By late afternoon, James’s health took a turn for the worse. His fever rose, and delirium set in. He thrashed about in the bed, mumbling. The doctor and Reilly removed his nightshirt. The physician lowered the blankets to James’s waist, while Reilly opened the windows in hopes an air bath would lower the fever.
Several hours later, James was once again calm. Caroline didn’t know whether that was a good sign. Dr. Clark had left to deliver a tenant’s baby, but before he’d gone, he’d told her he didn’t believe James had typhoid fever, since a rash still hadn’t appeared, though he’d contracted some infection from the stagnant water in the trench.
Pulling her shawl tighter to her shoulders, Caroline paced the cool room. A soft knock sounded, intruding on the nearly overwhelming silence. Reilly opened the door. Caroline caught a glimpse of Langley. Hushed conversation between the valet and the butler filtered into the room, too low to be understood.
Her gaze swung back to her husband. Had he made a noise? Her heart picked up speed. She leaned forward and rubbed his arm. “James, I’m here. What is it, darling?”
The peaceful yet somehow disquieting expression on James’s face remained unchanged. Had she only imagined he’d spoken?
“My lady.” Reilly gently touched her arm. “A Mr. Hinklesmith has arrived from London.”
Hinklesmith? What was the editor doing here at Trent Hall? “Was my husband expecting him?”
“I’m not sure, madam. But I think you should speak with the man.”
Almost violently, she shook her head. “I cannot leave. I’m positive James will awaken shortly.”
“I’m sure he will. If he does, madam, someone will come for you. I believe James . . . his lordship, would want you to hold this meeting in his stead.”
The way the valet guarded over James with such a solemn countenance and his occasional use of her husband’s first name clearly indicated the two men held a bond. Did he know she was C. M. Smith? Had James confided in him?
“Come. Let me accompany you. I believe he is here because of C. M. Smith.” He offered his hand.
He knows. “You are more than a valet to my husband, Mr. Reilly, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I consider him my closest friend. Odd, considering our varied stations, but I believe he feels the same with regard to me. If Hinklesmith is here, I think I know why, and his lordship would wish you to know those reasons. Langley will stay with him.”
Reluctantly, she stood. “I’ll only be a minute, James. Only a minute.”
Mr. Hinklesmith stopped pacing when she and Reilly entered the yellow drawing room. The editor pushed his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his thin nose. “I will not be put off. I must speak with Lord Huntington.”
“My husband cannot meet with you now, sir.”
“But I insist!”
Caroline squared her shoulders. “You may insist all you wish, but it will not change what I’ve said.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Might I ask what has brought you from London?” she inquired.
“Indeed, you may.” Hinklesmith withdrew a letter from his inside breast pocket. “I wish Lord Huntington to explain the meaning of this missive I received yesterday. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Stepping closer, the editor shook the paper at her.
The low noise Reilly uttered sounded like a growl. “You will address Lady Huntington with due respect before I forget myself, sir.”
The editor paled. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand this directive. His lordship was livid with C. M. Smith when he came to see me. He insisted I forward all the journalist’s correspondence to him. Now, he has handed over possession of the newspaper to Smith. It doesn’t make sense!”
Caroline pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea what you refer to. What do you mean, possession to C. M. Smith?”
“Yes, his note says the suffragist is the new owner of the London Reformer.” He spit out the word suffragist as if it was poison leaching into his mouth.
She took the letter from the man’s white-knuckled hand.
Be informed I have transferred ownership of the newspaper to C. M. Smith. If the journalist so chooses, she will assume the editor-in-chief role.
“He wanted the journalist’s blood,” Hinklesmith continued. “Now, the dashed woman is to oversee the publication. I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” She wet her dry lips and turned to Reilly.
He offered a weak smile. “It is what your husband wants.”
Hinklesmith cleared his throat, drawing attention back to him. “Am I to work for C. M. Smith? A woman. I shan’t do it. I shall resign first.”
Caroline stared at the man. “I thought you understood the women’s movement.”
The editor harrumphed. “I published her articles because they sold newspapers. No other reason. Sensationalism. That was all!”
