Free The Nanny Arrangement by Lily George Page B

his appearance. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to help.”
    He shook his head from side to side, and then closed his eyes. “Fine.”
    “Where is Wadsworth? Or your valet? Surely they should be up here assisting you.” She helped him sit in the easy chair before his hearth and knelt on the floor before him, tugging at his boots. “You’re soaking wet. You’ll catch your death if you don’t dry off and warm up.”
    “Downstairs.” He submitted to her tugging and the muddy Hessians finally slid free, knocking her backward a pace or two. He closed his eyes. “On their way.”
    “Good.” She grabbed a blanket from the foot of his bed and wrapped it around him, then busied herself kindling a small fire from the hearth. That was the good of never having servants—you learned to do simple tasks on your own. The fire caught and blazed up, bathing the room in an orange glow.
    “I’m going to send for the doctor. Your face—it’s quite awful, Paul.” His pallid appearance and weary submission to her ministrations pinched at her conscience. She must be kind and friendly and helpful to Paul now—as though she were still a milliner and he just a jolly friend of the family.
    She drew closer and scrutinized his cheek. The bleeding had long since stopped, but the gashes were quite raw. “Yes, you do need a doctor. And I shall go for him now, unless one of the others already has. A tincture of arnica might help. If you don’t have any at Kellridge, I know Susannah has some at Goodwin.”
    Paul opened his eyes. The usual light of mischief had been quenched from their depths; even the cold, businesslike stare with which he’d regarded her during their few disagreements had melted. He was in pain, and he was wretched.
    “Paul, I am going to go now. I am going to find your valet and Wadsworth and make sure they are here right away to help you. And I am going to make sure a doctor has been called. I’ll find the arnica as well.” She patted his arm with a reassuring gesture. “Sit here and rest. Help is on the way. I’ll see to it.”
    Paul grasped her hand with surprising strength and squeezed. He closed his eyes once more, his face turning a shade whiter as he lolled his head back against the cushion.
    His cracked lips parted. “Thank you.”
    ’Twas the first time Paul had ever shown deference or humility. Tears stung the back of Becky’s eyes.
    She squeezed his hand in return and quit the room.

Chapter Seven
    W hat an extraordinary few days it had been. Becky stared out the carriage window as raindrops streaked against the pane. Paul had been injured, but the doctor said he would recover in a matter of weeks. The gash on his cheek needed time to heal, as did the many bumps and bruises he’d sustained in the accident. So even though he was now home for Juliet’s arrival, he wasn’t able to travel with Becky to Cleethorpes. That was just as well. Juliet might very well be afraid of her uncle, what with that horrible wounded cheek.
    Becky settled back against the seat cushions and tucked her book inside her reticule. She never was any good at reading on long trips. ’Twas much nicer to sit and watch the countryside roll by, imagining how her life might be if she lived in that farmhouse as she passed by. She and Nan would often make a game of it, which they called “Storybook Lives.” Nan was always so practical about it. She’d look at the romantic ruin of an old house and remark, “I wouldn’t want to bear the cost of glazing those windows,” or some such, thereby completely destroying the fun of the game.
    Becky’s eyes misted over at the memory. Better not to think too much of the past. Better to enjoy the sound of the rain trickling against the landau windows as they made their sluggish progress into Cleethorpes. The roads were a good deal muddier after the rains of the past few days, which made for slower going. Good thing she was always of an imaginative spirit. One was never bored when one