Chapter 11

It all happened so fast that it took Anna’s stunned mind a moment or two to catch up to the scene in front of her, and her part in it. She had not struck the ball with the intention of hitting Percival at all; she had meant for her fury to prove him wrong and drive the ball through the hoop. But she could not take the swing back now.

Across the bowling green, Percival swayed and sank down onto his behind, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. The merciless ball had landed on the grass a short distance from him, and though she had accidentally struck him, she still had not managed to get a single ball through a hoop.

Dropping the mallet, she ran to him.

Let me see it,” she urged, as Percival held his hand to the side of his face and winced.

“What did you do that for?” He kept his hand where it was.

Anna tried to pull his hand away. “Would you let me see it?”

“So you can marvel at your masterpiece?” he muttered.

“Percival, I did not do it on purpose,” she said frantically. “You have seen—and, indeed, commented—on my atrocious skill. If I had aimed for you, I would have missed by a league or more. Please, just let me see it.”

A shadow fell across her, and a gentle hand came to rest upon her shoulder. “Anna, dearest, I think it might be wise if we took His Grace inside to tend to his wound.”

Anna peered up into the concerned eyes of Beatrice. “I… did not mean to hurt him.”

“Everyone knows that, dear one.” Beatrice smiled. “Nevertheless, if some of these ladies see the slightest hint of blood, they shall start toppling like dominoes. Then, there might be more wounds to tend to. Come, let us retreat inside.”

Anna nodded, her mind in a daze.

Meanwhile, Beatrice whistled for assistance, and two of her loyal footmen came running. Thankfully, they were in their ordinary livery that day instead of togas, or they might have fallen over themselves too. Some of the ladies present were starting to look very unsteady, prompting the nearest gentlemen to brace in case they were called upon to catch any fainting women.

“Please, help His Grace into the western drawing room,” Beatrice instructed the footmen. “And have the accident box fetched, once His Grace is comfortably situated.”

The footman nodded their assent and stooped to each take one of Percival’s arms. He did not resist as they helped him to his feet, though the movement caused his hand to come away from the side of his face.

Anna stifled a gasp of her own as she saw the damage she had caused—a cut and a livid patch of red that would surely bruise. “I promise, I did not mean to hurt you.”

Percival squinted at her. “Do you think that makes it hurt less?”

“No, but…” Anna did not know what else to say.

Fortunately, Dickie always knew how to contend with awkward situations—usually, the ones he created for himself, but nevertheless, he jumped into action.

Clapping his hands together, he drew the attention of the small crowd. “Let us venture into the summer house for refreshments! While you are all quenching your thirsts and sating your hunger, I shall prepare another glorious game for us all to play.” He flashed a winning smile. “All I can tell you, for now, is that it shall involve a blindfold.”

It was the perfect distraction as the footmen carried Percival away, and Anna glanced between him and her friends, uncertain of what to do next.

“You have had a nasty shock,” Beatrice said softly, weaving her arm through Anna’s. “You should retreat inside too, until you feel yourself again.”

Anna allowed herself to be led, coming to her senses with each steady foot she placed upon the lawn, comforted by Beatrice’s presence at her side. Still, she would have taken back every unkind word she had ever said to Percival if she could just undo that swing.

Once inside the western drawing room, entering through the garden doors, Anna could not bear to look at what she had done. Percival lay across a jacquard settee, his face contorted in pain, while a trickle of blood made its way down to his lip.

Before she could stop herself, she was at his side, whipping her handkerchief out of her pocket. It was one of her favorites, made of purest white silk, but she did not care as she pressed it to that escaping rivulet of scarlet.

He blinked in surprise. “Have you not done enough?”

She ignored him, concentrating on soaking up all the blood.

“I will fetch the box of things I keep for such events,” Beatrice announced, though Anna was certain she had instructed the footmen to do that on her behalf. And the footmen were no longer there.

She turned to protest, but Beatrice had already gone, closing the drawing room door behind her with a soft click. For the first time since Anna had found Percival ransacking her bedchamber, they were alone together.

Getting up from where she knelt at Percival’s side, she found a jug of water on the side and brought it back. Resuming her position, she dipped the handkerchief straight into the jug and wrung it out. She took her time with every action, knowing that when she had nothing to busy her hands with, she would have to say something.

“Move your hand,” she said quietly.

With a frown, Percival did, revealing the grim extent of the injury.

“It is only a small cut,” she said thickly, “but you will have the kind of bruise that will elicit plenty of questions. Fortunately, there are many ladies who find scars and bruises rather attractive. Rugged.”

His dark green eyes pinched as she lightly pressed the damp cloth to the cut. “So, you have done me a favor?”

“I would not say that.” She swallowed uncomfortably. “I… am sorry, Percival. If I had known the ball would hit you, I would have insisted on someone taking the mallet out of my hand. In truth, I did not know I possessed that sort of strength.”

He gazed up at her with a softness in his eyes that made her stomach feel strange, like she had consumed the salmon again. He did not seem otherwise delirious, but she chose to blame the change in his demeanor on the enormous bruise that was blossoming on the side of his head anyway.

“I doubt any of us knew you possessed that sort of strength,” he said. “I would not have taunted you if I had.”

Anna shook her head, urging her hand to cease trembling. “No, do not try and blame this on a taunt. I am well-versed in taunts. I should not have allowed it to… bother me so, nor is it any excuse for what I have done.” She cleared her dry throat. “All I wanted was to get the ball through the hoop, to prove to you that I could.”

“If my skull had been a hoop, Anna,” he said faintly, “you would have succeeded and then some.”

She slowly met his eyes again. Anna?

Had he ever called her that before? If he had, it had never been with such… gentleness. And, for a moment, she thought he might be about to smile. Not a smirk or a cold laugh, but a real smile.

“I am sorry,” she repeated.

He brought his hand up to cover hers, pressing the damp cloth more firmly against the side of his face. The gesture was so smooth, so unexpected, that she did not think to draw her hand away. And the longer he left his palm there, flush against her hand, the less she did want to draw away. Indeed, the least she could do was offer a hint of comfort to him after the mess she had made of him.

“I am sorry,” he told her. “I am sorry for the things I said last night. I am sorry for the things I said at the bowling green. I am sorry for… many of the things I have said to you.”

He must be delirious… It is the only explanation. Heat pricked at Anna’s eyes, until she was not certain if she wanted to cry or scold him. Evidently, she had been holding on to her hurt, waiting for someone to tell her that she could let go of it; she had not realized she had been waiting for his apology, in order to do that.

“I have behaved badly,” he continued, “but I want you to know that there are… reasons to my actions, to the things I say that might seem thoughtless.”

Anna remained silent, too curious to risk breaking whatever spell was upon Percival, making him speak so gently and so freely.

“I despise love, Anna,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “When I hear anyone speak of it in high regard, it makes me want to crush every mention of it, every belief in it, under my boot. I was not lying when I agreed with Dickie—I know that love is a trick. I know it makes people do foolish things that, otherwise, they would not do. It is not a heaven-sent emotion; it comes from the other place.”

A small gasp of protest slipped from Anna’s lips, the sound opening Percival’s eyes once more.

“No,” she said. “I will not believe that. Not even for a moment. Love is the purest feeling there is.”

He smiled thinly. “We might disagree, but will you listen?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then, please let me tell you a story.” He sighed and swallowed, his throat bobbing. “A story for your collection, that very few know.”