Page 6 of The Reckless Love of an Heir (The Marlow Family Secrets #4)

His bad arm shifted across his chest, moving the sling, as a sound of discomfort escaped his lips.

His shirt opened wider, sliding off his bad shoulder.

There was a large, much darker, almost entirely black bruise covering his shoulder, with yellow and redness at its edges.

He’d said he’d dislocated his shoulder; it must hurt considerably.

He had not merely come home to act the invalid, then; he had been seriously injured. The pull of sympathy clasped her.

That emotion annoyed her too. She did not wish to feel it for Henry. He had brought this upon himself.

She went to the window and closed the lower shutters, with Samson watching her.

He had not moved away from Henry. The shade half covered Henry to the top of his chest. She walked to the next window and closed the shutters over that too, so the shade covered all of him, then turned to go back to her painting.

Henry’s body suddenly jolted and a sound of discomfort escaped his throat. ‘Damn it!’ he shouted on a breath, but his eyes did not open. ‘Bloody hell! The horses! What of the horses?’ Another sound of pain escaped his throat as he moved as though to rise.

She walked over, unsure whether to leave him to his nightmare or wake him.

‘Fuck! The…’ His eyes opened and he sat up.

She turned away but he grasped her wrist.

‘Were you staring at me?’

He was breathing heavily.

‘No. I closed the shutters so the sunlight would not wake you, then you started dreaming and woke up anyway.’

He let her go, sighed and then twisted around to sit upright with both feet on the floor. Samson moved out of his way. His good elbow rested on his knee and his hand held his forehead as his bad arm lay in its sling on his thigh .

‘Are you unwell?’

He glanced up at her, and gave her a bitter smile, very slightly lifting his poorly arm. ‘Do I look well?’

‘Did you dream of your accident?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted with a sigh and a pained look. Then he smiled. ‘I thought my time had run out.’

Heat touched her cheeks as she felt Henry’s particular method of charm deployed.

It was still enchanting even when it was mocking.

He was too handsome when he smiled. She turned to go back to her painting, and avoid the sense of empathy which clawed at her.

‘It was your own fault, though, and I would guess you have still not learned the lesson and will race again.’

‘Probably,’ he answered, clearly not in the mood to go into verbal battle.

She sat down behind the desk and picked up her paintbrush.

He stood up, and his good arm stretched out as he yawned. He was standing in the sunlight which shone through the windows above the lower shutters she’d closed. Again she saw the perfect silhouette of his body beneath his shirt.

Embarrassment warmed her skin as she remembered all the bruises on him.

She washed out her brush in the small bowl of water, wiped it on the rag beside her, then dipped it in the paint to begin another petal. ‘Must you wear no waistcoat and morning coat? I’d prefer it if you wore more clothes if you are coming in here to sleep while I am working.’

He laughed. ‘Much as I would love to oblige you, as it is bloody agony to put either on, while I am at home I intend to make free of my comfort and abstain. You are lucky I bothered to put a shirt on so that I am decent at all.’ He walked across the room.

‘And it is only because Alethea was coming that I endured that feat.’ He stopped on the other side of the desk and looked down at her work. ‘That is a reasonable copy.’

She met his gaze. ‘Reasonable? I am proud of it. It is much better than I thought I could achieve. I have been studying how the illustrator has captured the shades to give the flower its lifelike depth. I know I shall never be?—’

The ignorant oaf laughed.

Susan’s eyebrows lifted.

‘Sorry, you are just such a ridiculous anomaly. You amuse me.’

‘If you are going to ridicule me, leave me in peace.’

‘I was not ridiculing you. I was admiring your efforts.’

‘By laughing at them?’

‘Never mind, Susan. I am too tired and in too much pain to fence words with you.’ He turned away. ‘Enjoy the rest of your afternoon painting.’

‘I shall!’ she called after him, as he walked away.

She smiled to herself. She preferred him awake.

She felt better when things were normal between them no matter how nice Henry looked when he was asleep, and she refused to be swayed by her sympathy for the rogue, even though she knew he was lucky to be alive – it was his own fault.

She and Alethea dined at Farnborough, and Aunt Jane invited them to stay rather than travel back and forth each day, but Alethea denied the offer because their mother would most likely prefer it if they did not entirely desert her.

Henry remained in dishabille for dinner.

He had a sickly pallor.

Susan watched as Alethea cut up his food so he could eat with one hand. His expression became awkward, and there was no glint in his eyes for her kindness and attention – not even a smile. Perhaps he really did not feel well .

Yet whether he did or not, it was not Susan’s concern.

She began a conversation with Christine who was sitting beside her.

Yet Susan’s gaze was repeatedly drawn back to Henry as he spoke to Alethea, and she could not stop noticing the small indent at the base of his throat and the dark hairs visible on his chest as she recalled the bruises hidden under his shirt.