Livvy cursed inwardly. This was her brother all over. He was so bloody nice you couldn’t help but forgive him for making your life impossible. She let out a breath of exasperation and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Very well,” she said, and stalked back to Harry’s bedroom where they’d left the earl.
Chapter Two
Still the 28th November 1818, Stir It Up Sunday.
Damned devils, blasted boots, goblins, crows, and pigs…
King was dying.
He knew it, and the fact did not much surprise him. What was a little disconcerting was the realisation that he wasn’t ready to go. He’d made a bloody mess of everything, but all the same, he wanted to carry on with a desperation that startled him. His body did not seem to be in accord with his mind. King had little to recommend him to the Almighty, though, and was in no hurry to meet him just yet, which might come as a shock to those who knew King best. The Earl of Kingston had been on the road to perdition for as long as anyone, and certainly as long as he himself, could remember. Now that the pearly gates beckoned, King was damned if he was ready to go through. Assuming of course he wasn’t due to visit a location with a far warmer clime. It would hardly be an unreasonable supposition.
The problem with living was, it was so much bloody effort. Especially right now. Right now, he was sweating and trembling, and the room was spinning in an alarming fashion. More to the point, he hadn’t the faintest idea where this room was? A dim recollection of a friendly face and an interminable carriage ride made some sort of sense, but who? And where? And now some devil was manhandling him!
“Gerroff,” he mumbled, vaguely aware of his words slurring beyond recognition.
Christ, he must have been on one hell of a bender.
“Sit him up or we’ll never get his coat off.”
The voice was feminine, tart as citrus and sharp as a knife. It cut through his tender brain and made explosions go off on the way through. Hands mauled at his person, an indignity he never would have suffered if he’d been in any state to protest. He tried again anyway, mumbling words that were incoherent even to him as the room swayed and pitched. His stomach roiled and burned, and he let out a perfectly audible “Oh God,” before he cast up his accounts on a pair of dainty blue slippers.
“Son of a—”
“Livvy!”
Charlie snapped her name, censure glinting in his blue eyes. His disapproval was evident and Livvy knew well enough that he was frustrated by her, but then the feeling was mutual. They were siblings, and they loved each other dearly, but they were as alike as snow and sand.
“He’s ruined my slippers,” Livvy replied, impressed with the restraint she showed in not simply walking out the door and leaving them to it…except then the blasted earl took their attention by passing out cold.
Charlie sent Spargo to clear get the necessary to clear up the mess whilst they dealt with the earl. By the time they’d wrestled him out of his coat, waistcoat, and boots so splendid the cost of them could have kept the family fed for an entire year, Livvy was breathless.
“Help me with this,” Charlie said, cursing as he tugged up the fine linen shirt that was now rumpled and stained with sweat and vomit.
Livvy blinked and then let out a huff of laughter. This was Charlie all over. He would scold her for not being more ladylike and for swearing like a navvy, and then expect her to help him undress one of his friends without batting an eyelid. Sometimes he forgot she was a young, unmarried woman…well, unmarried, anyway. Then he’d remember that her marrying a rich man would solve all their problems and remind her to watch her mouth, make more effort with her hair, and not to ride astride, even if no one was looking. Not that he would sell her to the highest bidder—as if such a thing existed—for he loved her too well for that, but he’d get a wistful look in his eyes that made her stomach roil.
Livvy kicked off her soiled slippers and stepped gingerly around the revolting mess on the polished floorboards. At least he’d missed the rug. Charlie had gotten both of the earl’s arms free of the shirt but was struggling to get it over his head. With a bit of careful tugging and shifting, they got it free and then Livvy found herself staring down at a chest of such magnificent proportions she could only blink. Lord, but the man was big. Big and muscular and hairy. None of the Boscawen men were built like this fellow. When they all went sea bathing in the summer, Livvy had noted a scattering of golden hair on her brother’s chest, but….
