A Deal with a Cruel Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel by Sheldon Dorothy

Author:Sheldon, Dorothy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-06-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The tight pain which flared across Gideon’s shoulder whenever he moved had begun to dissipate lately. For that, he was grateful. He might have endured much worse pain for much longer, but that didn’t mean he was willing to endure it again in a smaller dose.

The bullet wound was healing nicely. Gideon knew he’d been lucky, even if Agatha hadn’t kept repeating how lucky he’d been, with an almost reproachful expression on her face as if he wasn’t appreciating it enough.

He felt sorry for her – she’d likely never take time off to visit her family again, terrified that Gideon would get himself into some scrape or other. That wasn’t fair on her, not one bit.

That had been the way of things for a good long while now. Gideon weighed down whoever was foolish enough to stay around him. Agatha and Joseph, and no doubt his poor wife would follow soon enough.

I think it would be a great relief to everybody, he thought bad-temperedly, if I could just do the decent thing and die.

He’d thought that more than once, but refrained from saying it. People tended to get upset. Last time he made a similar comment, his Uncle Bartholomew had very nearly forced him to move into the city so that they could share apartments.

Now that would have been a disaster.

“Are you warm enough, my lord?” Agatha asked, poised with a scarf in case Gideon should complain of a chill. Joseph loitered anxiously in the background, carrying a pair of garden shears in lieu of doing actual work.

Gideon’s cheeks burned. Had there ever been a time he hadn’t been so reliant on other? Had he ever been anything other than a burden?

“I’m fine, thank you, Agatha.”

“Now, are you sure? Are your stitches pulling? Cool weather can make the skin tighten, you know.”

Gideon said nothing. He did know, but Prudy had done a remarkably good job of stitching up his skin. Agatha thought differently, but that was neither here nor there.

Prudy herself had gone for a walk. She’d taken herself on a great many walks in the previous week and a half, while Gideon lay in his darkened bedroom, gradually summoning the strength to take himself to his study, and then out into the gardens to build up his strength again. He had wondered, more than once, how his little wife chose to entertain herself.

She’d come to visit him, and that had been a shock. Agatha had made valiant efforts to keep her away, claiming that Gideon needed his rest, needed quiet, needed peace.

He wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or thrilled that Prudy had persevered, pushing past the formidable guardian with treats, cups of tea, and the occasional novel.

Their conversations had been short and shallow, but they were conversations all the same. Now he had a little stack of novels and poetry books piled beside his bed, none of which he intended to read.

It was Prudy, in fact, who’d gone into the forest in the days after the accident, when Gideon was still collapsed in bed, and found his walking-stick.

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