She tucked her gaze away from him. “I can’t marry him, and I won’t tell you why. It’s not my place to speak of it.”
“Cryptic.”
“I’ll not marry Lord Devon.”
“Fine.” Had he wanted her to? He squeezed his eyes shut. He did not feel himself.
She bounced to her feet. “I’ll leave you to rest. I’m sure with a good night’s sleep your memory will return good as new.” She twisted her hands around the bedpost. “I'm the reason you're in this deuced uncomfortable position. I'm… I’m the reason you almost died. I will not be the reason you lose sleep. I'm terribly sorry, by the way. I've never fallen out of a tree before. I knew the tree was not as stout as it should be for climbing, but the mistletoe mocked me.”
He brushed her worry away. “I'm glad I softened your fall.” He hated to think what would have happened had he not been. His entire body filled with a shuddering revulsion at the possibility.
“I'm terribly glad you were there to catch me. But why are you here? Don't you plan to spend Christmas with Martha?”
Ah, yes. He did have a purpose for being here, and it wasn't to save Lady Jane’s life. It slipped back to him now, on quiet cat feet. But with his head pounding and his body aching, he was not in the mood to have a serious conversation with a woman about whom she planned to marry.
Ah. And there was the rest of the memory, the suitors he’d suggested and the one Christiana had supplied herself. He should be in a better temper and in better health for such a conversation.
But putting it off irked him. He never put a thing off if he could do it immediately. And she only had seven days to choose a husband. No time to be wasted.
“My sister Martha does expect me. I had fully intended to spend the holiday with her and her husband. But I have other obligations.”
“I do not doubt that. You’re a very busy man.”
“Do you remember, Jane, when you were a small lass, no older than ten, perhaps? And you wished to climb to the very top of the house and walk along the edge of the roof?”
“I do,” she said, not a hint of contrition in her voice. “Your brain must be scrambled. Why do you speak of it?”
George tried one of his patented grins, meant to set people at ease. It hurt. He stopped trying. “You got to the top of the first floor and fell.”
“I broke my arm and got this scratch.” She pointed to a small scar on her temple, a delicate white slash.
“Eddy and I told you not to. You could have gotten to the ramparts from inside the house, after all.”
“You did. I could have. I did not wish to use the conventional way. Why are we speaking of this?”
“You did not listen.”
“I did not,” she said cheerfully.
“I came to have a conversation with you about a matter of great import. And I would dearly appreciate it if you listened to me this time.”
The color in her face drained, and he did not know if the agitation that knitted her fingers together was from annoyance or anger or fear. “And if I do not, I’ll end up with a broken arm?”
More like a broken heart, a broken future.
He lifted the glass of water and took a sip. “Lady Jane, I have a proposition for you.”
Jane took two stumbling steps backward, her brown eyes wide. “Oh?”
“As long as I am stuck here this Christmas season, I will help you choose a husband.”
She took two stumbling steps forward and melted against the bedpost with a whoosh of breath. “You stopped my heart, George. For a moment, I thought you meant to propose! But this… this makes much more sense. Proposition is not a word that should be used lightly, I think. But no. I do not desire, nor do I need, your help in this area.”
“It's been months since the scandal and the one person who actually proposed—what is it? Twice—”
“Thrice,” Jane mumbled. “He proposed this afternoon as well. In the maze.”
“Three times? Today?” His head swam. “Three times and you have refused him all. Three. Times.”
