Mary Balogh - The Proposal

He would relax here for a while before seeking out the company of his friends.

He scooped up some small pebbles from the ledge beside him and tossed one in a high arc to the beach below. He heard it land and saw it bounce once. But his fingers stilled around the second stone as a flutter of color caught the edge of his vision.

The cliff on the other side of the pebbled slope curved outward toward the sea. Full tide reached it sooner than it did the cliff on which he sat. There was a way around the base of the jutting cliff to the village a mile or so away, but it could be a treacherous route if one was not aware of the approaching tide.

Someone walked that stretch of pebbled beach now—a woman wearing a red cloak. She had just appeared around the headland, though she was still some distance off. Her bonneted head was down. She appeared to be concentrating upon her footing. She stopped and looked out to sea. It was still some way out and was no imminent danger to her. If she had strolled from the village, however, she really ought to be turning back soon. The only other way back was up over the headland, but that would involve her in trespassing on Penderris land.

She turned her head to look at the steep pebbled slope to the top as though she had read his thoughts. She did not see him, fortunately. He was in the shade, and he sat very still. He did not want to be seen. He willed her to turn back the way she had come.

She did not turn back, however. Instead, she came in the direction of the slope and then began to trudge upward, her cloak and the brim of her bonnet flapping in the wind. She looked small. She looked young. It was impossible to tell how young, though, since he could not see her face. For the same reason there was no knowing if she was comely or ugly or simply plain.

His friends would tease him for a week if they ever found out about this, Hugo thought. He had a mental image of himself jumping down from his perch, striding purposefully toward her across the stones, informing her that he was both titled and enormously wealthy, and asking her if she fancied marrying him.

Though it was not a particularly amusing thought, he had to quell an urge to chuckle and give away his presence.

He stayed very still and hoped that even yet she would turn back. He resented having his solitude threatened by a stranger and a trespasser. He could not remember its happening before. Not many people from outside the estate came this way. The Duke of Stanbrook was feared by many in this part of the country. The inevitable rumor had blossomed after the death of the duchess that he had actually pushed her over the cliff from which she had jumped. Such stories did not die easily despite lack of any evidence. Even those who did not actually fear him seemed wary of him. And his contained, austere manner did not help allay suspicion.

Perhaps the woman in red was a stranger to these parts. Perhaps she did not realize she was climbing directly into the dragon’s lair.

Hugo wondered why she was alone in such a desolate setting.

The loose pebbles gave under her feet as she climbed. It was never an easy ascent, as he knew from experience. And then, just when it seemed she would go safely past and not see him at all, her right foot dislodged a small avalanche of stones and slid down sharply after them. She landed awkwardly on her knee and both hands, her right leg stretched out behind her. For a moment he had a glimpse of slim bare leg between the top of her half boot and the hem of her cloak.

He heard a gasp of pain.

He waited. He really did not want to have to reveal his presence. It soon became apparent, however, that she had done some serious damage to her foot or ankle and that she was not going to be able to pick herself up and go on her way. She was young, he could see. And she was small and slender. Beneath the brim of her bonnet, blond tendrils of hair were blowing in the wind. He still had not seen her face.

It would be churlish to remain silent.

“In my considered opinion,” he said, “that ankle is either badly sprained or actually broken. Either way it would be very unwise to try putting any weight on it.”

Her head jerked up as he climbed down onto the pebbles and made his way toward her. Her eyes widened in what looked like fear rather than relief that help was at hand. They were large blue eyes in a face of exquisite beauty even though she was no girl. He guessed her age to be close to his own thirty-three.

He was irritated. He hated it when people were afraid of him. People often were. Even some men. But especially women.

It might have occurred to him that a scowling countenance was not best designed to inspire confidence, especially in a lonely, desolate setting like this. It did not, however.

He scowled down at her from his great height.

Oh!” she cried. “Who are you? Are you the Duke of Stanbrook?”

