But such a distrustful image had been easy to force from my mind and replace with thoughts of Harriet. I missed her. Tabitha and Elizabeth were doing their part to support my decision to pursue Mr. Clodwick, but not for the same reasons I was. Tabitha did not want me living far away, and Elizabeth feared Papa would suddenly promise her to someone in marriage should I choose Rowan instead.
Harriet, however, would take a completely different avenue of support. She would see through my confidence and force me to admit howscared I was. I would cry, and she would listen to how I hadn’t been able to write my story since RowanBeastlyAshworth had written that he was coming—how I didn’t really want to marry Clodwick, but how it was the only choice I had. Because of her situation, she would understand better than anyone.
I played with the binding of my quilted lavender coverlet—the same one I had had for half a decade. Would today be the day? Would I finally be able to write? Last night I had attempted once more to write Penelope Waters out of her tower. She was the ideal heroine, intelligent and resourceful, but she could not fathom a method of escape. Each solution I imagined was followed by Rowan’s voice in my head, criticizing and ripping it apart.
My moping had to come to an end. In the dull light of the sunrise, I threw off my coverlet and dragged myself from its warmth. Padding to my writing desk, I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from the bottom drawer. Instead of thinking of Penelope and her tower, I was determined to focus on simple words only. I scribbled a brief letter to Harriet, inviting her to come for tea again. I longed to escape and visit her, but the last two times I had gone, she had not been allowed visitors. Besides, she needed to be out of her confining house more than I did.
I sealed the letter and donned my riding clothes. I might not be able to visit Harriet, but some fresh air would help me endure another day with my two almost fiancés. After giving a footman my letter to post, I slipped off to the stables, grateful for the clear skies and decent weather. One of our groomsmen saddled up Honey for me and assisted me in mounting.
“Thank you . . .” I paused. This particular groomsman, a young man close to my own age, had only been in our employ a month or so, and I had already forgotten his name. I blamed it on my writing habits. I wasalways trying to balance all the characters’ names in my head. It was hard to manage real people’s names at the same time.
“Philip Townsend, miss.” His smile was a little too confident, but I paid it no heed.
“Thank you, Philip.”
He nodded and stepped away.
With one hand on the reins, I reached forward and stroked Honey’s amber fur. “I need a good, hard ride today, girl. Think you can manage?”
Her ears twitched in response, and I took that as a yes. I maneuvered the mare toward a clearing, and as soon as we entered it, I gave Honey a nudge. We broke into a trot, and I spurred her on to a hard gallop. We raced along the edge of a field, the stately English elms to our right, their green canopy of leaves casting a shadow on my path, making me shiver in the cool morning air. The wind whipped at my hat, pulling strands of hair across my forehead and cheeks. The steady rhythm of the horse’s gait matched the beating of my heart, and I felt like I could finally breathe.
Ahead, Nott’s Hill loomed, and I angled toward it. I rounded the side of a hill toward a path between it and a grove of trees, my destination a creek just ahead. Suddenly, a fox jumped out of the trees directly in front of us. I choked on my scream and clung to Honey as she attempted to stop her gallop cold. Her momentum was too great, and when she planted her feet, it propelled me forward.
I hit the ground with a painful thud. For a moment, shock dulled my senses, but then the pain hit again with a vengeance, and I cried out. Honey was already skittish, dancing around me, but when I let out my sharp-pitched moan, she bolted.
“Honey!” I called after her. I attempted to push myself into a sitting position, but my wrist gave out, and I collapsed again.
I bent my head to look at it. The skin was scraped and bleeding, but throbbing pain identified that the damage lay beneath the skin. No! Not my right wrist! How would I write if it was broken? A sob escaped my throat. Why was every aspect of my life falling apart?
“Arabella!” I glanced over to see Rowan on his horse, looming above me. I had not even heard him approach.
Drat! Why him? Why now?
I rapidly blinked away my tears, but I knew he had seen them. He swung off his horse and bolted to my side. I sank back, resigned to the fact that at least someone had come to my rescue.
“Blazes, Arabella. That was some fall. I was riding through the trees and saw you go down.” He ripped off his riding gloves, shoving them hastily into the waistband of his breeches. Kneeling down beside me, he carefully slid his hand under my neck. Then he lifted my head as if I were some precious treasure instead of the woman he delighted to argue with. His hand was warm on my skin and his fingers spread into my hair to support me better.
My mouth gaped open, and I stared at him.
In turn, he studied every inch of me. “Where does it hurt?” His brow furrowed with concern, and his voice was infinitely tender.
“Everywhere.” My embarrassment was real, but I hurt too badly for my pride to interfere. “I think my wrist might be broken.”
“Which one?”
“My right.” I didn’t dare move it. Fear for the diagnosis was nearly as bad as fear of more pain.
“May I?” he asked.
I pursed my eyes shut, fighting more tears. After the way I had laid into him in the library and ignored him ever since, it would serve me right ifhe tortured me while he had the chance. Still, with no one else around, I wasn’t in the position to seek a better offer. “Go ahead,” I mustered.
Rowan shifted me closer to him and gently rested my head on his lap—his lap! I was laying on Rowan Ashworth’s lap. Surely, this was not happening. Then he reached forward and carefully lifted my hand and arm. I winced but did not cry out this time.
“Can you move your fingers?”
I attempted to straighten them, and though the whole limb shook violently, I could still move my fingers with a degree of pain.
Gently, he tugged my glove off. It was strange seeing my hand in his. Perhaps I had hit my head and was imagining this whole ordeal. My eyes stole to his, which were carefully examining my hand and wrist. He was being so careful . . . so thorough.