Of course, if he hadn’t stepped in the mole hole again, they wouldn’t be in this position.

With a bit of maneuvering and one more half-uttered curse on Marcus’s part, they got him onto his feet. Honoria stepped back, putting a more proper distance between them, although she did put his hand on her shoulder to steady him. “Can you put any weight on it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, testing it out. He made a complete step, but his face twisted with pain as he did it.

“Marcus?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’ll be fine.”

He looked awful to her. “Are you sure?” she asked, “because I really think—”

“I said I’m fi—ow!” He stumbled, clutching onto her shoulder to prevent himself from going down.

Honoria waited patiently while he collected himself, offering her other hand for extra balance. He took it in his firm grasp, and once again she was struck by what a nice hand it was, large and warm. And safe, too, although she wasn’t sure that made any sense.

“I might need help,” he said, clearly loath to admit it.

“Of course. I’ll just . . . ah . . .” She moved toward him, then a bit away, then readjusted.

“Stand next to me,” he said. “I’m going to have to lean on you.”

She nodded and let him drape his arm over her shoulder. It felt heavy. And nice. “Here we are,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist. “Now which way is it to Fensmore?”

He motioned with his head. “Over there.”

She turned them so they were facing the right direction, then said, “Actually, I think the more pertinent question might be, how far is it to Fensmore?”

“Three miles.”

“Thr—” She caught herself, bringing her volume down from a shriek to something almost normal. “I’m sorry, did you say three miles?”

“Approximately.”

Was he insane? “Marcus, there is no way I can prop you up for three miles. We’re going to have to go to the Royles’.”

“Oh no,” he said, deadly serious. “I am not showing up on their doorstep in this condition.”

Privately, Honoria agreed with him. An injured, unmarried earl, completely dependent on her mercy? Mrs. Royle would see it as a gift from heaven. He’d probably find himself ushered to a sickroom before he could protest. With Cecily Royle as his nurse.

“You won’t have to help me the whole way, anyway,” he said. “It will improve as I walk on it.”

She looked at him. “That makes no sense.”

“Just help me home, will you?” He sounded exhausted. Maybe exasperated. Probably both.

“I’ll try,” she agreed, but only because she knew it would not work. She gave it five minutes at most before he admitted defeat.

They hobbled a few yards, then Marcus said, “A mole hole would have been much smaller.”

“I know. But I needed to be able to fit my foot in it.”

He took another step, then half-hopped the next one. “What did you think was going to happen?”