the parlor and towards the front door. The servants of the household had abandoned any pretense of doing their jobs, instead just staring, slack-jawed at the exiting lord and lady. Benedict supposed he couldn’t blame them. “But you’re going first.”

“Not on your life!” Emily exclaimed. “You’re going first.”

“I am not; you are.”

They boarded their carriage, and the Earl and Countess of Moore returned home, happily arguing the entire way.

CHAPTER 24

Benedict won, in the end.

“I find it best,” murmured Doctor Forrester kindly as he dabbed at the scratch on Emily’s collarbone while Benedict watched gloweringly on, “in the case of an overwrought husband, just to give in. Consider it my medical advice. Men do like to fuss when they are smitten, but they rarely have any practice in how to do it properly.”

Emily, who had been focused on giving her husband a decidedly unimpressed look, startled and blinked at the doctor. “No, that’s not—he isn’tsmitten.”

“Hm,” said the doctor. Then he pulled back. “There you go. It’s too small to bandage, but I’ve cleaned it now, so you should be safe from any threat of infection.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Benedict considered to glower.

The doctor cast his eyes to the heavens, as if seeking divine patience…but Emily noticed that he waited until Benedict couldn’t see him to do so.

“Perhaps avoid any needlessly dirty locations until it’s healed. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after,” he added with a clearly patronizing air.

Emily stifled her smile.

She could not help but gloat the tiniest bit, however, when Benedict ended up with orders to keep his shoulder in a sling for atleasta week. Preferably two.

It was only her inherent grace and tact that kept her from rubbing that in her husband’s face with far more force. The poor dear was injured, after all.

When Doctor Forrester left, looking like a man who did not at all consider his time well spent, Emily pasted on the expression of a doting, concerned wife.

“Oh, stop it,” Benedict said. “I can see what you’re thinking.”

“Merely of your speedy recovery and good health, husband,” she said sweetly.