Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor, #3) by Christi Caldwell

stairwell? A memory trickled in.
    “...Oh, Derek. You mustn’t. You’ll fall...”
    “...Ah, but how do you not know, Edeline, I am quite invincible...
    His mind echoed with remembered laughter. He started. Where in blazes had those thoughts come from? He violently thrust the memory aside. “What would you have me do?” He wrapped his words in silken steel. “Fetch her myself?” At the man’s hesitation, he narrowed his eye all the further. By God, the man was cracked in the head.
    Harris cleared his throat. “B-but she—” Those words ended abruptly as Derek shoved to his feet with a black curse. A mottled flush marred the man’s pale cheeks.
    Derek limped across the room. At the abruptness of his quick strides, the muscles of his legs tightened. He forcibly tapped the bottom of his cane into the floor as he walked, fixing on the grating staccato rhythm instead of the pain of moving the blasted leg. “Speak to the girl’s bloody nursemaid and leave me,” he growled as he stopped before the sideboard. He leaned his cane against the rosewood surface and then reached for the nearest decanter.
    Once more the servant cleared his throat and Derek glanced back. Ruddy color continued to mar the man’s cheeks. “Sh-she left, Your Grace.” Harris shot a desperate look over his shoulder at the door.
    “Is something the matter with your throat?” With bottle in hand, he spun about, his movements less polished and elegant than his unfaltering steps years earlier. Back when he’d been a whole man not reviled as the beast he was.
    His butler cocked his head. “My th-throat?” Clearing his throat yet again, he said, “Er, n-no, Your Grace. Thank you for your concern.”
    “I wasn’t concerned, Harrison,” he bit out.
    The other man blinked rapidly. “Er, right. Of course.” He paused, his brow furrowed as though he were pained. “And it is Harris , Your Grace.”
    Derek didn’t give a damn if the man before him was the good Lord himself on the day of reckoning. He yanked the stopper from the decanter and tossed it to the sideboard. “Stop clearing your throat in that manner. It is bloody grating.” The color leeched from Harris’ cheeks. At one time he’d have felt compunction for talking so to any person. Back then, in the ballrooms upon the Continent, Derek had not only been favored by widows and ladies alike, but his company had been desired by all. Brilliant soldier. Charming gentleman. An ugly chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. If only those same people could see what he’d become. He grabbed a glass from the otherwise immaculate surface and poured himself a measure of brandy. Now, he was rightfully feared. Glass in hand, he grabbed his cane and limped back over to his leather seat, considering the matter of the girl at an end.
    Harrison or Harris or whatever in blazes he called himself, was of an entirely different mindset. The tenacious man raised his hand and cleared his throat, but then seemed to remember what he did, for he let his hand fall to his side. With a courage, or perhaps idiocy Derek would have at one time admired, the butler put his shoulders back and yanked on his lapels. “Lady Flora had a governess. She has not since...” He flushed. Again. “Since...”
    “What?” Derek snapped.
    “Since—” He gulped. Ah, yes, the lovely young woman who’d had the misfortune of stepping into the same hall he’d been. She’d taken one glimpse at his scarred face and, with horror stamped on her face, had turned on her heel and fled. Apparently she’d fled the damned townhouse, altogether. Smart girl. “The girl is leading the servants a ch—”
    He downed a long sip. “Davies sees to the girl’s care, does he not?” After all, the man saw to all his business.
    “N-no, er y-yes. Uh...” In the absence of a suitably proper reply, Harris clamped his lips tight and rocked on his heels. So, he wasn’t altogether a total lackwit. With the rapidity of servants and staff fleeing,