The man was worse than a turncoat. Caroline steeled her spine. “If you wish to quit, so be it. You may send your letter of resignation to me.”
Red blotches colored Hinklesmith’s face. “To you?”
“Yes. For it appears I am the new owner.”
Hinklesmith’s mouth gaped. “You?”
“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Reilly stepped up to the man. “You’ve taken enough of Lady Huntington’s time. I’ll see you to the door.”
Hinklesmith frowned. “B-but, I don’t understand.”
“Then I fear you are a bit thick-headed. Now, come along.” Reilly grabbed the man’s arm.
Hinklesmith pulled his arm free and stormed from the room.
Reilly held her gaze. “His lordship sent the letter two days ago by messenger.”
“But my article? It was on James’s desk.”
Reilly smiled. “After James bought the paper, he was quite furious with C. M. Smith. It was then that he instructed Hinklesmith to forward all Smith’s correspondence to him. He’d have returned it to the editor and told him to publish it, but instead he instructed his solicitor to sign the newspaper over to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reilly. Thank you for explaining this to me.”
Skirts lifted in her hands, Caroline raced down the corridor and stepped back into the bedchamber. Her heart sank at the sight of James’s still body.
The solemn-faced butler unfolded himself from the bedside chair.
“Langley, did his lordship say anything while I was away?”
The butler peered at the floor. “No, madam.”
“Well, I feel quite sure he will.”
The expression on Langley’s face clearly implied he thought her mistaken. He was wrong. James would wake. She was sure of it. She couldn’t say why, but . . . Oh, he had to. Her fingers flexed against the letter Mr. Hinklesmith had brought. It proved James still loved her and would support her career.
“Is there anything you need, madam?” Langley asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Will you close the door behind you, Langley?” She wanted to be alone with her husband.
“Yes, madam.” The butler hesitated, then strode from the room.
Caroline walked to the bed and pressed a gentle kiss to James’s mouth. She jerked back. Had his lips moved? Pressed against hers? “James?”
Silence.
She rubbed at her eyes. She was tired. Too tired to think straight. She sat in the bedside chair and rested her head on the upholstered back. “James,” she whispered, her eyelids drifting closed. “Please, don’t leave me.”
Caroline awoke to find the bedchamber dim. Moonlight seeped around the edges of the drawn curtains. For several minutes, she studied the rise and fall of James’s chest. Was his breathing more even now? Or was that just wishful thinking?
A movement drew her attention to Anthony, who snored softly in the chair next to hers, his chin resting on his chest. She glanced at the clock. Past midnight.
“Anthony.” She touched his arm.
His head jerked up.
He blinked.
“Go to bed. When James wakes, I’ll send for you.”
He rolled his shoulders. “No, I should—”
“Nonsense, you need to rest. Tomorrow we will send for Dr. Trimble. The London physician will know what to do.”
He stood and patted her hand. “I pray you’re right.”
“I am.”
As soon as Anthony closed the door, Caroline pulled back the covers and crawled into the bed to snuggle up to her husband. She wanted to lock the door and tell everyone to stay away. But they loved him, as well. What would they say when they returned and found her sleeping beside him? She didn’t care if they called her shameless. The only thing that mattered was James knowing she loved him and remained by his side.
“You are strong, James. Stronger than any man I know. Promise me you will get better.” She smoothed her hand over his chest. Was his skin cooler? Yes. Surely, that was a positive sign. “Have I thanked you for the newspaper? I shall not enjoy it unless you are by my side.” She burrowed closer into the crook of his arm.
James’s fingers pressed against her back.
Heart fluttering, she scrambled onto her knees and stared at him.
Nothing. No movement. Good Lord, was she imagining things? Going mad?
His lashes fluttered.
She grabbed his shoulders and fought the urge to shake him. “James?”
He cocked an eye open and peered at her. “It’s the dead of night, Caroline. What is the matter?” he asked, his voice a raspy whisper.
“James!” She cradled his jaw in her hands and scattered little kisses over every inch of his handsome face. “You’re awake!”
