He asked again. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing, Your Grace,” she said quickly. “I’m perfectly well.”
“Archimedes.”
The Duke’s whistle cut through the air. The cat’s ears perked up, and it immediately abandoned Joan to pad across the desk toward its master.
As Archimedes moved, one paw landed on Joan’s injured wrist.
“Ah!” The yelp escaped before she could stop it. Pain radiated up her arm, sharp and intense, and her eyes watered despite her best efforts to maintain composure.
Archimedes, startled by her cry, leaped gracefully onto the Duke’s lap and settled there with an air of wounded dignity, as though Joan had offended him personally.
“Miss Sinclair.” The Duke’s voice held a note of command. “What happened to your wrist?”
Joan pressed her lips together, torn between her instinct to deflect and the knowledge that lying would be pointless now. “It’s nothing, Your Grace. A minor accident, that’s all.”
“What manner of accident?”
“I… sprained it.” Joan spoke reluctantly, aware of how foolish the story would sound. “A friend, he was helping a girl who had gotten stuck in a tree trying to rescue her cat. When they were climbing down, the girl slipped, and I attempted to catch her.”
“Friend?” The Duke’s voice sharpened on the word. “What friend?”
Heat flooded Joan’s cheeks as she realized how that must have sounded. “Please don’t misunderstand, Your Grace. He is a perfectly respectable man with a family. He was helping me speak to the villagers about the school, and we came across this girl, the vicar’s daughter, in a tree with her cat. Mr. Andersonclimbed up to help her down, but the cat squirmed and the girl lost her grip, and I tried to catch her before she hit the ground.”
She was speaking too quickly now, words tumbling over each other in her haste to explain. “I managed to break her fall, but I landed badly on my wrist. It’s only a sprain, nothing serious. The girl was unharmed, which is what matters.”
The Duke leaned back in his chair, stroking Archimedes. His expression, what she could see of it around the black silk scarf was utterly blank.
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “I could not care less about your misadventures. I have already kept my end of the bargain by providing you with the hall. I expect you to keep yours by continuing your work here, regardless of minor injuries.”
Absolutely cold-hearted, Joan thought bitterly.
“I intend to keep my end of the bargain, Your Grace,” she said aloud, her voice stiff with poorly concealed hurt. “I would never?—”
“Jenkins!”
The Duke’s voice carried easily through the study. Within moments, the butler appeared in the doorway.
“Your Grace?”
“Bring the medicine box. The one from the cabinet in my chambers.”
Jenkins’s eyebrows rose fractionally, but he bowed. “At once, Your Grace.”
The Duke turned his attention back to Joan. “Come closer.”
Joan hesitated, her heart suddenly beating faster. “Your Grace?”
“I said come closer, Miss Sinclair. Unless you would prefer to continue working with an injured wrist that will only worsen if left untreated.”
Slowly, Joan rose from her seat and moved her chair closer to the Duke’s desk. The scent of sandalwood and bergamot grew stronger as she approached, making her pulse quicken in a way she refused to examine too closely.
“Stretch out your hands,” the Duke commanded.
Joan did so slowly, extending her arms across the desk. Her bandaged left wrist looked pitiful next to her undamaged right hand.
“It’s already bandaged,” she felt compelled to point out. “Mr. Anderson wrapped it quite carefully.”
