Captain Ingram's Inheritance Read Online Free Page A

Fanny both think you well on the road to recovery. What’s wrong?”
     “Wrong? What makes you think anything’s wrong? They are right, I grow stronger every day.”
     “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s your privilege, but perhaps I can help.”
     The Armagnac loosened Frank’s tongue. “No one can help, or Mrs Cohen would have. I expected too much of her skills. Look at me.” He threw back the covers, pushed himself to the edge of the bed, and stood up, a trifle wobbly. Stripping off his nightshirt--altered at Miriam’s suggestion to button down the front--he revealed a body seamed and knotted with countless scars, white and red and purple, from shoulders to thighs. “What woman will want me now?” he asked bitterly.
     Roworth visibly steeled himself. “You appear to be...er...intact where it matters.”
     “Would that I were not,” he said in despair, “for then I might not care. Or that at least some sign appeared on my face as a warning of what is below. Better, perhaps, that the blast had blown off my head instead of leaving me like this, a sight to send any female into hysterics.”
     “Did Fanny and Miriam run screaming at the sight?”
     “They are not ordinary females. They saw only the hurt, not the hideousness.” Shivering despite the warmth of the night, he reached for his nightshirt.
     Roworth failed to deny that Fanny and Miriam were remarkable. His meager strength exhausted, Frank accepted his help to put his arms in the sleeves and return to bed. Lying back, he closed his eyes. “It’s bloody humiliating being so weak,” he said, aiming at wryness.
     “Are you too weak to lift a glass? It would be a pity to waste the Armagnac.”
     “True. That much I think I can manage.” He sat up and took the glass.
     They chatted for a while longer, then, draining the last drop of his brandy, Roworth said, “I’d best let you sleep, or Miriam will be after me.” He hesitated. “The scars are bound to fade over time, you know. And one day you’ll find a woman as exceptional as your sister, who loves you and doesn’t give a damn.”
     “Then Lord help her, for I’m not likely ever to be in a position to marry. Roworth, thank you. You’ve been devilish good to us--don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
     Both embarrassed, they clasped hands briefly and Roworth left.
     At least he recognized that Fanny was special, Frank thought, his head muzzy from the unaccustomed drink. Roworth really was a good fellow. He’d be wasted on the Ice Goddess.
     Look at the way he’d reacted to the grotesque horror of the scars: sympathetic, without being pitying. All the same, Frank wished he hadn’t made an exhibition of himself. The brandy was to blame, that and an urgent need to voice his despair. He hadn’t been able to tell Fanny or Miriam, nor even the sober, kindly, intellectual Isaac, of his dread that no woman would ever again respond to his desire.
     Roworth was no saint. He’d had a mistress in Brussels. He understood and had done his best to reassure. A good fellow...
     Frank dropped into a restless sleep, beset with pretty faces that smiled and flirted--and then snarled rejection with outraged disgust.
    * * * *
     The two days Roworth had said he was staying stretched to a week. Fanny was happy, and Frank could not bring himself to suggest that she was living in a fool’s paradise.
     He was carried downstairs each afternoon, now. Often his sister and the viscount were absent, walking or riding, or taking Anita and little Amos Cohen on an excursion. She’d return rosy-cheeked and laughing. How could he put a shadow in her eyes?
     The shadow came soon enough. One evening, as he was about to snuff his bedside candle, she came into his chamber and, though she smiled, he knew at once that the blow had fallen.
     “Felix is going to Town with Isaac tomorrow, to propose to Lady Sophia.” Her voice struggled to sound casual. “I’m not sure when we shall see him again,