Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “I was ever so glad we had our crest painted on even the small tilbury carriage. Otherwise, he might’ve ended up in one of those disease-ridden, filthy hospitals.”

  Still imagining John’s bloody face, Maggie nodded though she had no opinion on the state of London’s hospitals, only glad she’d never needed the services of one.

  A maid came in with food on a tray and set it upon a clever folding table, which she placed directly in front of Maggie.

  “Would you care for a drink, miss?”

  Glancing at her hostess, who was not drinking anything, Maggie hesitated.

  “A glass of Rhenish wine for each of us,” Lady Cambrey told the girl, who curtsied and hurried away.

  “Now you eat, and I’ll keep talking. I cannot tell you how glad I am to have someone with whom I can converse about my son.”

  Maggie nodded and began her meal.

  “I’m used to having my niece Beryl with me in London, and then there was sweet Lady Chatley who helped John with the cricket banquet. Did you attend? I’m afraid I can’t recall.”

  The food became a hard lump in the back of Maggie’s throat at the mention of both Jane and the banquet.

  “Yes,” she croaked and then coughed. Where was that wine? “I attended. It was very well organized. My younger sister, Eleanor, whom you may remember, also was there. She has become close friends with Beryl.”

  “Oh yes, Eleanor. Next time you come, you can bring her with you. She could stay with my husband’s brother and his wife, who live not too far, and visit with Beryl while you come here.”

  What a strange yet welcoming invitation. This visit had barely begun, and Lady Cambrey was already thinking of the next one.

  “And how is your mother?” the older woman asked, even though all Maggie wanted was to hear more about John.

  “She is well, thank you for asking. Currently, she is enthusiastically enjoying being a grandmother for the first time to baby Lionel.”

  “Lionel? Is that what Simon named his son? Goodness, what a fine, strong name.”

  Sighing, Lady Cambrey said nothing as their wine was brought in. They each held up the glass to the other in a silent toast. No doubt, they were each wishing for John Angsley’s good health.

  “I should like to have grandchildren,” Lady Cambrey continued. “When I saw my John injured, when I saw his broken bones, I thought I would no longer be a mother, never mind a grandmother.”

  “What are his injuries?” Maggie asked.

  Perhaps she was being too direct, even impolite, but she could simply wait no longer.

  *

  Cam didn’t mind when, after visiting politely with Simon for a few minutes, Gray picked up his dinner tray and excused himself. Simon had met Cam’s estate manager many times, even before Gray became such, when he was merely a general jack-of-all, as the former Earl of Cambrey described young Grayson O’Connor. Never a servant in the way a footman or a valet was, still Gray had always served them in some capacity.

  Simon, as with many of Cam’s friends, didn’t know exactly what to make of Gray’s position or status until Cam made him his estate manager, elevating him to the highest position he could have at Turvey House. Then his ambiguity became crystalized.

  “I’ll check on your meal,” Gray told Simon as he reached the door. “Ah, no need. Here it is, and our own Tilda is bringing it in.”

  Opening the door wider, he admitted a maid carrying a tray. After placing it in front of Simon, who sat on a chair beside Cam’s bed, she bowed and left with Gray.

  When they were alone, Simon gave him a long appraisal. “You look …” he trailed off, frowning.

  “Like a carriage ran over me?” Cam supplied. “Well, it did, or nearly. My doctor kept reminding me if my leg bone or arm bone had broken through my skin, they would have amputated the limb.” He shuddered, still in disbelief.

  “Anyway, the blasted cobblestones actually did the most damage. Tell me,” he asked, offering Simon his profile, “have I lost my good looks?”

  “I didn’t know you had any!” With that, Simon grinned and began to eat.

  Cam shrugged. “Honestly, am I gruesome? It’s hard to see much in a knife blade or a soup spoon.”

  Simon put down his fork. “You mean you haven’t seen yourself? I’m sorry, I thought you were joking.”

  Looking around, he realized the problem, for any and all mirrors had been removed.

  “Is your mother trying to protect you?”

  Cam nodded, lifting his hands to feel the scars where the stitches had been removed.

  “Do they itch?” Simon asked. “Your skin looks to be healing well.”

  “Now you mention it, yes, they do.” He gingerly rubbed on either side of the healing gashes on his face. “I bled quite a bit apparently. Scared my mother and cousin. Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoided answering. Come on. How bad am I?”

  Simon scrunched up his face considering. “You look a little more hard-lived than you did before.”

  Cam groaned. “I don’t want to look like I’ve been in a knife fight.”