A low groan rumbled through the object of her attention and she realised he was trembling hard, almost panting, his breath coming in hard little gasps. His skin was grey, with dark circles beneath his wild, feverish, rolling eyes.
“No, get away, get away….” He swiped an uncoordinated hand out towards some unseen object, and Livvy jumped back out of the way. “Devils, you’ll not have me, not yet, not today. N-Not ready to die.”
Livvy shot an uncertain glance at her brother, who gave a tight smile.
“When a man has drunk as much and for as long as King… well, when a fellow finally stops, he… he sees things that are not there, as the alcohol leaves his body. He’ll be wretched for a good few days, but little by little he’ll come about. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known.”
“He’s a foul creature, Charlie, can’t you see that?” Livvy said, shaking her head at the wreck of a man before them. “You must have read the scandals, seen the print shop caricatures. He’s a libertine, a hell-born babe, and this man will be here, among your family, for Christmas.”
“Ah, Livvy, where’s your sense of charity? Goodwill to all men, remember?”
Livvy snorted and looked her brother in the eyes. “I remember, and I’ll remember to tell Harry the same when you admit you can’t afford to send him to university, and Susan when she realises there will be no come out for her. Yet we must share our meagre Christmas luxuries with a man who’ll just turn around and destroy himself all over again.”
Livvy turned on her heel, trying not to let the stricken look in her brother’s eye make guilt stab in her heart as if it had been pierced with a blade. When had she become so cruel, so callous? She had never been one to see a fellow creature suffer, never been one to stint on charity. Yet the past years had hardened her, dried her up into the desiccated old spinster she was destined to become.
Only four and twenty, she reminded herself as a panicky sensation rose in her chest. Only four and twenty. Not old, not so old, not yet. It didn’t matter. She may as well be ninety-four. She was trapped here, beloved auntie to her nieces and nephews, skivvy to her kind-hearted, ridiculous brother and his feckless wife, and there was no escape.
King lurched in and out of consciousness, unable to tell which was which. His dreams were lavish nightmares, scenes of debauchery in a fiery landscape where brimstone singed the colourful gowns of beautiful women. Except they weren’t women at all, but devils in disguise, demons waiting to devour the next lustful man who turned his attention their way. There were pitchers filled with wine that turned to thick, bubbling black tar if he tried to drink and burned and burned, searing him from the inside until his lungs blistered and his stomach roasted from within. Occasionally he woke, or thought he did, to a simple bedroom with whitewashed walls and fire that burned in the hearth. For a little while happiness would fill him up, tears stinging his eyes at the relief of discovering himself still alive, still in the world after his brush with hell. The linen sheets were worn smooth and soft, and smelled faintly of lavender… but then he’d see it sitting in the corner, a deformed, gnarled devil grinning at him, drawing back thin black lips, wrinkling skin like an alligator to bare rows and rows of dagger-like teeth as it laughed and laughed.
“Please,” he begged, shaking his head. “Please, no… no….”
It seemed that Livvy was not quite as cruel as she’d believed herself to be, as the Earl of Kingston suffered through a third day of bone-racking shaking and sweating and whatever it was that terrified him so he wept like a littl
e boy. She stayed with him through it, wiping his brow and murmuring reassuring words, holding his hand when he was so terribly afraid.
He was a handsome devil, she’d give him that. Even with his skin the colour of rancid milk, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat, and the stench of sickness clinging to him, he was beautiful. It was a dark, harsh kind of beauty, like the Cornish coast that sparkled like a sapphire on a clear day and would wreck an unwary ship with ease if it got too close. Finding safe harbour in those strong arms was an illusion though, and she wondered how many foolish young ladies he’d ruined. Just as well she was past the age where she believed a man could change his character. A good-natured fool would ever be thus, and a rogue would be nothing more. Pretty he might be, but the Earl of Kingston had the morals of a tom cat and, if he was suffering now, it was no more than he deserved.
