The rest of the men weren’t so kind, brushing her with their silent disapproval and more lurid thoughts.
‘How can I be of assistance?’ Sir Warren prodded, snapping her out of her surprise.
‘You must come at once. Lady Ellington has cut herself badly and needs your help.’ She reached out, ready to pull him along to the study before she dropped her hand. To touch a man, even innocently, was to encourage him and she needed his assistance, not his ardour.
His smile faded like the last flame licking at a coal in a fireplace. He slid a glance to Mr Hirst. It was a wary, troubled look like the ones Mr and Mrs Smith used to exchange during Marianne’s first month at their house when they’d been forced to tell her Madame de Badeau still hadn’t written.
Hollow disappointment crept into her already knotted stomach. Sir Warren wasn’t going to help her. Like every other reputable gentleman, he’d swiftly but politely decline any involvement with her before rushing across the room to avoid the taint of her and her reputation.
How petty.
She opened her mouth to shout him down for not having the decency to rouse himself from propriety long enough to help an ailing woman, but he spoke first.
‘I’ll see to her at once.’ Sir Warren motioned to the door. ‘Please, lead the way.’
She clamped her mouth shut, near dizzy with relief as she hurried back across the dining room, keenly aware of his steady steps behind her.
‘You there, lead us to the study.’ She snapped her fingers at the footman, afraid she wouldn’t remember the way and waste more time heading down pointless hallways.
The footman jumped at the command, walking briskly in front of them as Marianne and Sir Warren followed him out of the dining room.
‘What happened?’ Sir Warren asked in a voice as rich as the low A note held down on the pianoforte.
Marianne twisted her hands in front of her, noting the hard faces of the women watching them from the sitting-room doorway. ‘She cut herself on a broken porcelain bowl.’
Sir Warren jerked to a halt in the hallway as if he were about to change his mind.
‘Your mother said you could help,’ Marianne encouraged, afraid to lose him now and in front of the sneering women.
‘Yes, of course.’ He lost his hesitation and they resumed their steady pace.
They approached the ladies clustered behind Lady Cartwright and her imperious scowl. Their whispers ceased as Marianne and Sir Warren passed, and Marianne could practically hear the scandal wicking through the countryside. She could stop and explain, but there was no point in wasting the breath or time. Some might understand and forgive her. The rest wouldn’t be so charitable even if she were summoning help for the Archbishop of Canterbury.
‘It’s just the type of inappropriate behaviour I’d expect from someone related to Madame de Badeau,’ Lady Cartwright’s barely concealed voice carried down the hall behind them.
‘She should be ashamed of herself,’ Lady Astley whispered.
Marianne winced, expecting their censure to make Sir Warren change his mind about assisting her. To her astonishment, he turned and strode back to their hostess.
‘Lady Cartwright, would you be so kind as to fetch a sewing kit, a roll of linen, a few towels and vinegar and see them delivered to the study. Lady Ellington has been seriously injured and I need the items.’
Lady Cartwright’s long face dropped as the crow finally grasped the urgency of the situation. ‘Of course, I’ll have the housekeeper see to it at once.’
She grabbed the skirt of her dress and fluttered off in the opposite direction, leaving her daughter and the rest of the ladies to huddle and whisper.
Sir Warren returned to Marianne. ‘Shall we?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Marianne started off again, amazed at his command of Lady Cartwright and the alacrity with which he’d defended her. She wished she possessed the power to wipe the nasty sneers from the women’s faces. After four years, most of the country families still believed she was as bad as the late Madame de Badeau. They couldn’t see past all of the dead woman’s scandals to realise Marianne, despite having the woman’s blood in her veins, wasn’t a brazen tart like her.
‘Does Lady Ellington have a strong constitution?’ Sir Warren asked as they turned the corner.
‘The strongest.’
‘You’re sure? It’ll matter a great deal to her recovery if the wound is deep.’
‘I’m quite sure. I reside with her. She’s my friend.’ And almost the only person who’d accepted her once the scandal with Madame de Badeau had spread. Her support, and the influence of her nephew and his wife, the Marquess and Marchioness of Falconbridge, stood between Marianne and complete isolation from society.
As they continued on to the study, Sir Warren’s presence played on her like a fine piano sonata. She’d never been so conscious of a man before, at least not one who wasn’t ogling her from across a room. He didn’t glance at her once as they crossed the hallway and he hadn’t been inappropriate in his regard, not even when she’d first faced him in the dining room. She wondered at the strange awareness of him and if it meant the penchant for ruin did linger inside her, waiting for the right man to bring it out. After all, Madame de Badeau had been in control of herself for many years, until the thought of losing Lord Falconbridge had pushed her to near madness. If it did exist in Marianne, she’d stand strong against it, as she had all Madame de Badeau’s wickedness, and make sure it never ruled her.
At last, the study door came into sight and she forgot Sir Warren as she focused on her friend.
‘Stay here in case we need you,’ Sir Warren instructed the footman and the man took up his place along the wall.
Marianne hurried forward, eager to know if Lady Ellington was any better or worse, but Sir Warren’s hand on her upper arm brought her to a halt. He gripped her lightly, drawing her back to him. She whirled to face him, fingers curling into a fist, ready to strike him like she used to the lecherous men at Madame de Badeau’s, but the melancholy shadow covering his expression made her hand relax.
‘Miss?’ he asked, the question as soft as his pulse flickering against her skin.
‘Domville.’ She braced herself, expecting recognition to ripple through his eyes and make him recoil from her.
It never came.
‘Miss Domville, I’ll do all I can for Lady Ellington, but you must understand how small an arsenal I possess against the chance of inflammation.’
Marianne began to tremble. ‘Are you saying this to scare me? Because I assure you, I’m already frightened.’
He slid his thumb along her skin, the gesture subtle but comforting, soothing her in a way she’d craved so many times during her childhood at the Protestant School and in the face of Madame de Badeau’s callousness. Deep in the back of her mind, the raspy voice of experience urged her to pull away. She’d learned years ago not to seek solace in others or to accept so familiar a touch from a man. Both were the quickest paths to disappointment. For the first time, for no logical reason she could discern, she ignored the voice and experience.
‘I’m saying this because I have no desire to deceive you about the strength of my skills, or those of any man of my former profession,’ he explained. ‘We’re helpless against everything but the most minor of ailments. Even those outdo us from time to time. It’s a truth many medical men are loath to admit.’
There seemed more to his admission than a need to discredit himself. Something about his past in medicine drove him to speak when most physicians would be pushing expensive and useless treatments