With some thought of helping her, he followed her inside in time to see her hobble down a corridor and slip through a doorway. Curious as to what she was about, he pursued her.
She had taken refuge in the library, of all places, Jack realized upon pausing at the threshold. A table lamp had been lit, no doubt for the convenience of the ball guests, and Jack watched as Miss Fortin sank gratefully onto the sofa nearest the lamp.
Bending down, she raised her skirts to her knees, then removed her left dancing slipper and stocking. She muttered something inaudible before taking off her mask, perhaps the better to see as she examined her aching toes.
When she grimaced again, Jack stepped forward. “May I be of assistance, Miss Fortin?”
She gave a start of surprise and eyed him warily as he crossed the room to her. Without waiting for her agreement, Jack knelt before her and took her bare foot in his hands.
“Allow me,” he said, ignoring her sharply indrawn breath at his boldness.
Her smallest toe was bleeding, he could see. “Does it
hurt to bend it?” he asked, gently prodding.
“Yes, but not excruciatingly so.”
“Then it is only bruised, not broken,” he pronounced. “It should heal in a week or so. Trust me, I speak from experience, having been injured by many an iron-shod hoof in my youth.”
Finding the end of his waist sash, he tore off a strip of fabric and used the makeshift handkerchief to blot the blood on her toe.
“You can wrap this piece of cloth around your wound until you are able to fashion a proper bandage.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
At her genuine expression of appreciation, Jack made the mistake of looking up.
She had stunning eyes, he realized. Luminous and thickly lashed. A dark shade of blue that was almost violet.
Who had violet eyes? Jack thought irritably, struggling to resist her allure. This near, she was even more of an enchantress than he first realized, and his body reacted accordingly. The stab of desire that shot through him was as powerful as any he could remember.
In self-defense, he summoned a gruff voice. “Why did you allow Dunmore to trample your feet and half cripple you?” he demanded.
She had frozen at his nearness, but she looked taken aback by his inquiry. “I was being courteous, if you must know. It would have been unkind to point out his shortcomings. Dunmore cannot help it if he is a terrible dancer. Some people are cursed with two left feet.”
“I suppose his rank and fortune can excuse myriad deficiencies,” Jack said sardonically, intent on exposing her true motivation. “Isn’t that the chief reason for your compassion? And why you wish to marry him?”
She stared at him. “Not at all. The duke is actually a very kind man. I didn’t wish to hurt his feelings.”
At Jack’s skeptical silence, her gaze narrowed. “Why is it any of your concern?” When he didn’t answer, she made a demand of her own. “Who are you?”
Jack reached up to remove his own mask.
“You,” she exclaimed, obviously recognizing him. Oddly enough, she seemed relieved to learn his identity, rather than apprehensive as he’d expected. She settled back on the sofa and regarded him thoughtfully.
“I gather you know me?” he asked.
“Everyone knows of the scandalous Lord Jack Wilde.”
“But we have never met? I think I would remember you, Miss Fortin.”
“No, we have never met directly. I saw you at the Perrys’ ball earlier in the season, but you never noticed me.”
“I cannot imagine why,” he said honestly.
“Perhaps because I was dressed in white. You avoid debutantes like the plague.”
He grinned at that. “Ordinarily, yes.”