Still, she was not vindictive, despite her earlier harshness to her brother, so here she sat by the fiend’s bedside again, attempting to spoon a little chicken broth down his throat. He coughed and spluttered, but managed a few spoonfuls, though some dribbled down his chin. Livvy reached for the napkin in her lap and dabbed it away, then yelped as a hand as strong as a vice clamped about her wrist. Her gaze flew to his, and she gasped. His eyes were dark, so dark they were almost black and burning with intensity.
“Who are you? Are you another devil?” he growled.
“L-Livvy,” she stammered, immediately furious with herself. Why on earth had she given her first name, her pet name? She straightened her spine, meeting his gaze and firming her tone. “I am Miss Olivia Penrose. Sister to Lord Boscawen. You’re in our home, my lord.”
For a moment he just stared at her, then he looked so bewildered she almost laughed.
“Y-You’re… you’re real?” he asked, his voice raspy and cracked.
Livvy nodded, realising this was his first lucid moment since he’d arrived. No wonder he was disorientated. “I am.”
“Livvy,” he repeated, and passed out.
His grip loosened on her wrist. She tugged herself free and let out a shaky breath. Well, that was what she got for playing the good Samaritan. She ought not be here at all, alone in a room with such a man. Yet their one and only maid would not come near him, Gelly had no time, and Spargo was helping one of the tenants repair yet another hole in the roof. They were paying the tenant with two of their spring lambs. It was a good exchange, though still more they could afford, yet it had to be done before the entire west wing collapsed. Oh, and Charlie… Charlie was walking with Ceci in the garden because his beloved looked peaked this morning and needed some air. That Charlie had brought Lord Kingston here in a fit of human charity was one thing, but actually dealing with the result of that kindness was something he’d not have given a second thought. Hardly anything new there. No, she scolded herself, she would not be bitter and mean-spirited. There was a job that needed doing and she’d done it because no one else would
At least Kingston was sleeping now, and a little more peacefully than before. Livvy reached over and straightened his covers, tucking them in and trying not to notice his powerful chest as she did so. They’d not bothered trying to wrestle him into a nightshirt. On their first attempt he’d given Spargo a black eye, and Livvy had proclaimed that quite enough of an effort to make the man decent. He was clearly beyond saving, and she doubted very much it would be the first time he’d slept in the altogether. A wicked corner of her mind could not help but be pleased about it, though. She was resigned to the fact she would never marry, but she took no pleasure in it. So what if her curious brain was gratified to see what a naked man looked like in the flesh? One that wasn’t her brother, anyway, and she’d not seen him since he was a young man, skinny dipping. It wasn’t as if she’d have another chance, either. Still, she wasn’t so lost to propriety as to peek beneath the bedcovers, and she’d turned her back when her brother and Spargo had removed the man’s breeches. He might have no sense of decency, but she did, and she’d not invade a man’s privacy in such a way when he was out of his senses. Besides, if even a fraction of the rumours about the man were true, he’d show her himself with very little encouragement. That thought made her cheeks burn, and she hurried from his bedchamber as fast as she could.
King peeled back one wary eyelid. He thought perhaps he was still alive, but wasn’t about to put money on it, if they even had such a thing as coin in the hereafter. Then again, if he was dead, he would likely be roasting over some fiery pit and, whilst he certainly felt ghastly enough to be dead, he was cold. Shivering, in fact.
He jolted as the door to his chamber opened, the sound like a bullet to his brain. Except this wasn’t his bedchamber. Uncertain of where he was or with whom, he closed his eye again and played dead. Facing anyone right at this moment did not appeal. Hopefully it was just a maid to see to the fire or, better yet, his valet. Come to think of it, where was his bloody valet? The least the devil could do was bring him a drink, for he needed one so badly he was trembling with it... or was that the cold? Both, he decided. This room was like a bloody icebox, and he needed a brandy.
Soft footsteps padded towards the window and King slitted open his eyes again to investigate, and cursed as a figure flung back the curtains. He had a fleeting impression of a female form before the light seared his eyeballs and forced him to look away. The evil fiend who tortured him then compounded their efforts by opening the bloody window.
