And Then She Fell(21)

On a soft groan, she sat, then slid deeper into the welcoming warmth.

Lady Marchmain, deeming herself in loco parentis, fussed. More than an hour passed before Henrietta, dressed in a warm day gown appropriated from her ladyship’s daughter’s wardrobe and further bundled up in a warm pelisse, with a knitted scarf about her throat and wound over her still damp hair, with someone’s half boots on her feet, was allowed to walk down the main stairs to where James and Lord Marchmain waited in the front hall.

Henrietta noted that, although decently clad, the clothes James wore fell far short of his usual standards of sartorial excellence, a point over which he seemed supremely unconcerned.

His attention was all for her, his gaze streaking over her as if to reassure himself that she was indeed all right, taking close note of the way she moved, checking that she’d sustained no injury.

Beside James, Lord Marchmain beamed encouragingly.

James’s gaze returned to her face; he caught her eye, then swept her a bow. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

It was clearly an attempt to get things back on an even keel. She found a smile and inclined her head. “Thank you.” Her voice was slightly gruff, a touch hoarse. Turning to Lady Marchmain, she made her farewells, assuring her ladyship for the umpteenth time that she was indeed entirely recovered, and by tomorrow morning would be fully restored to her customary rude health.

After various repeated assurances from both her and James, they were finally allowed to climb into her parents’ carriage. The door was shut, the coachman gave his horses the office, and finally, finally, they were rolling home.

She sank back against the squabs with a sigh. “That was an adventure.”

Seated beside her, James replied, “One I, for one, could have done without.” After a moment, he asked, “What exactly happened?”

He’d taken her hand to help her up into the carriage, and had followed close behind; he hadn’t released her fingers. His were still wrapped about them, his grip gentle, but warm and strong.

Reassuring. On multiple levels.

Making no effort to retrieve her hand, she thought back to the moments on the bridge. After replaying them several times, she shook her head. “Whatever caused it, it happened at least two people away from me. It seemed that someone tripped, or slipped and fell.” She thought some more, then said, “It was an accident—unforeseeable and unavoidable.”

“Hmm. Well, I heard Lord Marchmain giving orders to his steward to get an ironmonger in to look at putting up railings on the bridge, so I doubt that such an accident will happen again.”

She let a mile roll past in the comfortable dark, then said, “Thank you. I . . . am not at all sure I would have managed to get out of the stream on my own. And the Thames was only a hundred yards away.”

He glanced at her through the dimness. His thumb stroked gently, apparently absentmindedly, over the back of her hand. After a moment, he shifted and looked forward. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re helping me, so of course I helped you. That’s what friends are for.”

Friends? Is that what they were? He didn’t, she noted, let go of her hand.

Would a friend still be holding her hand, as he was? Would a friend have held her so tightly to him, as he had held her in the stream?

Would a friend have been nearly as terrified as she had been that she might drown?

She was too exhausted to work out the answers, much less define what she would prefer them to be. So she sat in the dimness of the carriage, his hand wrapped about hers, his presence beside her reassuring and anchoring, and looked out of the carriage window, watching as the outskirts of London gradually gave way to the streetscapes of the capital.

Eventually, the carriage drew up outside her parents’ house.

Reluctantly, James released her hand, opened the door and stepped down, then offered his hand again to help her to the pavement. He escorted her up the steps, using the moment to scan her face in the better light from the nearby streetlamp. She was still a trifle too pale for his liking, but otherwise she appeared to have recovered from her ordeal.

Inwardly, he suspected, she would still be shocked; he knew he was.

Gaining the top step, she turned to him. Drawing her hand from his, she met his eyes. “Again—thank you.”

He inclined his head, unable, for once, to find a flippant reply. “I’m just glad I was there.” And so very glad I was able to reach you in time.

Her lips curved lightly, then she gestured to the carriage. “Please—use the carriage to go home.”