Page 28

“ M iss Fernside!” Mrs. Chumley cried out, but Lark hardly heard a sound.

Pain seared throughout her body, inside and out. She could hardly think. She could hardly breathe. Her only instinct was to flee from the nettle as swiftly as possible.

She tried to stand, but her boots continually stepped on her hem, pulling her back down as the stinging became worse, her palms pressing further into the nettles.

Her whole body was aflame, the plants pressing their needled leaves past her stockings, gown, and long sleeves.

“Help her!” cried out another voice.

Lark winced again, another involuntary whimper escaping her lips as the flames spread down her neck, tears streaming down her burning cheeks.

She once again tried to stand, her breathing coming in shuddered waves, but her breath stopped altogether when strong hands encircled her waist and hoisted her to a standing position.

She stifled a sob, still struggling to comprehend what was going on due to the pain cutting off her logic.

She rubbed at her hands and face, trying to stop the stinging before those same arms from before wrapped around the back of her waist and the bend of her knees, scooping her up in a swift motion.

Gasping, Lark grasped onto a gentleman’s lapel, her opposite arm encircling broad shoulders, and suddenly, dread overcame her.

Mr. Branok. He’d hoisted her from the nettles and was now carrying her to safety.

Why, why had she wavered from the grass? And why did Mr. Branok rescue her, of all people? At this point, she would have preferred Mr. Chumley.

“We must take her home,” Mrs. Shepherd said, speaking from behind as she trailed after Mr. Branok and Lark.

“Yes, straight to the carriage,” Mrs. Chumley agreed.

Lark could not even protest if she wished to.

“What in Heaven’s name happened?” Mr. Chumley asked, coming up to join his wife, Mr. Shepherd not far behind. Mr. Dunn remained at the wall, face red with anger.

He and Mr. Chumley were no doubt fuming for Lark’s disruption, but at least Mr. Shepherd had the decency to be as concerned as the women.

Mrs. Chumley responded to her husband, though her whispers fell so silent, Lark could no longer hear them.

It was just as well. She could hardly comprehend their words anyway. Tears still trailed down her face, though with how hard she now bit her lower lip, her cries of pain had finally ceased.

That, and her pride refused to allow herself to be weak in front of Mr. Branok anymore than she’d already been. She could not bear the fact that he was carrying her so commandingly in his more-than-capable arms.

“I can walk,” she squeaked out to him as the others spoke behind her.

She attempted to raise her arm so it might not rest so heavily on his shoulders, but the stinging became more poignant as she moved.

Mr. Branok didn’t respond to her weak words. She glanced up at him, his jaw set, lips in a thin line, and brow furrowed.

Was he…angry? At her?

“Her face,” Mrs. Shepherd whispered, her voice trailing toward Lark. “Did you see the rash?”

“It’s all over,” Mrs. Chumley responded.

The invisible flames of pain lapped at Lark’s skin, and she peered down at her arm, swollen with white bumps and angry red welts. She could only imagine what her cheeks and neck looked like as the women had mentioned.

Humiliation rushed over her, not only at the thought of how she must appear, but also at having made such a mistake and disrupting the others in the process.

“You can put me down,” she attempted again with Mr. Branok. “I can walk.”

Once more, he did not reply. Was he so utterly inconvenienced by her mistake that he could not manage a single word in response?

“Mr. Branok, how can we help?” asked Mrs. Chumley from behind.

“Yes, what can be done?” Mr. Shepherd asked.

“Dock leaves,” came Mr. Branok’s gruff reply as he continued carrying her toward the coaches. “They should be near the nettles. Broad, oblong leaves. They will not rid her of the pain entirely, but the sap will soothe the stinging.”

The two couples dispersed at once to gather the leaves, and while Lark appreciated their efforts, her pride smarted. So, Mr. Branok deigned to speak with everyone but Lark?

Another wave of fresh agony rushed over her, and she couldn’t help but squirm in pain.

“You knew the nettle was there,” Mr. Branok said brusquely.

Oh, so he could speak with her, then.

She frowned, dwelling on her anger instead of her pain. Why in Heaven’s name had the coaches parked so far away? This was taking an eternity, even with the gentleman’s long stride.

“I was distracted by the redstart,” she mumbled weakly in her defense.

“Well, it is gone now.”

