She carefully painted another flower head, then looked back, he must have slept for more than hour, perhaps even two, she had not looked at the clock. He had appeared exhausted, though, and he was still paler than normal. The sunshine was rapidly advancing towards his face. It would disturb him if it shone on to his eyes.
A huff of sound left her throat as she set down her brush, while her inner voice complained over the need to leave her painting as she rose and walked across the room to the window, to close the shutters. Of course it would affect the light she had to work by, but he had looked exhausted.
Samson woke and his head lifted, slipping away from Henry’s fingers, as he watched her cross the room. She walked over to him, rather than to the window. He did not rise, so she leant to stroke his head. “You foolish, dog,” she whispered. “To save your loyalty for such a man.” Yet animals were like that, they had no judgement of one’s character, if you treated them well, they treated you well.
The cuff of the loose shirt sleeve covering Henry’s good arm had been caught up when he’d moved his arm from above his head, and it had slipped upwards. She noticed dark and vivid, vicious looking bruises that she had not seen from across the room. His shirt had also fallen open into a wide v at his chest, without a neckcloth to hold the collar closed. She could see the little dent at the base of his throat and the first shape of his chest and a sprinkling of dark hair and more nasty bruises.
Her mouth was suddenly dry, and an odd cramp gently tightened the muscles in her stomach. She had always been pulled to the protection of injured things, the sight of something in pain always caught her hard in the middle with a feeling of sickness. Yet this was Henry. Guilt washed across her thoughts. She had been rude to him. She had not cared about his injuries. She had thought that he’d been exaggerating, yet now she could see he had not been.
Her stomach twisted as she looked at his face, with regret. Samson rose and sat beside her, so that she would stroke his head again.
But it was more than a feeling of nausea over the sight of his injuries. Just as she admired the flowers, or the detail in the wings of a butterfly, she admired Henry’s face.
She turned away.
It was definitely not a good thing to look at Henry and feel any sort of liking. She did not want to think him attractive. When he was awake she had no liking for him at all and it was better for things to be like that, he was to be her brother-in-law, and as no one thought her beautiful it was very likely that she would live here in her later life, dependent upon him, as Alethea’s spinster sister. Her father’s property was entailed so when her father passed away her home would be given to a cousin and she would have no choice but to rely upon Henry’s generosity.
He moved behind her.
She stopped and looked back.
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 definitely not merely come home to act the invalid, then; he had been seriously injured. The pull of sympathy clasped her.
It annoyed her. She did not wish to feel it for Henry. He did not deserve it. He had done this to himself.
She turned away, 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 lower shutters over that too so that 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, and his blood raced in a fast pace through the vein she could see pulsing beside the little dent next to his clavicle at the base of his throat.
“No. I closed the shutters so the sunlight would not wake you, then you started dreaming and woke up anyway.”
He let her wrist 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, wry smile, very slightly lifting his poorly arm. “Do I look well?”
“Did you dream of your accident?”
“Yes.” It was said with a sigh and a pained look. He gave her a more real smile. “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 away from him 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 a mood to go into verbal battle.
She sat down behind the desk and picked up her paint brush.
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 that she’d closed. Again she had 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, then wiped it on the rag beside her, before dipping 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 have 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 life-like depth. I know I shall never be—”
The ignorant oaf laughed.
Susan’s eyebrows lifted. He could be so arrogant!
“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 sarcastically, as he walked away. She smiled to herself. She preferred him awake. She felt better with things as 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,