The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  Waving him off, she turned back to Violet. “Will there be anything I can get for you, lass?”

  Violet shook her head and then winced at the pain it caused. “Where are we, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  Christian tensed. If Violet knew their precise location, she would know that he had lied to her.

  “Welcome to the North, lass. Yorkshire, to be putting it precisely.”

  “Thank you,” Violet said, apparently satisfied with that and not understanding that they were not on the way to Windermere.

  Mrs. Mitchell nodded and hurried out to retrieve the steaming jug of water she had left outside the door. Setting it on the washstand, she said, “I shall send the good doctor when he arrives.”

  “What time is it?” Violet asked him when the woman had left.

  Christian reached for his watch out of habit, but his clothing had been taken to be laundered and had not been returned to him yet. Their luggage—what had been able to be retrieved—was somewhere in another part of the Mitchells’ house. He had been too concerned with Violet to worry about the state of material possessions, except for her manuscripts. Those he had personally retrieved from her Gladstone bag and set out to dry in the kitchen with Mrs. Mitchell’s assistance and assurance that she would not read them. Christian had tried not to read them. He really had, but he hadn’t been able to help himself from reading the odd sentence and paragraph. It was as if he thirsted for any knowledge of her he could find. He would take it and squirrel it away for the bleak days when she was well away from him.

  A glance out the window confirmed his suspicions. The room had a view over a charming meadow with hills in the distance. “Early yet. Still a bit of pink on the horizon.”

  She struggled to push herself up out of her nest of pillows, so he rushed to her side to help her. “Rest,” he said. “There is no need to rise.”

  “There is need, my lord. Great need.”

  Her tone was so insistent that for a moment he could not fathom what she meant. When she looked up at him with a sort of panic in her eyes, he understood. Glancing toward the narrow armoire in the corner, he vaguely remembered Mrs. Mitchell mentioning she had tucked some clothing away in there. “I shall retrieve a dressing gown.”

  Several nondescript nightdresses in white cotton were folded neatly in a stack. A single dressing gown hung on a hook. It was faded yellow, but soft and thick. Hurrying back to her with it, he helped her put it around her shoulders and sat beside her. Once the belt was secure, he tugged the blanket away so it pooled at her hips. Trying diligently not to look at her shapely legs, he put his arm gingerly around her waist and helped her to stand. She wavered on her feet. Her left hand held tight to his shoulder.

  The white edge of a porcelain chamber pot stuck out from beneath the bed. He pushed it toward them with his bare foot. “Hold on to my arm. I can help you—”

  “No!”

  Frowning, he said, “I can help you to hover—”

  “Hover? Good God, no, I could not live with the humiliation. You must leave!” Her face was red, and she stared at him as if he had suggested she run naked through the village. “I can do this alone.”

  “Then at least allow me to retrieve Mrs. Mitchell. I am certain—”

  “Go.” She pushed him with her left hand. “I can do this alone.”

  He was not at all certain that she could, but when she refused to relent, he left her. Dr. Mitchell came up the stairs a few minutes later and found him hovering at the door.

  “You appear as anxious as an expectant father, my lord.” Dr. Mitchell laughed. He had a shock of white hair on his head with a full beard to match. His cheeks and nose seemed to be permanently red. Unlike his wife, he was rail thin.

  “She had to attend to her needs and forced me out of the room.”

  Dr. Mitchell chuckled again. “ ’Tis a good sign, lad.”

  Christian had to agree, but he did not like the idea of her being alone. “She does appear much improved today.”

  Before the physician could reply, Violet opened the door. His heart clenched at the vivid bruise that bloomed on the right side of her forehead and cheek. Otherwise, she appeared deathly pale.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, lass. We have met before, although I am certain you do not remember. My name is Dr. Mitchell.”

  Violet glanced at Christian in concern, before stepping back to let them into the room. “Good morning, Dr. Mitchell. Thank you for seeing to my care.”

  Neither the doctor nor his wife had commented on her American accent. That alone would raise suspicion if it were known that she was missing. His only hope was that the small village was isolated enough to allow them this respite. They exchanged pleasantries as Christian followed the man inside. A quick glance confirmed that the chamber pot had been pushed discreetly under the bed. “How did you fare?” He kept his voice low so as not to further her embarrassment.

  She flushed anyway. “Fine, my lord. You needn’t concern yourself.”

  He grinned at the spark of fire within her. The tight weight in his chest began to ease. She had to be improving if her spirit was firmly in place.

  “Let me help you back to bed.” To his surprise, she nodded and allowed him to put his arm around her. Her ready agreement was a sure sign of how fatigued she was.

  Once she was settled, Christian moved away to look out the window. A decent man might have left her alone with the physician to conduct his examination in private, but Christian could not stand to be away from her yet. Not when her condition was his fault. He stood, silently absorbing every moan of pain she uttered and wishing it had been him. It was the very least he deserved.

  “Very good, Lady Rochester. Very good. We shall get you fit again in no time.”

  Christian whirled. Aside from a quick mention that they were married, he had yet to tell her the story he had invented. She merely quirked an eyebrow at the name. “Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. Truly, I think the fuss is too much. I’ll be fine after a bit of rest.”

