Mending Him (4 page)

Chapter Four

Robbie still felt the shock of his uncle’s words roiling through him. He wouldn’t belong here. He had been dismissed, or would be soon. Irrational fear clutched him and held him so hard he had to walk outside. He stumbled through the rose garden, looking for the refuge of the small maze.

The boxwoods had not grown tall enough yet to hide the paths. He’d always supposed he’d still be here when they grew taller.

He’d forgotten his cane, and when he sat on the stone bench heavily, he immediately wondered how he would haul himself back up again.

Something to worry about in two minutes. Now he must face his more distant future.

Not a part of the family, not working for the estate. He swallowed hard and tried to recall the time he’d wanted to leave.

Two years ago, he’d departed of his own will. That time, his uncle had flatly declared he could not easily spare Robbie, yet Robbie had gone. He’d tried to explain his ambition. Lenore and Gemma had cried, Phillip had grown grim, and, despite his guilt, Robbie had chosen to go to London. A fortnight later, he had been fetched back home, nearly dead from influenza.

Until he’d grown ill, London had meant freedom.
Recall the pleasure of that short experience,
he scolded himself. He could easily summon the delight of those few days working with the great designer M. Reynaud. He’d learned so much about space and dimensions and the use of color, fabrics and lighting in designing a space that his head felt full to bursting with knowledge. In fact, at first Robbie had imagined his severe headaches to be the result of too much knowledge crammed into his brain. By the time he was diagnosed with influenza, Robbie was out of his mind with fever and transported back to the hall to recover.

Today everything had changed.

Uncle Phillip no longer tried to stop him from pursuing his dream. Now his uncle pushed the bird from the nest. The cuckoo. Robbie smiled. Perhaps it was his uncle’s easy willingness to let him go that woke Robbie’s hesitation.

“Perverse creature,” he scolded himself. He picked a small twig of the boxwood and fit the tip of his finger into the rounded leaf.

Freedom beckoned again. Except he could not move into a new life immediately. He had two jobs: help Samuel learn his duties, and take care of the troublesome Worthington cousin. Which one would form the greatest obstacle to a peaceful life? Samuel taking instruction from him seemed a ridiculous notion. But worse, much worse—Charles Worthington. When Robbie pictured Worthington, his breath seemed to clog his throat.

The mere thought of tending the man’s physical requirements aroused him. Robbie thumped his leg, hoping the pain would teach his body to stop useless longing. Dear God, if the sight of Worthington sick and—what was the phrase Stewart had used?—a sick and sloppy souse hadn’t been enough to drive away the pangs of desire, Robbie was a lost man.

And that made no matter. He would do his duty.

He managed to lever himself up and off the bench and started back to the house. A momentary flash of dislike for Worthington coursed through him as he slowly, carefully walked. That blundering, too-attractive man now presented a barrier to his peace and to his goals.

Before he reached the front door, shame for his selfishness followed. Poor Worthington didn’t know how he affected Robbie, and he certainly hadn’t heard that Robbie was obligated to help with his recovery.

Robbie stopped to fetch his cane from the umbrella stand where the maids stuffed it. Had he calmed sufficiently to approach Worthington with a steady manner? Two more breaths, and he went to the breakfast room.

It was almost a disappointment to see nothing but the empty table with its chairs drawn tight.

He met the younger footman, Jacob, in the hall. “Do you know where Mr. Worthington is?”

“The sot?”

He almost nodded but knew that he must check the insolence. “That is inappropriate. Mr. Worthington is our guest, a member of the family, and should be treated with respect.” He kept his voice quiet and, he hoped, stern.

“Sorry, sir.” Jacob grinned at him.

Good enough, he supposed. He allowed himself the nod and then walked on, slightly shaken by the interaction. By the time he realized he hadn’t gotten an answer, Jacob had disappeared.

Robbie found Worthington in the library. He sat in his chair with a stack of books next to him.

The invalid’s face lit when he saw Robbie. “Mr. Grayson! Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I owe apologies to every creature in this place, and I think most of all I owe you one or two or a thousand.”

Any scrap of resentment about having to act as this man’s nursemaid vanished. He couldn’t resist that smile. The other emotion, desire, remained damnably steady.

