Free Anita Mills by Miss Gordon's Mistake Page A

twenty-year-old female is quite on the shelf.”
    “So I have found,” she noted dryly. “But I cannot say they have not put themselves to the task. Had I not been so long in the tooth, I should have been dragged to London for the Season.”
    He shook his head sympathetically. “I have never understood it myself. I find it unfathomable that a man of the world, after sampling most of life’s pleasures, should think it desirable to wed an empty-headed widgeon whose experience is limited almost entirely to the schoolroom.”
    His gaze traveled lazily over her. “I have always liked a lady old enough to share interesting thoughts.”
    “No doubt,” she muttered, recalling how he’d abandoned Jess.
    “Didn’t mean to put you up in the boughs, Miss Gordon, I assure you. So—they have been throwing you at the gentlemen’s heads, have they?”
    “Only one. Actually, there are not many eligible partis in our neighborhood, for which I suppose I must be thankful. Lord Sturbridge is quite enough.”
    “Your swain?”
    “If Aunt Bella has her way, he is.” She considered confessing about Jess and Charles, then thought better of it. Too much depended on what he did with Jess, and she’d not betray her cousin. “I expect that the whole of Sussex, with the exception of Sturbridge’s mama, expects the announcement momentarily.”
    “His mother objects?”
    “Oh, no. She is quite careful of what she says of me. Clever of her, really. No, I am brown, and my manners she pronounces unconventional but not unpleasing.”
    “Brown?” He lifted his eyebrow. “I should rather call you fair myself.”
    “It is her way of reminding him that I am not English, my lord. We Americans are thought to have consorted overmuch with the Indians, I suppose.”
    “And so she deals in half the truth, eh?” He tried to straighten his tired body, and was instantly sorry for it. The pain that shot through his shoulder was like fire. “Damn!” he muttered.
    “If nothing else goes wrong, how long will it take for you to heal?” she asked curiously.
    “What difference does it make?” he asked through teeth clenched against the pain.
    “I should like to know you have survived ere I go back to my home—to the United States.”
    “Good of you.” He clasped his shoulder and held it tightly.
    “Especially since I should not be in this case were it not for you.”
    “I said I was sorry for it—and you said you disliked sympathy,” she reminded him.
    “There is sympathy—and there is sympathy, Miss Gordon.”
    “And there are riddles, sir.”
    “Needle-witted also, I see.” Then, noting that she still waited for an answer, he relented. “With food and rest, I ought to mend enough to ride within a couple of weeks, I should suppose. Naught’s broken, after all. Now, if I take a fever …” He let his voice drift.
    “But you will not,” she was positive. “I mean, we had the doctor.”
    “Optimistic, too,” he murmured. “You’ve got more faith in the surgeons than I.” He shifted his weight, moving his leg, and he blenched anew. “Would’ve taken m’leg, if I’d let ’em. Had to hold ’em off with my pistol.”
    At that moment, the wheel dropped into another rut, throwing them against the sides. There was the crack of shattering wood, then nothing—the coach just seemed to settle at an angle. Kitty righted herself to open the door.
    “Damme if the wheel ain’t broke, Miss Kitty,” Jem explained. “Throwed me off’n the box.” To show her, he lifted a muddy sleeve.
    “It cannot be!”
    “If it ain’t, then my name ain’t Jeremy Miller!” he retorted. He looked past her to the baron, who leaned back, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his thigh. Haverhill was deathly pale. “We done it now, miss—what’s ter do?”
    She looked around her, gaining her bearings. In the distance, she recognized the monolithic Blackstone Hall of the Trevors. Her gaze dropped to the torn, bloodstained dress that now clung