  The physician poured out a small amount of water and rinsed his hands in the porcelain basin. “Aye, plenty of rest for you.”

  “How long do you suggest we wait before we can travel?” Christian asked.

  “A sennight at the least. A fortnight would be ideal.” He turned his attention back to Violet. “You must stay abed as much as possible as long as your head is healing.” The older man had unwrapped the bandage for his inspection. “The bandage can stay off now. There is no bleeding or seepage,” he explained, picking up the cotton batting to be discarded. “Your ribs are fine and strong. I do not believe them broken, but your arm concerns me. It should stay immobilized for a few more days. Once I am satisfied healing has begun, we can consider loosening the restraint.”

  “Two weeks?” She looked positively crushed by the news. Who could blame her? She likely wanted to be far away from him.

  “What is that in a lifetime?” Dr. Mitchell teased. “Your wedding trip can proceed in due time.”

  She glanced at Christian, blushed, and looked away. Dr. Mitchell found this very amusing. “Do not concern yourself with me and Mrs. Mitchell,” the older man said. “I have already explained things to Mrs. Mitchell, and she has agreed to leave you both to your privacy when possible.”

  Violet seemed too embarrassed to respond. Christian stepped forward. “Thank you, Dr. Mitchell.”

  The man said his goodbyes and hurried out the room leaving them alone. Christian retrieved the tray from the table and settled himself in his chair beside the bed. Placing the tray on the bed beside her, he took the lid off the small bowl of porridge. “You should eat. You did not eat yesterday,” he said as he brought a spoonful to her mouth.

  She took a few bites, likely stewing over the conversation. Finally, after eating half the bowl, she said, “We are newlyweds.”

  “I thought it would make more sense give
n your age. It must be clear that we have not long been married.” He swirled the spoon in the thick porridge and readied another bite.

  “I’ve been elevated to a lady again,” she teased, taking the bite.

  “You are Lady Rochester now. I gave them the name, and they assumed the rest.”

  “Anyone with any sense would know you are a lord. It’s in your bearing.”

  “That is not a compliment, is it, coming from you?”

  She grinned. “I do have a complicated history with nobles. I don’t generally prefer them on principle.”

  He laughed. How could she be in such good spirits at a time like this? The last thing he should be doing is laughing with her. “And me?”

  “Oh, I do prefer you, my lord. I have made a rare exception.”

  She could not mean that the way he took it. Her flirting was simply girlish amusement. “Violet . . . You must know how sorry I am for this.”

  “No, my lord, do not fret.”

  “For Chrissake, call me Christian.” There should be no ceremony between them. Now that he started, he could not stop himself until he said all. “I should never have stopped you that day on the street. I should have allowed you to walk by. You would have taken the train and be in Windermere even now with a view of the lake outside the window beyond your writing desk. You should be happily finishing your manuscript, not here recovering.”

  “But you were right,” she said, putting her hand over his. “We don’t know what would have happened. Perhaps my parents would have found me at King’s Cross. Or perhaps a timely wire would have seen me delayed at a station along the tracks until they could arrive.”

  A pleasant hum traveled over his skin. Even now his body responded to her touch like a deviant. Hadn’t he done enough? Gently pulling his hand away, he ignored the hurt that crossed her eyes. “But you would have been safe.” The words came out more forcefully than he had intended, wiping the smile from her lips.

  “And potentially betrothed to Lord Ware by now. Is that what you want? Do you think I should simply accept my fate like a good little heiress? Be happy that I get to live my life in luxury?”

  “No!” he said emphatically. “Perhaps I should feel that. But even now, knowing that I almost killed you, I cannot bear the thought of Ware having you.”

  She stared at him, but it was impossible to read her thoughts. “Is that because you despise Lord Ware and can’t bear to see him get what he wants . . . or because of me?”

  “I confess initially to some pleasure in removing the object of his desire from his grasp, but it quickly became about you, Violet. You deserve better than Ware. You deserve good things in life, not the distress he would bring you.”

  The initial joy in her eyes at his confession faded with his last sentence. He had intentionally sidestepped what he knew she was asking. It was no secret that she found him attractive. Her esteem had only grown stronger every day they were together. He had spent his days subtly fanning the flames of her desire, giving her just enough to make her crave more. But he could not do that anymore. She deserved the chance to marry a man of her own choosing, not someone hoping to seduce her into it.

  Not him. He glanced down at the bowl and raked up another spoonful.

  “Then will you accept that I came with you of my own will? Do not blame yourself for the accident.” She took the bite he offered her.

  He nodded, but only because he could see no point in belaboring the conversation. He would never forgive himself for what had happened to her. “Yes.”

  “Good. Let us speak of it no more. I much prefer to discuss how grateful I am for you saving me.”

  That was another conversation he could not stomach. Saving her had never been a choice. He did not deserve to be celebrated for it. “I would much prefer that you eat and return to your sleep. We can speak of all of this later.”

  She frowned, but she didn’t argue as he made certain she ate the entire bowl of porridge.

