“No,” she said quickly, jumping atop his final words. “It’s fine. I like it, I think.”

“You think?”

“I do,” she said firmly. “We are friends now, I think.”

“You think.” This time he was definitely smirking.

She tossed him a sarcastic glance. “You could not resist, could you?”

“No,” he murmured, “I think not.”

“That was so dreadful it was almost good,” she told him.

“And that was such an insult I almost feel complimented.”

She felt her lips tighten at the corners. She was trying not to smile; it was a battle of the wits, and somehow she knew that if she laughed, she lost. But at the same time, losing wasn’t such a terrible prospect. Not in this.

“Come along,” he said with mock severity. “Let’s see you walk to the library.”

And she did. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t painless—truthfully, she shouldn’t have been up and about yet—but she did it.

“You’re doing very well,” he said as they neared their destination.

“Thank you,” she said, ridiculously pleased by his praise. “It’s marvelous. Such independence. It was just awful having to rely on someone to carry me about.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is that how you feel?”

His lips curved in a wry expression. “Not exactly.”

“Really? Because—” Her throat nearly closed. “Never mind.” What an idiot she was. Of course it hadn’t felt the same for him. She was using the cane to get her through the day. He would never be without it.

From that moment forward she no longer wondered why he did not smile very often. Instead, she marveled that he ever did.

Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The blue drawing room

Whipple Hill

Eight o’clock in the evening

When it came to social engagements, Hugh never knew which was worse: to be early and exhaust himself having to rise every time a lady appeared, or to arrive late, only to be the center of attention while he limped into the room. This evening, however, his injury had made the decision for him.

He had not been lying when he told Sarah that his leg would most likely pain him that night. But he was glad she had taken the cane. It was, he thought with a surprising lack of bitterness, the closest he would ever come to sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to safety.

Pathetic, but a man had to take his triumphs where he could.

By the time he entered the large drawing room at Whipple Hill, most of the other guests were already present. About seventy people, if he judged the crowd correctly. More than half of the so-called caravan were being lodged in nearby inns; they frolicked at the house during the day but were gone in the evening.