Page 23 of To Heal a Broken Earl (The Rakes of Mayhem #7)
“Damn and blast!” Michael muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Frustrated, he watched her walk toward the manor house through the open window in the stable room.
Finn looked up at him and growled, something the normally happy-go-lucky dog never did. And did Finn just shake his head at him?
“I know. I’m an idiot,” he said.
Finn cocked his head and gave an indignant woof.
“I deserve that and the pain I’m experiencing,” Michael said as he bent to rub his leg. Working on rebuilding the crumbled parts of the wall over the past two days had only compounded the twisting pain in his thigh. “It seems even my bloody leg agrees.”
Finn nudged the middle jar with his nose and barked.
“You want me to smell it?” he said, picking up the jar.
Michael smiled as he inhaled the pleasant aroma of sandalwood with subtle hints of orange.
Not overpowering at all. “My God, she did it.” She had fixed the salve, making the scent pleasing.
It smelled fresh, not foul. “She did this for me,” he said with wonder.
He wouldn’t have a problem using the salve now, but he had no idea how to replicate it once he ran out.
Knowing Emma, she’d probably written it down. He’d have to ask her for the recipe.
After he apologized.
Why had he reacted the way he did? He’d humiliated her. He’d hurt her. And all she was trying to do was help him. She did all of this for me, and I practically bit her head off.
He’d seen the tears, the quivering lip, the hurt in her eyes just before she looked away and ran out of the stable.
I’m such a fool.
He’d let his pride take over, and now he’d hurt Emma…
Since his return to Society, he’d feigned indifference when it came to his injury and his very visible limp.
He’d acted as though he were unaffected because that was what men did.
Society tended to look down on war veterans who’d returned from battle with injuries, whether they were visible or invisible.
A friend of his, a fellow officer, and a second son to a duke, had come home minus an arm and blind in one eye.
His young wife had screamed and fainted when she saw him.
Since that day, they’d resided in separate homes.
He stayed at his country estate. She stayed in London.
Despite Michael’s stoic strength and declaration that he’d rather not attend ton functions because of the frivolous nature of debutantes and their overbearing, matchmaking mamas—especially now that he was an earl—he’d been expected to attend balls, but he doubted anyone would appreciate his dragging his leg across the dance floor.
Before he had been captured and tortured, he had been a very capable dancer.
Some women had even gushed about his ability to practically glide across the dance floor.
But no more. His pronounced limp ensured he would be the least appealing partner for any ton event.
Realizing this, he’d avoided Society. It was part of the reason he’d left London.
If he weren’t there, no one would invite him.
Deep down he didn’t think he would ever meet a woman who wouldn’t be shocked or, worse, feel revulsion over his twisted and scarred leg.
For that reason, he had decided never to marry.
He couldn’t. No woman would want a man with a mangled leg that would require attention when the pain became unbearable.
And then he’d met Emma.
His thoughts turned to that memorable morning in the attic.
Together, they had sifted through every trunk and looked at every piece of furniture, searching for the perfect items that would help them restore the neglected beauty of the manor house.
They’d talked excitedly about the memorabilia and trinkets they found, guessing what they might have meant to those original occupants.
Her enthusiasm had been infectious and seemingly driven by a desire to please him.
He recalled the wedding veil she’d found and how his thoughts had taken flight, imagining her wearing that veil as she walked down the aisle toward him.
Last night, he’d dreamed he was twirling Emma around a gleaming ballroom floor, where crystal chandeliers sparkled like stars against a beautiful moonlit sky.
He’d pictured her in an exquisite pink gown, the very one he had seen her wearing earlier that afternoon.
Her brilliant smile had lit up the room, and her gorgeous violet eyes had gazed adoringly up at him, glowing with wonderment and joy, as if he were the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes once more, and he could almost feel her presence, her intoxicating, sweet jasmine scent enveloping his senses like a warm embrace, stirring desires and emotions from deep within his heart—emotions unlike anything he had ever felt.
He held up the jar once more and inhaled the subtle fragrance.
He had to make this right.
He replayed his words—his tone, his dismissive attitude, and his accusation that she didn’t like the smell. Hell! No one liked the smell, most especially him. After all, who wanted to smell like a dead animal allowed to lie fallow in the sun for days?
“We have to fix this, Finn,” he said, looking down at the dog and rubbing its head. “You should have stopped me from making such an arse of myself.”
The dog cocked his head to the side and gave him a quizzical look .
“I know. It’s not your mess. But perhaps you can take pity on me and help me.”
His traitorous dog yawned.
“So, I see that’s a no,” Michael said, raising an eyebrow.
“Honestly, Finn, I can’t blame you. But look what I have.
” He took a small biscuit from his pocket and handed it to the dog, who, rather than take it like he usually did, stared at it as if Michael had asked him to dance. “It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly.
Finn blinked but didn’t take the biscuit, as if Michael had handed the dog a plate of cooked spinach.
How am I going to fix this? Stuffing the biscuit back in his pocket, he began to walk away, and a tightness gripped his heart.
Doubts clouded his mind as he pondered what to do.
The weight of uncertainty felt like a familiar yoke around his neck, and the fear of failure and embarrassment loomed over him. Each step he took felt heavier.
I need to do something, but what? And can I repair this without making it worse?
~*~