  Chapter 15

  Temptation had never felt as visceral as it did that evening. That was the night Rose knew that the game had become her entire life, and she was willing to risk all to win.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  Several days had passed since the accident, and Violet was enjoying her first proper bath. Well, it was a hip bath, so proper was a stretch, but it was luxurious nonetheless. Mrs. Mitchell worked the lavender soap all the way down to the roots of Violet’s hair, the soft and repetitive grazing of the woman’s fingertips relaxing her.

  “Tip your head back.” The command came all too soon, but Violet obeyed, tipping her head back so that the woman could pour warm water over her hair to rinse out the soap. After a few dips of a small pitcher into a large pot hanging near the fire, Mrs. Mitchell said, “Good lass. That is done. Let us remove your bandages now.”

  Violet took in the kitchen as the woman began the tedious task of unwrapping the length of cotton fabric that swathed her ribs and held her right arm secured to her side. When she had begged for a bath instead of the usual sponge bath, Dr. Mitchell had relented on allowing her a little time out of bed to accomplish the task. Mrs. Mitchell had been gracious enough to offer her assistance, and Christian had carried her down the narrow stairs. She had told him that she could walk, but he had insisted on carrying her, to which she had conceded easily because it meant that he held her in his arms. In bed, he kept himself rigidly away from her. When she did bridge the gap between them, he never touched her with his hands. He certainly never held her.

  The kitchen was a humble room with an ancient fireplace and hearth on the long side with the window, a cast-iron range and a table for preparing food along another wall, a water pump in the corner, storage shelves, and a larger table in the middle of the room. The hip bath, a steel contraption that was so small her legs hung over the side, had been set before the fire. Modest though it was, the home was quite charming with its plaster wall and thatched roof. She found herself imagining what it must be like to live here in this tiny village with no expectations beyond raising a family and being friendly with her neighbors. She could raise children in the daytime, write in the evenings, and make love to her husband at night. Christian was the husband in her fantasy. It was a silly daydream, because life was infinitely more complicated than that, but that didn’t stop her from imagining it.

  Deep laughter drew her eye to the window. Christian sat in the warm afternoon sunshine at a small table across from Dr. Mitchell. They were playing chess, and whatever Christian had said had apparently been hilarious. Dr. Mitchell took off his glasses to wipe his eyes. She wished Christian were that at ease with her now. Their days at the inns laughing over their meals seemed far removed from this small cottage.

  “You have a good man there, lass.” Mrs. Mitchell had long since moved past formality in their relationship, a happening for which Violet was grateful. The doctor and his wife had been kind and comforting during this time. “You’re a very lucky woman.”

  The older woman was looking at Christian out the window. Mrs. Mitchell glanced down at her and raised a brow, a very knowing smile on her lips. Violet blushed and looked away, uncomfortable with the minor deception they had been forced to play out on the nice couple, especially now when she was losing all hope that Christian might come to return her affection. He had been so polite and distant. “He is a good man.”

  “What bothers you, lass?”

  Violet shook her head, staying silent as the woman took off the final pieces of bandage wrapped around her ribs and injured shoulder. She braced herself for the burning pain in her shoulder to return, but it didn’t. A tender ache replaced it, but it was a pain she could handle. She had rejected more laudanum as soon as she had been able to sit upright on her own.

  The older woman picked up a washcloth lathered with the soap and gently ran it over her bruised side. “Poor child,” she muttered.
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br />   Trying not to wince in pain, Violet looked back to the scene beyond the window. A light wind ruffled Christian’s hair, sifting through the waves like her own fingers longed to do. His clothing had been laundered and returned to him, so he wore those, giving her a new appreciation for how well they fit him. His coat stretched tight across his shoulders, making her gaze linger on their breadth, only to drop down to his chest. He had taken to leaving off his tie in favor of keeping the top buttons of his shirt unfastened. Her gaze lingered on the triangle of skin that would have been scandalously indecent back in London. She longed to press her fingertips there and feel him. He would be warm; she knew that much from the times she had pressed a hip or an arm to his side in bed as he slept. But what would his skin there feel like? Would his chest be heavily furred, like some of the men she had seen once when she had accompanied Papa to the docks? Or would he be nearly bare, like Teddy? One hot summer afternoon in Newport, she had pushed her fingers between the buttons of his shirt as they kissed.

  “He cherishes you,” Mrs. Mitchell said, that same knowing look in her eyes as she handed Violet the washcloth so that she could finish her bath. The woman turned away to attend to a stew bubbling on her stove. “I can tell, because he takes very good care of you.”

  The latter was true, if not the former. Christian had been at her bedside whenever she had needed him. He still insisted on feeding her since she was right-handed, but it seemed to her an obligation and not as exciting as it was the first day. He tried his best not to look at her as he did it. His gaze went between the food and her mouth, only looking up briefly if she spoke, and then returning to his task.

  Could she truly blame him, though? No one enjoyed looking after an invalid, which is why she had resolved to get better as quickly as possible.

  It was true that he made certain she wanted for nothing. Nothing but his affection; no, his passion. He treated her like a favored younger sister. Not a woman in whom he had interest beyond friendship. “He is a very kind person, though he would likely not admit it.”