that he had seen rather than read her uncle’s articles. He was slightly better than a self-taught surgeon. Heat flushed through her, turning her palms sweaty. Lord St. Raven befuddled her.
Had she ever met such a charming personality? She could not recall, though, when one was dying on a battlefield, she doubted charm was of any importance.
But how very annoying to be almost swayed by this man’s smile, by his persistent eyes.
“No.” A high-pitched girl’s voice came from below stairs. “I insist on seeing him at once.” The shrill proclamation was followed by the patter of footsteps on the long, winding staircase that served as the centerpiece to Lady Brandewyne’s home.
Determined footsteps, Henrietta concluded. She put her back to the wall, bracing herself for the child about to burst into the room. Lord St. Raven regarded the entrance with interest, his arms propped on his knees.
The girl flew into the room. She was a wisp of a child and shot directly to the earl’s sickbed.
“Oh, Dom, how could you?” She threw herself against him, eliciting a pained grunt from the subject of her emotions. “First you leave me for months on end, and then you act the hero, taunting criminals until they chase you and leave you practically dead on the roadside, beaten to a bloody pulp by pernicious ruffians.”
Henrietta felt her eyebrows raising at this exclamation.
“I’d hardly call myself close to dead. Roughed up a bit, that’s all.”
“That is not what Jacks said.”
“Dear one, you’ve been listening in on adult conversations,” Lord St. Raven murmured, his hand patting the girl’s back, belying the censure in his tone.
“And I’ve had to deal with insipid servants all week. I declare, Dom, you are perfectly horrid to have left me by myself at St. Raven in the first place. You shall never leave me again.”
After that impassioned declaration, the child swiveled around and leveled a sharp look at Henrietta. She quickly smothered any existence of laughter.
“Who are you?” Eyes the same shade of emerald as the earl’s regarded her with distrust, but where his twinkled in immature mischief, hers were intensely serious.
A grudging admiration for her pluck rose within Henrietta. She inclined her head ever so slightly. “I am Miss Gordon.”
“You don’t look like a lady.”
“And you do not speak like one.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you to answer thus?” The imperious quality to her tone suggested an unfamiliarity with conflict from those she deemed less than her equals.
Henrietta squared her shoulders. This little girl did not bother her. After all, how many people had doubted her abilities as an adequate nurse? Men considered her silly and women accused her of misplaced priorities, going so far as to suggest she lacked femininity.
“My lord.” Lady Brandewyne came into the room, nursing a frown. “The girl refused to stay in the nurseries.”
“The girl has a name.” The child’s eyes blazed green fire.
Oh, the impertinence! These two were most certainly related.
For Lady Brandewyne’s part, she puffed up her chest, cheeks billowing with suppressed irritation. “What manner of child is this to speak so? Someone must take her in hand, at once.”
“Louise.” The earl placed his hand upon the bristling girl’s shoulder in a reproachful manner, but Henrietta did not miss the betraying quiver of his chin. She pressed her lips together to keep from uttering an ill-timed criticism. Or chuckle. “Go with Lady Brandewyne to the nursery, please.”
“The nursery? Why, I am practically upon my thirteenth year. The time for this nonsense has passed. You almost died. I cannot be apart from you any longer.”
At that, Louise’s eyes moistened and Henrietta felt a deep compassion overwhelm her. “Your father is quite healthy and should recover nicely as long as he rests these few days.”
She gave him another hug and then sailed past Henrietta with a toss of her head, in which the hair looked almost as unmanageable as the personality.
“Dom is not my father.”
* * *
Dominic sat back against the pillows, palming the sore place in his ribs and containing a wince. No need to let the dragon nurse in the man’s profession see his discomfort. How he loved Louise, but she’d exacerbated his pain in more than one way.
He could not let Barbara have her, but somehow he must find a way to be well again. To be a fit guardian.
“Are you in pain, my lord?” Miss Gordon edged near his bed while the doctor did something at the makeshift table they’d set up at the side of the room. “Can I offer you relief?”
“Now you’re solicitous,” he muttered. What an inconvenience this entire fiasco was. He’d been invited to several parties this week, but had sent his regrets. His past friends would never understand his illness. “When my valet has freshened up, send him to me.”
“I shall do so.” Her brisk tone left no doubt she would. That serious look on her face...did she ever laugh or make merry? He squinted up at her, scrunching his nose in such a way as to draw the lightest bit of humor to her dark eyes.
She did not smile, but an attractive blush stained her delicate skin. Almost too delicate, as though she’d been ill. He studied her more thoroughly as she turned to the doctor, murmuring in a low tone. Yes, her clothes hung a tad too loosely about her frame. They were not of the best quality, though certainly better than what a maid would wear.
He would know, as in the past he had made it his business to ensure his household was dressed to represent him. An illusion of perfection that, until the accident, he’d taken great joy in creating.
A groan caught up to him, gurgling inside. Louise. Whatever was he going to do with her? She absolutely hated his sister, Barbara. But could he really raise her when he had no idea of his future? If Barbara discovered his epilepsy, then he’d have a battle on his hands.
As though hearing the subject of his thoughts, Miss Gordon came back carrying a drink. “Who is the child?”
“What is this?” He took the cup, peering at the foul-smelling brew.
“Tea with a tincture of herbs to soothe the pain you’re in. The girl?”
The reiterated question was rude, yet Dominic found himself amused by her plain speaking. He sipped the tea, ignoring the wretched taste for the sake of his aching muscles.
“She is my niece,” he finally said, meeting Miss Gordon’s frank gaze. “Bequeathed to me last year when her parents died.”
“Bequeathed? What a terrible thing to say.”
“One more mark against me shall not make a difference. It is all adding up, is it not?”
“What is?”
