An Earl of her Own (Saints and Sinners 3)

“What’s wrong now?”

Lord Rafferty did not answer, and she really looked at his face then, overcome by fear. His normally expressive face grew slack of animation, and she quickly untied his cravat and set her fingers to his hot throat. He had hit the ground very hard. Rebecca found his pulse easily and counted the beats as her own heart steadied again.

His chest rose and fell with each breath, and that was somewhat reassuring. He had only fainted. “Typical of you to get the last word,” Rebecca grumbled. She scowled at him. “Wake up, my lord.”

When there was no response, Rebecca raised her hand and, wincing, delivered a light blow to his cheek.

The earl didn’t move a muscle, so she tried to rouse him with another. The harder blow jolted his head and, perhaps enjoying it too much, she slapped him a third time.

When he continued to ignore her existence in favor of remaining insensible, Rebecca wriggled around to kneel more comfortably and inspected his wound further. She reasoned that if he were out cold, he wouldn’t feel any pain from her probing.

The gash was troubling but thankfully bled very little. After cleaning out the dirt she could see in the wound, a few stitches would be needed to make him whole again. Lord Rafferty would have a sore head for a few days, but he wouldn’t feel the pain for long given the way he usually drank.

She grabbed his chin gently and turned his face toward hers. “You should never have suggested walking home when you were injured,” she grumbled. “Wake up, please.”

It did not weaken a man to show they needed help now and then. It proved them as human as any woman. However, Rafferty had put her safety above his own, and she owed him a debt of gratitude she could never repay. Because of that, Rebecca felt obligated to worry about his health.

She released his face slowly, brushing his smooth-shaven cheek with a gentle caress. “Don’t you dare die before I return. If you can’t walk back under your own steam, I’ll have to get help for you.”

She climbed to her feet and looked around. She could go back to the gravel drive but no doubt the grooms would still be reporting the accident to those at the manor. There seemed to be no one about on this part of her father’s estate right now, either. Annoyed that she’d most likely have a long walk, and would have to leave Rafferty alone, she turned back briefly. She would get the last word, whether he heard her or not.

“Lord Rafferty, I should like to inform you I do not appreciate your behavior toward me. You flirt, quite obviously jests at my expense and only uttered to humiliate me.” She stood straighter. “Please cease smirking at me, too. We both know you could not mean a word of any of it. If I did ever want a lover—and I’m not saying I’ve ever considered such a thing—I’d be more discreet than you know how to be. I am not so lonely that I’d fall into just anyone’s arms. After the humiliation Warner dealt me, carrying on with that servant, making me a laughingstock in my own home, and then dying, I trust no man besides those in my family, and perhaps Mr. Whitfield, since he will be family soon. We will always remain at odds, you and I.”

She frowned at that uncomfortable truth. Rafferty was often at Stapleton Manor visiting her father, and now so would she be. Not that anyone realized her circumstances had changed yet.

She ran her gaze over Rafferty’s long limbs and broad chest. His lungs continued to fill with reassuring regularity beneath a horrid silk waistcoat—one of many in his wardrobe, she assumed. “Also, I do not like your waistcoats. They are all hideous, like the one you wear today most assuredly is. Why you continue to dress like a preening peacock at your age is quite beyond my understanding. Do you not care that your reputation suffers for the garish nature of your clothing? I suppose you must not. If you had a wife, she would tell you that they hurt the eye.”

Rebecca took a deep breath, and then pressed her lips shut. Perhaps that was more words than she’d intended to ever speak to Lord Rafferty, but she did feel better for saying things she would usually have kept to herself.

She made sure to cover her bared shoulder with her shawl, and then, on second thought, tied it diagonally across her body to preserve her modesty. “I’ll bring help,” she promised as she strode off.

After a brisk walk directly toward the manor through the avenue of tall trees, she saw her father racing toward her. She waved, and he altered course to intercept her. “What has become of Rafferty?”

“He’s injured.”

Father groaned. “What did you do to him?”

She looked at her father in astonishment. “I didn’t hurt him. He must have struck his head when he threw himself out of the carriage.”

Father’s eyes grew round, and he grabbed her hands, turn

ing them up for inspection. Rafferty’s blood was on the tips of her fingers. “Dear God, are you bleeding?”

“No. It’s Rafferty’s.” She nodded. “He has fainted, too. I suspect he was dizzy at the scene of the accident but refused to ask for the help he needed. He won’t wake up for me.”

“That’s not good,” the duke warned unnecessarily. “Where did you leave him?”

“Not far away,” she promised, turning in that direction. “Rafferty is sitting beneath a tree at the end of the avenue.”

They turned back but Father quickly outdistanced her and reached Rafferty first. He knelt down at Rafferty’s side. Rebecca arrived as the duke raised his hand to crack his palm against Rafferty’s cheek.

“I tried that,” she muttered.

Father did it again anyway. “Wake up, man.”

Rafferty straightened suddenly. “What was that for?”

“You fainted,” she informed the earl.