“Don’t be a dashed idiot, man,” Cam said impatiently from somewhere above Simon’s left shoulder. “The affair is over. You’ve drawn blood. Honor is satisfied.”
“Mr. Metcalf, I insist upon inspecting the wound.” It was the doctor, a small, rotund man in a black hat that sat low over his brow. He’d struck Simon as an officious weasel when they’d met and his pompous manner now confirmed that impression.
“Of course.” Simon leaned back upon Lydia, who seemed to have settled herself on her knees behind him. He kept losing odd seconds, although now that he wasn’t struggling to stand, he felt more alert. He wanted to warn her that she’d be covered in mud if she wasn’t careful, not to mention getting blood on that deuced elegant green gown, but the world receded before he could speak.
“Simon, how badly are you hurt?” He floated back to reality to hear the effort she made to keep her voice even. The soft body behind him trembled, but she did her best to hide her fear.
Brave Lydia. She was a woman any man would be proud to call wife. As tenderly as a mother cradled a baby, she held him against her, propping him up. Even through crippling pain, he gloried in her embrace. An hour ago, he’d believed he’d never see her again. He still could hardly credit that he’d survived the morning.
Damn it, whatever damage the bullet had done, he intended to cheat death. Twice now he’d parted from Lydia without expectation of a reunion. He couldn’t leave her again.
“I suspect I’ll live.” He grunted as he positioned himself more conveniently and inadvertently jostled his wounded arm.
Hell’s bells.
He bit down hard and stifled the urge to curse like a sailor. Good Lord, he hoped he lived. Suddenly the future offered a thousand glowing opportunities. Turning up his toes at this stage would be such a blasted letdown. For a man who was bleeding like a damned cataract, he felt ridiculously happy.
“Let me be the judge of that, sir,” the doctor said repressively.
Simon’s momentary satisfaction shifted to vermilion agony as the sawbones ripped away his shirtsleeve. Blackness edged his vision and every muscle contracted in protest.
“Oh…” He heard Lydia’s horrified gasp from above and turned his head into her bosom. She clutched him to her as if she never wanted to leave him again. He had no argument with that. He just wished he could get rid of this bloody menagerie of onlookers so he could tell her so.
“Is it that bad?” he asked unsteadily after drawing a breath laden with her scent. She smelled warm and sensual, as she had when he’d so reluctantly left her this morning in his bed.
“There’s… there’s an awful lot of blood.” Her voice was thin. She didn’t sound at all like the virago who had told Berwick to be quiet.
“The bullet appears to have merely nicked you, Mr. Metcalf. You’ve been exceedingly lucky. I need to clean the wound and dress it with basilicum powder before binding. Then I recommend several days of bed rest. Shall I commence?”
“By all means, doctor.” Simon’s answer was muffled against Lydia’s soft breast. Beneath his cheek, the silk was cool and slippery. Even if Berwick’s bullet had found its target, Simon had a fancy he’d come back to life as long as Lydia kept him close.
“Don’t hurt him,” Lydia said, her arms tightening protectively.
“It is not my habit to cause my patients undue suffering, madam,” the doctor said on a snap. Simon raised his head to watch the doctor reach into his bag for a cloth and alcohol.
“Lady Lydia, I cannot approve your actions,” Berwick said, looming over her. “Your behavior, both last night and this morning, reveals a lamentable lack of decorum.”
“This is neither time nor place for this discussion,” Cam said in his ducal voice, but for once, nobody heeded him. Simon beat back the giddiness and reluctantly straightened far enough away from Lydia to present his arm for treatment.
As the doctor fussed, Simon watched Lydia. And watched Grenville for any signs of last night’s dangerous temper. If the blackguard raised a hand to her, murder might yet be done in this isolated field.
“Grenville, I’ve done you so many wrongs, I hardly know where to start,” Lydia said in a rusty voice, staring up at the baronet.
Good God, she couldn’t mean to apologize to the villain, could she? “Lydia, you can’t marry this man, not now,” Simon said emphatically.
His pride revolted at facing his enemy struck low and clinging to a woman. Jerkily, he struggled to stand, although the sudden movement sliced through him like a saber.
“Mr. Metcalf, if you please.” The doctor tugged him back onto the damp ground with a jolt that made his pain spike. Then more pain as the fellow plastered the wound with a wet rag covered in what felt like boiling acid. “And, madam, I would have better access to my patient if you would shift away.”
“Lydia, don’t go,” Simon demanded, ignoring the doctor. He could wait no longer. Privacy could go to Hades. He caught her hand as she moved to obey the doctor’s command. “Do you intend to marry this blackguard?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Berwick huffed, looming over them like a peevish mountain.
“Simon, can we wait until we’re alone?” Lydia asked nervously, glancing at their audience; Cam, the doctor, and the fuming Sir Grenville.
“Damn it, Lydia, we need to sort this out now.”
She snatched away from his hold, although she didn’t leave him. “Well, as you insist upon making our confidential business public, I’ll tell you that of course I’m not going to marry him.” Her color rising, she twisted to meet Simon’s stare. Her fists closed in her lap as if she wanted to punch someone. “And you know why.”