The paper was ripped from her hands.
Rothbury crumpled it in one hand and tossed it in the grate. “Insignificant.”
Insignificant?
Balderdash.
Izzy knew the contents of that letter had been significant. So significant, he couldn’t even bear to confront them, so he’d snatched them from her grip and destroyed the truth.
But there was another significant fact to be dealt with, and it had nothing to do with correspondence at all.
She stared at him. “You deceitful rogue. You’re not blind.”
Chapter Nine
You’re not blind,” she repeated.
The statement took him by surprise, but not in an unwelcome way. He would discuss his wretched eyesight all day long if she forgot ever opening that damned letter. The foolish chit who’d penned it should have saved her ink. If forgiveness had been beyond him then, it was utterly hopeless now.
“I am blind,” he informed Miss Goodnight. “Why would I pretend it if I weren’t?”
“But you just crossed those five paces and ripped a page directly from my hand, with no hesitation. No fumbling.” She paused. “And every so often, the way you look at me . . . I’ve wondered. Sometimes it seems you’re completely blind, and at other times it doesn’t.”
“That’s because sometimes I am completely blind, and other times I’m not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You, and the entirety of the medical establishment. There’s some damage to the nerve, I’m told. Inside. It’s variable. At certain hours of the day, I can make out shapes and shadows. A few muted colors. On my left side, particularly. Other times, it’s all a dark fog. I’m at my best in the mornings.”
She slowly pushed back in her chair and stood. “What do you see when you look at me? Precisely.”
He let his eyes flitter over her. “I don’t see anything ‘precisely.’ I can tell you’re slender. I can see you’re wearing white, or some light color. Your face is pale, your lips are reddish. And there appears to be a dark brown octopus attacking your head.”
“That’s my hair.”
Ransom shrugged. “You asked what I see. I see tentacles.”
He could sense her irritation with that answer, and he was glad of it. What was she expecting, compliments? He wasn’t about to tell her that her mouth was a splash of wine he wanted to lick. Or that her rounded curves made his hands ache to cup and stroke. Even if those things were the truth.
“Who else knows the full extent of your injuries?” she asked.
“Only a few useless doctors, Duncan, and . . . and now you.”
Ransom intended to keep it that way. He’d had enough trouble wrestling his own stupid hope into submission. He couldn’t contend with others’ expectations, too. If Abigail Pelham knew he could sometimes see, for example, she’d be forever pestering him. She’d write to London specialists for eye-training exercises, and she’d ask him a thousand questions.
Is it getting better yet?
Do you notice some improvement?
Does this make any difference?
How about now?
And now?
And, of course, the answers would be nothing but no, no, no, no.
And no.
“Enough about my eyes. There are only two things you need to know. One, I can navigate this castle better than you can. Two, I can’t read those letters on my own.” Ransom returned to the sofa and took his seat. “So pick up the next and get on with it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Happily, this time she selected a dry, boring report from one of his land agents. Timmons, at the Surrey estate. A very thorough man, bless him. There were pages upon pages of sheep-health advisements and crop-rotation plans.
He could have cut her off one page into the reading. There was nothing he expressly needed to hear about improvements to the old stables. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop her.
He liked listening to her read. He liked it far too much. Listening to her voice was like floating along a river. Not a babbling stream, bouncing over rocks and such, but a river of wild honey with depth and a low, sweet melody. To keep afloat, he would have let her read just about anything. Even those soppy stories from Menstrualia, or whatever it was called.
“Here’s another from the accountant,” she said, after some time had passed.
Excellent. Another long, meaningless list of information for her to read. However, she hadn’t progressed very far into it before stopping.
“That’s odd,” she said.
“What’s odd?”
“Your expenses with the costermonger have quadrupled when compared to the previous report.”
“What of it? It’s the costermonger.”
“Well, yes . . . and it’s not exactly a great sum. But it’s odd that your housekeeper would have suddenly spent four times as much on vegetables. You weren’t even in residence by then.”
Ransom supposed it was a bit odd.
“Never mind,” she said. “I only notice because I always paid those sorts of household accounts. The butcher, the costermonger, the laundress. It wouldn’t be important to you.”
No, it wouldn’t. Such an expense would have been completely beneath Ransom’s notice. Which suggested one thing: If someone was trying to steal from him, padding the costermonger bill was the perfect way to do it.
“Let’s compare the two reports again.” He walked over to the table and joined her. “In detail, slowly.”
“Give me a moment to find it.”
Miss Goodnight wasn’t the secretary he would have chosen. But she might have just the critical eye he needed. Considering the amounts of money his solicitors had access to use—and potentially misuse—she could turn out to be a bargain.
But they didn’t have a chance to begin their scrutiny of the accounts.
“Miss Goodnight!”
Ransom groaned. Miss Pelham was back.
“Miss Goodnight, doubt not! We have returned. I have all my things from the vicarage, and our cook and housemaid will be coming along shortly to help us get started.”
“Wonderful,” Miss Goodnight called back, rising from her chair. “I’ll be right there.” To Ransom she said, “We’ll have to continue this tomorrow, Your Grace.”
“Hold a moment,” Ransom objected. “I’m not waiting until tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid there’s no choice.”
Oh, that’s where she was wrong. He was a duke. He always had the choice.