“Not at all.” Robbie walked over and sat in the wooden desk chair near him. Not too near. “My uncle has asked me to help you in any way I can. I know it is dreadfully prying, but perhaps you can share the details of your injury?” Robbie raised his eyebrows, inviting full disclosure.

Uncle Phillip hadn’t shared many details, but Robbie knew that this man had lost everything. Worthington’s branch of the family had once been even wealthier than Mr. Phillip Chester’s own. Surely a pair of broken legs would not be enough to send anyone over the edge into bankruptcy. Could Worthington have succumbed to drink or melancholia? Was he a gambler? Robbie hoped he’d get an answer, but judging from the man’s suddenly grave and unreadable expression, he didn’t think he’d find out the details.

“It wasn’t just broken tibias,” Worthington said, then fell silent.

Robbie waited. The clock ticked.

“Damnation, I’ve also been ill,” Worthington said angrily, as if he thought Robbie might not believe him.

“I am sorry,” Robbie soothed.

Worthington laughed, then shook his head. “I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to attack you.”

“I’m not offended.” He considered what he might say that would not sound patronizing or pitying. “I know that illness and pain can affect one’s outlook. That’s what I heard in your words, not an attack on me.”

“Yes. You’re observant, Mr. Grayson. I hope you haven’t learned too much of that lesson from your own experiences.” Worthington’s smile showed even, white teeth. Good lord, he must have been irresistible before his illness, and he was used to his effect on people. Even pale and bony, he had the easy charismatic air of a man who knew people would like him or at least admire his looks.

“A little,” Robbie said. “I mean, I contracted something called poliomyelitis as a child, but I’ve long since recovered, or as better as I shall ever get.” He wiggled the cane at his side to indicate the cursed lasting effects. He didn’t want to speak of his own illness. It had nothing to do with Worthington or his recovery. “You are still ill?”

Worthington leaned back in his chair with a thump. “If you’re asking
me,
the answer is yes.”

“And who else might I ask?”

“Doctors. Although I suppose they’re generous enough to grant me some form of illness, they’d tell you it was here.” He tapped his head.

Robbie gawped at him. Madness? Surely no, although he didn’t know why he would entirely reject the diagnosis.

Never mind, the origin didn’t matter. If Worthington felt symptoms, they must be addressed. And perhaps he wasn’t indicating a case of insanity. “Are you saying you’re giddy?” he asked.

Worthington’s angry, suspicious glare melted. He laughed. “Yes, actually that is on the list. Headaches and dizziness are among my symptoms. Shall I give you the laundry list?”

Robbie spread his hands. “Please do.”

The list was impressive, but Robbie noticed one encouraging fact. “You often speak in the past tense. Many of these symptoms are gone now?”

Worthington nodded. “Yes, but occasionally I’ve celebrated the end of some horrifically embarrassing symptom and then it’s shown up again, rejoining the party.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I am not imagining these things, Mr. Grayson.”

“Of course you’re not imagining them.” Robbie felt impatient. “Did you want to argue about the causes of your symptoms? I can go fetch our local physician if you wish for that sort of conversation. I’m no doctor. In fact, judging from your ability to reset my shoulder, I’d say you were a thousand times more likely to be mistaken for one than I am.”

Worthington laughed. “Do you know, I thought you were a mousy sort of a person when we met?”

“That was only yesterday. And yes, I recall you added me into a Burns poem.”

“I was wrong. You’re not cowardly at all.”

“I am, but I don’t give a fig about it.” Robbie waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not here to discuss my lack of courage.”

“Why are you here?”

“To help you.”

Worthington canted sideways in his chair. That slow, seductive smile spread. “And why on earth are you interested in me? I get the impression that you’re a busy man.”

Now was the time to put distance between them. He would. He must. “Because my uncle asked me to help you.”

The smile only faltered a little. “But I don’t think you’ll mind spending time with me. I think we’ll have fun.”

Really. The man did have a strong opinion of himself. Robbie longed to point out that, so far, their time together consisted of Robbie cleaning up his sick, hardly what anyone would call fun.

Worthington went on, “Do you meet a lot of people near your age here at Chester Hall? Do you go on picnics with them?”