Her stomach fell. He was blaming her for the bird’s departure. In reality, it was her fault. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, a rogue tear slipping down her burning cheek.

“You should have been more watchful.”

“We have the leaves,” Mr. Shepherd said, returning to them so Lark could not respond to Mr. Branok’s insensitive words.

Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Chumley rushed forward with more leaves in their hands, though Mr. Chumley remained behind in a weak search for more.

“Mrs. Shepherd and I can apply them in the carriage,” Mrs. Chumley said. “Mr. Branok, you must accompany us home so you might carry Miss Fernside to her bedchamber.”

Lark would have laughed had she not been on the verge of sobbing.

There was no chance she would allow him to ride in the carriage with her while the women saw to her rashes—rashes that had reached more places than any of them had obviously suspected.

And even if he took a separate carriage, she would never allow him to pick her up again.

The others behind them spoke in hushed tones about calling for a doctor, and Mr. Chumley finally caught up with them with a single dock leaf he extended to his wife.

Lark shook her head, though she knew no one would listen. “I do not need to be carried,” she managed, blinking through her tears. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“Are you?” Mr. Branok muttered under his breath for only her to hear.

She scowled up at him in shock, his pointed slight cutting through her final defenses.

“Put me down,” she commanded at once.

“I cannot.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’d hate for you to fall in poison ivy next.”

Her mouth hung open as if on a broken hinge. She would have slapped him soundly across his cheek if her limbs would have cooperated.

Of all the pretentious, pompous, presumptuous things to say.

With all that was left of her will, she removed her arm from around his shoulder and firmly pressed both hands against his chest, squirming until he had no choice but to drop her feet to the ground.

She landed with as much decorum as possible, straightening as she ignored the looks of surprise from the others behind Mr. Branok. He glowered at her, hands fisted, chest rising and falling from strain and no doubt frustration.

Facing him with a raised chin, though she knew what a sight she must be, Lark spoke in even tones.

“I am well enough to walk. To the coach and to my bedchamber. I do not require the assistance of any gentleman, although I will gladly accept Mrs. Chumley and Mrs. Shepherd’s care on the return journey. Thank you.”

She shot Mr. Branok a pointed look, refusing to feel an ounce of remorse for her sharp words this time, and turned on her heel to make the rest of the way to the carriage herself.

Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Chumley followed behind her in silence, but Lark did not face them. She could not. For if she did, she would have revealed the silent cries now escaping her lips as her pain and humiliation overcame her.

Henry berated himself as the carriage rolled away with the women tucked safely inside.

He should have been more aware. He should have been watching Miss Fernside closer to ensure she did not wander toward the nettle. This was all his fault.

“Women,” Mr. Chumley grumbled, shaking his head as he and Mr. Shepherd came to stand beside Henry. “Lord Blackstone has it right. Mark my words, Mr. Branok, I shan’t ever allow them on another excursion.”

Henry grimaced, remaining silent in response as he pulled his stinging hands behind his back. In retrieving Miss Fernside from the nettles, he’d been caught by a few, but his pain was surely nothing compared to the agony Miss Fernside experienced.

“I’m sorry about all this, gentlemen,” Mr. Chumley continued. “That redstart will never return after Miss Fernside’s hysterics.”

Mr. Shepherd didn’t respond, looking away in slight discomfort, but Henry’s frown grew.

Hysterics? The woman had been in unimaginable amounts of pain.

In truth, she’d held it together remarkably well.

Far better than Henry had his guilt. Then he’d had the audacity to chastise her, attempting to deflect his clear culpability toward her excited distraction with the bird.

“Are you truly upset, Mr. Branok?” Mr. Chumley asked, misreading Henry’s silence.

“Not at all,” Henry stated. “And there is no need to apologize.”

“I beg to differ. The woman scared off the bird we’ve been waiting to see for days.”

“We all saw it, did we not?” Henry countered.

“We did,” Mr. Shepherd said. “And it was remarkable.”

“But what of the others?” Mr. Chumley began. “The redstart would have stayed for longer, allowing the Kay brothers and Mr. Gibbon to see it, as well.”

Henry remained silent. No one could have guessed how long the redstart would remain. Mr. Chumley was simply being fussy.