“S-Shut the d-damned window and close the c-curtains,” he stammered to whatever witless maid had dared do such an idiotic thing, infuriated by how weak and feeble he sounded.
“Ah, you have deigned to grace us with your presence, at last. Good afternoon, my lord Kingston, and no, I will do no such thing. The room needs airing, it smells like something died in here and, as you’ve decided not to do the world such a favour, we must have some fresh air.”
King opened his eyes again, wide this time, so affronted by the temerity of the young woman who worked in this establishment that he was momentarily lost for words.
“I’ll have you dismissed, you impudent wench!”
The outrageous creature just snorted in amusement. “I’d like to see you try.”
King blinked, trying his best to focus on the fuzzy image which appeared to have some misshapen hump on its back. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a baby, strapped to the woman by means of a long swathe of fabric. King watched the babe and the woman wearing it suspiciously, assuming at any moment that one or the other of them would grow horns and a tail, and gnash pointy teeth in his direction. However, the hallucination—for it could be nothing else—took a different direction this time, and he watched a sleek black bird fly in the window and settle on the disrespectful female’s shoulder.
“Good day to you, Mr Moon,” the woman said to the bird. “Gelly has saved some lovely bacon rind for you if you go and tap on the kitchen window.”
The crow, for that was what Mr Moon appeared to be, gave an ear-shattering squawk and flew back out the way it had come.
King swallowed. Good God, he’d lost his bloody mind.
Livvy watched her pet crow fly away to the kitchens and turned back to face their unwanted guest. He was staring at her with undisguised horror. He was also shivering so hard his teeth were chattering. No wonder he’d wanted the window closed, she thought with a stab of guilt. Still, she would not let him fester in such a fetid atmosphere. Her grandfather had been a strong believer in the power of fresh air and exercise, and she’d never had cause to doubt his word as he’d been as hale and hearty at seventy as any man twenty years his junior. If only he’d not fallen from his horse, perhaps they’d not be in this terrible mess, but there was no point in lamenting that fact all over again. With a sigh, Livvy went and stirred up the fire, getting a hearty blaze going again. She’d air the room for half an hour, and it would warm up soon enough once the window was closed. In the meantime, she’d put another blanket on his bed.
Once Livvy had pulled the blanket out
of the chest where such things were kept, she moved back to the bed, a little alarmed to see King pull his legs up and scramble away from her.
“Stay back,” he said, breathless with terror. “You’ll not have me.”
“I don’t want you,” Livvy said in disgust. “I can’t imagine why you’d suppose I would.”
She moved closer and King made a sound of distress, staring at her with wild eyes.
“No!” he said, shaking his head, breathing as though he’d been running for miles. “No, I won’t go.”
“No one’s asking you—” Livvy began and then realised. Oh, Lord. He was still seeing things. No doubt he thought she was some goblin or demon, come to carry him off to the fiery pits. Summoning her most calm and reasonable voice, the one she used on unruly children, she tried again. “Lord Kingston, you’ve been very unwell, and I know you are all about in your head at present, but I promise you I am no devil come to take you into the darkness. I’m Miss Olivia Penrose, and I just wish to put this blanket on the bed to make you more comfortable.”
Kingston stared at her for a long moment. So long she wondered if he had lost his wits entirely.
“L-Livvy?” he asked cautiously.
Livvy sighed. “Miss Penrose.”
He hesitated.
“There was… a bird.”
Good heavens, she supposed that would seem odd. Especially if one had just left off seeing things that one ought not.
“Oh. Yes, my crow. Mr Moon. He’s quite harmless, I assure you.”
Kingston looked doubtful.
Livvy turned towards the sound of the door opening and her heart sank as Jane came in, followed by a black piglet. Kingston squeezed his eyes shut.
The Girl is Not For Christmas: A Christmas Regency Romance Novel Page 2