She was a stranger to this part of the country, then.

“Trentham,” he said. “You walked over from the village?”

“Yes. I thought I would walk back across the headland,” she said. “The pebbles are far larger and more difficult to walk on than I expected.”

She was unmistakably a lady. Her clothes were well cut and looked expensive. She spoke with a cultured accent. There was a general indefinable air of good breeding in her manner.

He would not hold it against her.

“I had better take a look at that ankle,” he said.

“Oh, no.” She recoiled in horror. “That will be quite unnecessary, thank you, Mr. Trentham. It is my weak ankle. It will be fine in a moment and I shall be on my way again.”

Ladies and their sense of dignity! And their denial of unpleasant reality.

“I will take a look anyway.” He went down on his haunches and held out one large hand. She looked at it, leaned back on her hands, bit her lip, and gave no further argument.

He rested her boot on his hand and felt her ankle with the other hand, careful not to cause her undue pain. He did not think it was broken, though he was reluctant to remove her half boot for a more thorough examination. The boot was providing some support if there really was a break. Her ankle was already swelling, though. Some damage had been done. She was not going to be walking back to the village or anywhere else today, not even with the assistance of an arm to lean upon.

More was the pity.

She was still biting her lip when he looked up at her. Her face was ashen and taut with pain—and perhaps embarrassment. He had bared her leg almost to the knee. There was a ragged hole in her silk stocking there, he could see, and her knee was grazed and even slightly bleeding. He reached into the pocket of his great-coat, where he had put a clean linen handkerchief this morning. He shook it out, folded it three times across the bias, and wrapped it about her knee before securing it with a firm knot below the kneecap. Then he lowered her cloak and stood up.

There were splashes of color high on her cheekbones.

Why the devil, he thought as he gazed down at her, had she not stayed down on the beach where she belonged? Or taken more care as she climbed the slope? But one thing was clear. He could not simply leave her here.

“You are going to have to come to Penderris,” he said none too graciously. “A physician ought to look at that ankle as soon as possible and clean and bandage your knee properly. I am not a physician.”

“Oh, no,” she cried in dismay. “Not Penderris. Is it even close? I did not realize. I was advised to give it a wide berth. Do you know the Duke of Stanbrook?”

“I am a guest at his home,” he said curtly. “Now, we can do this the hard way, ma’am. I can hoist you to one foot and support you about the waist while you hop along at my side. But I warn you it is some distance to the house. Or we can do it the easy way, and I will simply carry you.”

“Oh, no!” she cried again, more forcefully this time and half shrank away from him. “I weigh a ton. Besides …”

“I doubt it, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I am quite capable of carrying you without dropping you or doing permanent damage to my back.”

He bent over her, wrapped one arm about her shoulders while he slid the other beneath her knees, and straightened up with her. She freed one arm hastily from her cloak and flung it about his neck. But it was quickly obvious that she was startled and alarmed—and then very indignant.

He had, of course, offered her a choice but had not waited for her to make it. But really there had been no choice. Only a daft woman would have chosen to hop along at his side merely to preserve a bit of feminine dignity.

He strode upward with her as best he could while allowing for the give of the pebbles.

“Do you always,” she asked him, her voice breathless and coldly haughty, “do exactly as you please, Mr. Trentham, even when you appear to be offering an option to your victims?”

Victims?

“Besides,” she continued without giving him a chance to answer her question, “I would have chosen neither option, sir. I would prefer to make my own way home on my own two feet.”

“That would be downright silly,” he said, not even trying to hide the scorn he was feeling. “Your ankle is in a bad way.”

She smelled good. It was not the sort of perfume that all too many women splashed all over themselves, the sort that assaulted one’s nasal passages and throat and set one to sneezing and coughing. He suspected that it was a very expensive fragrance. It clung enticingly about her person but did not invade his own. Her dress was a pale mushroom color and appeared to be made of finest wool. Expensive wool. This was no impoverished lady.