Jane Lark - The Reckless Love of an Heir - An epic historical romance perfect for fans of period drama Victoria

Her stomach twisted as she looked at his face, with regret. Samson rose and sat beside her, so that she would stroke his head again.

But it was more than a feeling of nausea over the sight of his injuries. Just as she admired the flowers, or the detail in the wings of a butterfly, she admired Henry’s face.

She turned away.

It was definitely not a good thing to look at Henry and feel any sort of liking. She did not want to think him attractive. When he was awake she had no liking for him at all and it was better for things to be like that, he was to be her brother-in-law, and as no one thought her beautiful it was very likely that she would live here in her later life, dependent upon him, as Alethea’s spinster sister. Her father’s property was entailed so when her father passed away her home would be given to a cousin and she would have no choice but to rely upon Henry’s generosity.

He moved behind her.

She stopped and looked back.

His bad arm shifted across his chest moving the sling, as a sound of discomfort escaped his lips. His shirt opened wider, sliding off his bad shoulder. There was a large, much darker, almost entirely black bruise covering his shoulder, with yellow and redness at its edges. He’d said he’d dislocated his shoulder; it must hurt considerably. He had definitely not merely come home to act the invalid, then; he had been seriously injured. The pull of sympathy clasped her.

It annoyed her. She did not wish to feel it for Henry. He did not deserve it. He had done this to himself.

She turned away, went to the window and closed the lower shutters, with Samson watching her. He had not moved away from Henry. The shade half covered Henry to the top of his chest. She walked to the next window and closed the lower shutters over that too so that the shade covered all of him, then turned to go back to her painting.

Henry’s body suddenly jolted and a sound of discomfort escaped his throat. “Damn it!” he shouted on a breath, but his eyes did not open. “Bloody hell! The horses! What of the horses!” Another sound of pain escaped his throat as he moved as though to rise.

She walked over, unsure whether to leave him to his nightmare or wake him.

“Fuck! The…” His eyes opened and he sat up.

She turned away but he grasped her wrist.

“Were you staring at me?”

He was breathing heavily, and his blood raced in a fast pace through the vein she could see pulsing beside the little dent next to his clavicle at the base of his throat.

“No. I closed the shutters so the sunlight would not wake you, then you started dreaming and woke up anyway.”

He let her wrist go, sighed and then twisted around to sit upright with both feet on the floor, Samson moved out of his way. His good elbow rested on his knee and his hand held his forehead as his bad arm lay in its sling on his thigh.

“Are you unwell?”

He glanced up at her, and gave her a bitter, wry smile, very slightly lifting his poorly arm. “Do I look well?”

“Did you dream of your accident?”

“Yes.” It was said with a sigh and a pained look. He gave her a more real smile. “I thought my time had run out.”

Heat touched her cheeks as she felt Henry’s particular method of charm deployed. It was still enchanting even when it was mocking. He was too handsome when he smiled. She turned away from him to go back to her painting, and avoid the sense of empathy which clawed at her. “It was your own fault, though, and I would guess you have still not learned the lesson and will race again.”

“Probably,” he answered, clearly not in a mood to go into verbal battle.

She sat down behind the desk and picked up her paint brush.

He stood up and his good arm stretched out, as he yawned. He was standing in the sunlight which shone through the windows above the lower shutters that she’d closed. Again she had the perfect silhouette of his body beneath his shirt.

Embarrassment warmed her skin as she remembered all the bruises on him.

She washed out her brush in the small bowl of water, then wiped it on the rag beside her, before dipping it in the paint to begin another petal. “Must you wear no waistcoat and morning coat? I’d prefer it if you wore more clothes if you are coming in here to sleep while I am working.”

He laughed. “Much as I would love to oblige you, as it is bloody agony to put either on, while I am at home I intend to make free of my comfort and abstain. You are lucky I have bothered to put a shirt on so that I am decent at all.” He walked across the room. “And it is only because Alethea was coming that I endured that feat.” He stopped on the other side of the desk and looked down at her work. “That is a reasonable copy.”

She met his gaze. “Reasonable? I am proud of it. It is much better than I thought I could achieve. I have been studying how the illustrator has captured the shades to give the flower its life-like depth. I know I shall never be—”

The ignorant oaf laughed.

Susan’s eyebrows lifted. He could be so arrogant!

“Sorry, you are just such a ridiculous anomaly. You amuse me.”

“If you are going to ridicule me, leave me in peace?”

“I was not ridiculing you. I was admiring your efforts.”

“By laughing at them?”

“Never mind, Susan. I am too tired and in too much pain to fence words with you.” He turned away. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon painting.”

“I shall!” she called after him sarcastically, as he walked away. She smiled to herself. She preferred him awake. She felt better with things as normal between them no matter how nice Henry looked when he was asleep, and she refused to be swayed by her sympathy for the rogue, even though she knew he was lucky to be alive—it was his own fault.

She and Alethea dined at Farnborough, and Aunt Jane invited them to stay rather than travel back and forth each day, but Alethea denied the offer because their mother would most likely prefer it if they did not entirely desert her.

Although it was as if they were; they had left home at ten o’clock and would most likely only return in time to retire to bed. The days were not yet long.

Henry remained in dishabille for dinner.

He had a sickly pallor.

Susan watched as Alethea took his plate to cut up his food so that he could eat with one hand. His expression became awkward, and there was no glint in his eyes for her kindness and attention—not even a smile. Perhaps he did not feel at all well?

Yet whether he did or not, it was not Susan’s concern.

She looked at Christine who was sitting beside her and opened a conversation. Yet Susan’s gaze was repeatedly drawn back to Henry as he spoke to Alethea, and she could not stop noticing the small indent at the base of his throat and the dark hairs visible on his chest due to the v formed by his open shirt as she recalled the bruises his shirt hid.

Susan walked down the stairs, carrying her bonnet, with her cloak hanging over her forearm. Her bonnet bounced against the skirt of her dress with the pace of her steps as she held it by the ribbons.