He rubbed the back of his head. “Hard to sleep, love, with you screaming.” His eyes narrowed. “What in blazes are you doing in bed with your clothes on? Have you been at the whisky again?”
“Dearest, you’ve been sick with fever for nearly two days.”
He scratched at his heavily bristled jaw. “Two days?”
“Yes. I was scared half out of my mind.” She swallowed the cotton wad in her throat and brushed his hair from his brow. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” James replied. “But I’m dashed hungry.”
“I shall get you something to eat.” She started to scramble out of the bed.
“Food can wait,” James said, wrapping his arm about her waist and halting her movements.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I just wished to hold you for a while.”
Caroline nodded and rested her head on his chest. “Thank you for my gift.”
“What gift?”
“The London Reformer.”
“Ah. You know?”
Smiling, she nodded. “Mr. Hinklesmith paid a call. He was quite upset.”
“I can imagine.”
She kissed his cheek.
“Surely, gifting you the newspaper is worth more than a kiss?” He reached for the buttons lining the front of her bodice.
“We can’t. I mean, you can’t.” She pushed his hands away.
“I beg to differ.”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “Not until Dr. Trimble arrives and says you are in perfect health.”
“Believe me, love, I am quite recovered. And I can think of no better medicine than feeling your body joined with mine.”
She snagged her lower lip between her teeth. “No, we . . .”
His hand skidded up her stockings to her garters. “How about I just touch you?”
Her body tingled. “Um . . .”
He nipped her earlobe. “I’m sure it will improve my health.”
She closed her eyes as his palm slid over her bum. “Well, if you truly believe it will hasten your recovery.”
“I have never been surer of anything in my life, except that I love you.”
A smile curved the corners of her lips. She loved him too. More than she’d thought possible. He believed in her intelligence, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to express in words or actions what his faith in her meant, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to show him. “I love you as well, James.”
Epilogue
Huntington House, London
Seven years later ...
From where Caroline sat by the hearth, she gazed at her husband sleeping in bed. A few seconds ago, James had started tossing about as if in the midst of an unsettling dream.
Standing, she drew the blanket tighter about the infant sleeping in her arms and laid him in his wicker bassinet. Caroline kissed Ethan’s downy cheek and breathed in his sweet scent. The child noisily sucked his chubby fingers and blinked before his dark eyes drifted closed.
James jerked upright and combed his fingers through his hair.
“Upsetting dream?” The bed dipped as she set her knee to the mattress and pressed her lips to her husband’s cheek.
“Hmm.”
“The same one?”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips upward. The silly recurring dream had plagued James since the night before their wedding.
“I see little humor in it, Caroline.”
“James, even you must admit it’s a peculiar dream.”
“I fear it’s a premonition.”
She stifled a laugh. “A premonition? Do you really think we will have five sons and one day they will all be arrested at a brothel, fighting over a ginger-haired prostitute? It’s preposterous.”
“After Michael was born I gave the dream little consequence. After Thaddeus, I tried to disregard the foreboding sensation the dream brought about. Now that God has blessed us with Ethan, I fear . . .”
Caroline skimmed her palm over his chest where moonlight highlighted the sculpted muscle. “It’s a dream, James, nothing more. Aren’t you to give a speech at the House of Lords in the morning?”
He grunted an affirmation.
“Go back to sleep, darling,” she whispered.
“Sometimes I think I should never touch you again.”
“Is that why you haven’t made love to me since Ethan was born?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t touched you so you could heal.”
Caroline lifted her white nightgown over her head and tossed it to the foot of the bed. She snuggled her naked body up to his. “Oh, my dearest love, even though I have an editorial meeting near the crack of dawn, I think I’m going to have to take advantage of you.”
He grinned and drew a finger over her nipple, pebbling the pink tip. “Why, Lady Huntington, I wish you would.”
She laughed. “What happened to never touching me again?”
“You’re right. It’s nothing more than a foolish dream.”
A ginger-haired prostitute? Ha! Her sweet boys? It was preposterous. Wasn’t it? She shook the thought from her head and pressed her lips to James’s.
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Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 27