Somehow, William believed that.
“I want you gone. I want you away from Sharottewood.”
“When?”
The glowing eyes punctured him, and the chin lifted with a disgust so fervent it answered the question without words.
Gritting his teeth, William yanked off the bed linens. Be hanged if he’d stay here a moment longer. He’d crawl his way out if he had to.
His bare feet hit the cold floor and a shiver worked through his legs as fast as the tremble. “Have my horse prepared then. I am grateful for the ministrations I have received and shall not bother you again.” He clutched an arm around his side, the throb pulsing his entire body, as he wound around the bed and held on to the edge for support.
Dizziness flashed colors in his eyes as he fumbled to light a candle. His boots. Where were they?
He spotted them in the corner by a chair, stumbled into it, and yanked the clean stockings and Hessians onto his feet. Pain radiated through him in waves. Where had they stuffed his clothes? Perhaps Helena had taken them somewhere else or tucked them in a drawer. Or perhaps they were right before his eyes, and his vision was too blurry and spinning to see them.
Never mind.
William never ran, but he never stayed where he was not welcome either.
He pulled himself up, started across the room on legs that felt like jelly, and kept his gaze pinned to the doorway. His knees buckled, but a pair of hands seized him before he thudded to the floor.
He was led back to the bed. Helped beneath the counterpane, even as his chest hammered erratically and out of control.
The face staring down at him dipped in and out of blackness. “I shall not have a murder charge against me. You shall leave when you are well.”
Gratefulness seeped through William, but he could do no more than nod, breathing hard. Perhaps the man was not all devil.
Perhaps, despite everything, he had one small feeling of kindness for his son.
“You have a visitor.”
Isabella glanced up from the letter she had been reading, which proved to be nothing more than dreary accounts of all the unpleasantries Lilias was forced to endure in life. The poor girl. Did she ever findanythingto be happy about?
Besides gentlemen and wine, that is.
Bridget stepped closer to the satinwood writing table in the drawing room. “Miss Gresham?”
“Yes, I know. I have a visitor.” Isabella left the letter with another unopened one and tidied the desk. Standing and smoothing her morning dress, she finally turned her full attention to her maid. “Who is it?”
The slight pinch on Bridget’s face sent a warning through her. Only one visitor would prompt such a reaction.
“Lord Livingstone?”
“Yes, Miss Gresham. However did you know?”
“Never mind that. You must tell him that I am ill.”
“But Lord Gresham already assured him you were in good health—”
“Then tell him I am riding.”
Bridget’s quick shake of the head assured Isabella that Father had already ruined that escape route too.
A sigh filled her. “Very well. Have him sent in, wait a minute or so, then come and interrupt us with an urgent matter for me to attend to.”
“Oh miss.” Pink blossomed on Bridget’s face. “Please do not ask such a thing.”
Good heavens. Was everything against her evading this visit? “Very well. I shall endure it without any help at all.” Isabella found a seat on the red velvet sofa with scrolled arms, then watched the door until a servant announced Lord Livingstone.