“How often she disrupts matters,” the man continued. “She promised she would remain unnoticed, but she is failing miserably thus far, I daresay. Mr. and Mrs. Haskett are becoming quite a nuisance, as well, being unable to chaperone their own niece so often.”

Henry gave a little shake of his head. He couldn’t bear this much longer. He needed to clear his mind. More than anything, he needed space from Mr. Chumley and his incessant speaking.

Ever since Henry had distanced himself from Miss Fernside—attempting to make it easier on his conscience after he’d clearly crossed the line of propriety—Mr. Chumley had seized him at every opportunity, and Henry had allowed it.

He’d hoped the man’s conversation would be a nice distraction, but it proved to be nothing short of exhausting.

Especially while attempting to observe birds.

“The Hasketts can hardly be blamed for falling ill when they travel,” Mr. Shepherd said. “And your wife seems more than happy to help in chaperoning. I know Mrs. Shepherd would be, as well.”

“Yes,” Mr. Chumley agreed moodily. “But that is also disruptive. Only today, our travel arrangements have been made to shift drastically. But worry not, gentlemen. I’m minded to find a way to convince Miss Fernside to end her time with us before the Lake District.

Imagine what a peaceful experience that will be without her. ”

Disgust gurgled in Henry’s chest like boiling mud. Miss Fernside had behaved more like herself in the last week than she ever had—and she’d seemed quite confident that no matter what she did, Mr. Chumley no longer held power over her.

But then, what if he did? What if Mr. Chumley found a way to expel her from the excursion? Henry would never forgive himself.

He never should have allowed the kiss between him and Miss Fernside to nearly occur.

But more than anything, he never should have ignored her as he had the last few days.

He’d thought perhaps he could convince himself that he’d imagined the connection and attraction between them, but being away from her only proved that whatever he felt for Miss Fernside was growing—whether he liked it or not.

Mr. Chumley might experience peace without her. But if Henry had learned anything in the last week of avoiding her, it was that all excursions from this point forward without Miss Fernside would be decidedly lacking.

And he was still coming to terms with what exactly that meant.

“I think my wife and yours would be terribly sorry if that happened,” Mr. Shepherd said carefully.

“I suppose,” Mr. Chumley grumbled. “But they are not the only ones whose thoughts and opinions should be taken into account.” He shifted toward Henry. “What say you, Mr. Branok?”

Henry rubbed at his burning hands once again. “Frankly?”

Mr. Chumley gestured for him to continue.

“Very well, frankly, Mr. Chumley, I believe your frustrations with the woman ought to be laid to rest. She is not disrupting matters.”

Unless he was referring to matters of Henry’s heart.

“I beg to differ, sir,” Mr. Chumley protested. “What of the way she instructed you today? You cannot tell me you appreciated it.”

“I did,” Henry replied. “One needs correction when one is wrong.”

He gave Mr. Chumley a knowing look, and the man narrowed his eyes a fraction, as if wondering if Henry was speaking of him.

He was.

Henry continued, “I would far prefer her instructing me than the possibility of me relaying false information. I, for one, am glad she spoke up. At any rate, she has just as much right as anyone to be on this trip. She paid the same as the others, did she not?”

Mr. Chumley averted his gaze. “Yes, quite right. Quite right.”

He fell silent, then, clearly knowing he was losing the conversation.

Mr. Chumley and Mr. Shepherd soon wandered back to Mr. Dunn, but Henry excused himself.

He couldn’t take a moment longer of the diatribe against Miss Fernside—especially what would inevitably come from Mr. Dunn.

Henry would rather walk home on his own—a solid two-hour-jaunt—then spend a second more in their company.

So that was precisely what he did.

Finding dock leaves along the way to soothe his hands, he allowed his mind to return to Miss Fernside and the pain she must still be in—not only from the nettles but from his treatment of her.

She’d been so generous to encourage him to share his own side of the rumors about his name. But he’d behaved abysmally, telling her he would not injure a woman when, in the next second, he had injured her.

Nearly kissing her with no intention of marrying her. Slighting her when she tried to be his friend. Criticizing her for a simple distracted mistake. What had he been thinking?

He obviously hadn’t been, and that was the problem.

But he was thinking now. And he knew what he needed to do. He needed to make this right. To apologize for ignoring her and injuring her. And he needed to do it right now.