Page 1

CHAPTER ONE

Matthew Berringer, Earl of Hadleigh, fought against the encroaching brightness, wanting more than anything to slide back into oblivion. The pain bisecting his face kept him from the sweet bliss of sleep, and as his awareness increased, he couldn’t ignore the punches of pain in his torso.

He lifted a heavy hand to rub his chest, surprised when he felt a nightshirt, then the thick bandage beneath.

With effort, he brought his hand to his face and felt matching bandaging there, covering one cheek.

His fingers traced over stitches above it that ran up the bridge of his nose and between his eyes.

What the hell had happened to him?

His mind whirled with muddy images. Bits and pieces began to come back to him—flashes of searing agony and mocking words, falling to the ground, feeling life draining from his body. A booted foot pressed into his back and a harsh cockney voice. “The marquess sends his regards.”

With a vicious laugh and a kick in his side, he was left in a dirty alley, in agony and praying for death’s embrace.

His head pounded as he forced his eyes to open, blinking against the sunlight in the small room where he lay. The ceiling was a nondescript white. Turning his head, he groaned at the ensuing throb as he took in his surroundings.

The sparsely furnished room contained a gas lamp on a bedside table, a sturdy wardrobe, and a standing mirror in the corner. The one nod to excess was the bookcase, which overflowed with volumes.

The door quietly opened. Matthew lifted his head with great effort, regret flooding him when the throbbing increased. He squeezed his eyes shut and laid his head back on the pillow.

“You’re awake! Please don’t overexert yourself, sir. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.” Her voice was soft but decisive as she hurried to his side. Her calm command of the situation when he hadn’t yet gotten his bearings irritated him.

“My lord,” he bit out.

“I beg your pardon, sir? I am a woman, not a lord.”

Was she impertinent or merely stupid? He forced his eyes open again to see plain brown hair, brown eyes, and a brown dress.

Everything about her was plain. Her pitying expression pricked his ego.

It wasn’t maddening enough to be bedridden and in agony; now he’d engendered pity from this plain little mouse.

“No, you simpleton. I am an earl and am to be addressed as ‘my lord,’ not ‘sir.’” His throat was parched and it had cost him to speak so many words.

“Quite so, my lord. I should hate to address you improperly. In turn, my correct address is Miss Stanley, not ‘you simpleton.’”

Had he imagined the flash of amusement on her face at his response? He peered closely but her look betrayed nothing. Except for the sparkle in her eyes, which he would swear was new. He clenched his jaw and remained silent.

Matthew flinched when her hand reached toward him and she froze.

“I’m only checking to see if you are still free from fever. For several days, you burned so hot we feared we would lose you. May I?”

Miss Stanley waited for him to respond. At his curt nod, she laid her palm to his forehead with a feather-light touch.

“Your temperature still feels normal.”

“How long?” he asked.

“How long have you been here? Or how long were you feverish? You came to us four days ago. A parishioner discovered you and brought you to us early Sunday. I cleaned you up and stitched your wounds.

“You developed a fever overnight, which didn’t break until yesterday. I’ve been checking you every few hours to confirm it hadn’t returned.”

“Why?”

She eyed him curiously. “A fever returning could have proved fatal. If your body was unable to fight off infection, you would have succumbed to your wounds.”

He shook his head slightly, clenching his eyes shut when his head throbbed. “No, why help me?”

Miss Stanley was silent for a moment. She sounded strange when she spoke. “Because you’re a person who needed help. How could we not provide it?”

He thought of any number of people who would have happily let him perish.

When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “I’ll bring you some bone broth, my lord. We’ve been able to get some water into you, but that’s all you’ve had since you joined us. You need nourishment to regain your strength, but overdo it and you’ll be ill.”

“You have a great deal of knowledge about nursing a grievously injured man back to health.”

“You’re not the first man who’s ended up on our doorstep in such a condition. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back with the broth, as well as some tea. Perhaps you’ll introduce yourself properly when I return.”

She exited the room, leaving behind the lingering scent of orange blossoms and his own indignation at her impertinent manner.

He disliked plain broth, but his request for hardier fare had been denied. The little mouse possessed fortitude in the face of his irritation as she held the spoon at the ready after propping him up with pillows.

“You’ll have something more substantial when the physician decides you are ready.”

The ache from the stitches bisecting his face throbbed anew at the mention of the physician. “Is he the one who stitched my wounds?”

Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, taking her from plain to passable. “I stitched them. The physician was unavailable, and you needed immediate care.”

He studied her, the urge to discomfit her overpowering. “You’ve seen me naked?”

Frowning, she flushed deeper. “I was far more concerned with saving your life, my lord, than noting the state of your clothing, or lack thereof.”

An uncomfortable sense of… something filled him. Might it be guilt? He hadn’t experienced the emotion in so long that it was unfamiliar.

“I apologize, Miss Stanley. I should not have responded to your kindness with coarseness. I am…out of practice in interacting with more genteel ladies.”

She appeared surprised. “I would expect an earl attends society functions. Do you not interact with them there?”

“I’m not particularly welcome by most members of society. Especially the gentlemen.”

He could tell she burned with curiosity, but she chose not to question him. Instead, she began to spoon the broth into his mouth, ignoring his protestations that he could feed himself.

“You need to conserve your strength. Now hush, my lord, and drink this broth before I send for the blacksmith and have him hold you while I pour it down your throat.”