“I’m not a social creature, Mr. Worthington.”

“No, I suppose you haven’t had that opportunity.”

“I am content.” Really, this wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go.

“I’m not surprised. I think your natural instinct is to help others.”

“Just as yours is to change the subject. Tell me, do your symptoms grow better or worse depending on your level of activity?”

“When I’m tired, they’re worse. But come, we’ve already talked about the dreary illness. Let’s discuss something more interesting. What are your dreams, Mr. Grayson?”

What an odd question. Had anyone ever asked him before? Not that he could remember—certainly never with any intention to actually listen to the answer. And such a questioner—tousle-haired as if he’d just come from bed, with those intelligent brown eyes concentrating on him, on Robbie.

Oh Lord. He had never understood that focused attention could so easily seduce a person. No. He wouldn’t allow yearning to pierce him.

“My dreams are my own,” he said softly. “And I’m afraid they aren’t very interesting.”

Worthington’s eyes sparkled. “You should allow me to be the judge.”

Robbie couldn’t move, caught by the man.

And then Gemma’s familiar little voice came from not far away. She must have walked into the library without making a sound. That was impossible with those hard little shoes on the wood floors, so Robbie had been too captivated to hear her.

“Please, please don’t tell Mama, Robbie. But I wanted to meet my cousin.”

“Is this my Cousin Gemma?” Worthington leaned forward, his hand outstretched. “I am delighted to meet you. I was dreadfully ill yesterday and in no shape to be introduced to a lady.”

“You were drunk,” she said solemnly. “Disgracefully, utterly drunk.” Robbie wondered if she quoted Mary or her new governess, Miss Peters.

He ought to point out that she shouldn’t say such things, but Worthington said, “Yes, I was. Drinking to excess is a stupid thing to do. I advise against it.”

He had her hand and raised it to his lips for an elegant, exaggerated salute, the perfect move to entertain a lady of any age.

Gemma giggled.

Of course, Charles Worthington had moved in stylish circles in his former life. No doubt once upon a time he could enchant ballrooms and speak easily with anyone.

Robbie supposed he should go find the nursemaid, Mary or Miss Peters. Aunt Lenore would not be pleased by innocent Gemma talking to Worthington.

The house was big, but could they really expect to keep Gemma separated from Worthington? Not if she was determined to seek him out, so Robbie saw no point in dragging her away. He would solve the problem by not leaving them alone.

Worthington focused intently on his small cousin now, asking her solemn questions about her lessons, her interests, the fascinating puppies in the kennel.

Seeing Worthington turn his charm on the child, Robbie realized the man’s similar keen interest in him meant little. It was merely Worthington’s manner. Good thing Robbie hadn’t allowed himself to be seduced into attraction. Even entirely private longing thoughts must be avoided.

Once the initial realization and inexplicable disappointment that Worthington was naturally flirtatious had passed, Robbie listened with amusement as Gemma described her favorite puppy and Worthington discussed the best ways to sneak the animal into a disapproving household. How could a man this charismatic not save himself from his creditors?

“You shouldn’t encourage her.” He joined the conversation. “The last time Gemma brought in one of her favorites, it piddled on several of the best carpets and chewed Uncle Phillip’s favorite pipe.”

“You forgot that she was sick all over the floor in here.” Gemma sounded proud.

“This library seems to attract that sort of behavior,” murmured Worthington with a look at Robbie. “The worst visitors find their way here.”

“I shall go and find Daisy again and introduce her to you, Cousin Charles. She’s ever so adorable.” The child ran to the door and was gone.

Robbie began to pull himself up. “I suspect I should go stop her.”

“No, don’t. Let the girl get into some mischief.”

Robbie laughed. “She will manage on her own or with Bertie’s help.” He didn’t go after her, though.

Worthington watched him again, but Robbie knew better than to fall into that hypnotic gaze. “I think perhaps I should give you a tour. I doubt I can push your chair, but I will find Stewart or Jacob or fetch Forrester.”

“Your shoulder still hurts?”

Robbie nodded.

“Did I apologize for that?”

“Indeed you did, more than once. Let’s forget all about yesterday, shall we? Start with a fresh slate.”