  “Or two or three.” Simon shoveled in another forkful of roast. “Excellent food as always here at Turvey.”

  Cam shot him a dirty look.

  “Besides, your piratical appearance will probably make you even more popular with the ladies. Adds a bit of dash-fire to your reputation.”

  “I don’t want to be a pirate,” Cam protested. “And I had plenty of dash-fire before, thank you. No female ever complained.”

  “Speaking of females, shall I bring up my lovely traveling companion? I know she’d like to see you and will prattle on and keep you company for hours.”

  Cam’s mouth opened in surprise. “You brought Jenny? Why didn’t you tell me? And the baby, too?”

  But Simon was already shaking his head.

  “No. She wouldn’t travel yet, and Lionel, as we’ve named him, is a bit colicky. Basically, a crying, shrieking terror, the opposite of restful, unless he’s got a breast shoved in his mouth.”

  Cam laughed at his friend’s honesty. “Well, who can blame him where that’s concerned?” Then he had to stop, putting a hand to his healing ribs. “It actually hurts to laugh.”

  Simon winced. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, since my wife is the one feeding our son. I don’t want to put any crude imaginings into your brain, and you shouldn’t have laughed at my improper statement. Anyway, I’ve brought Maggie, and I have to confess, I already miss Jenny and the baby somewhat fiercely so you’d better appreciate me while I’m here.”

  Cam had stopped listening after he heard her name. He knew his smile had died off his face, too. Margaret was here! In his home? And he was stuck in bed like an invalid. God damnit!

  “I’ll go get Maggie, shall I?”

  “No,” Cam barked, seeing a look of surprise on his friend’s face. “I mean, it’s getting late for one thing. She’s had a couple days of traveling to get here. Tomorrow, maybe,” he added. Then he shook his head. “For God’s sake, Simon, look at me. No, on second thought, let me take a look at me. Go get a blasted mirror.”

  Simon stared at him. “It’s only Maggie.”

  “It’s only Maggie,” Cam mimicked him in a sing-song voice. “I have my pride.”

  “Pride and vanity, it seems. You know, Jenny came into my room when I was a raving lunatic sitting in the dark, afraid of closing my eyes. And it didn’t scare her off.”

  “Jenny is a rare bird if you ask me. Besides, you still had your looks, what they are, and the use of your limbs. No one is ever going to flinch when they see your face. What’s more, you could be a lunatic and still dance with her, couldn’t you?”

  “A dancing lunatic,” Simon considered. “I suppose, but there was a little more to my problems than you know. Now’s not the time to go into them, however. I’ll find you a mirror.” Striding to the door, he looked back and quipped, “Wait here.”

  “Very amusing.”

  With such a fri
end, Cam wasn’t sure he needed any foes. Would he let Margaret visit him? In his bedroom? He didn’t know. Why had she come? To gawk at him, and take a report back to the drawing rooms and ballrooms of London?

  At that moment, he decided he would refuse to see her. He didn’t owe her an audience, not after how she’d treated him at the cricket banquet, rushing into Westing’s arms the minute she could find a private place to do so.

  In a minute, Simon struggled into the room with a large mirror.

  “That’s from the early-1700s,” Cam said, recognizing it as one which had long hung at the top of the stairs. “Mother will kill you if it gets damaged.”

  “Carrying the bloody thing will kill me,” Simon grumbled, staggering slightly with the unwieldy object. “But I couldn’t go poking into the other rooms to find another one.”

  Setting it down on the end of the bed, he held it propped upright, steadying it with both hands.

  Cam swallowed, feeling suddenly afraid.

  “Come on,” Simon urged him. “I promise, it’s not that bad.”

  Puffing out his cheeks and releasing his breath in a big sigh, he struggled to sit up a little higher and then glanced at his reflection.

  “Christ!” Cam’s eyes widened, barely recognizing the face he saw. “Not that bad?” he whispered. “At least, they’ve kept me clean shaven, or I’d resemble a beggar from Bedlam.”

  “Better to resemble one than to be one.”

  “I would rather do neither.” Cam tilted his head, examining the healing slash on his forehead and the matching one on his cheek. Around the right eye and over his cheekbone, he was not surprised to see bruising, for it had been tender so long, but it was no longer swollen. The cut he had felt with his tongue on his lower lip had all but healed. And where the skin had been scraped off his chin and scabbed over, there was now fresh pink skin. Possibly a little scarred, he couldn’t be sure.

  “Not too bad,” Simon repeated. “Don’t you think?”

  Not taking his gaze off himself, Cam reached up to touch each imperfection he could see clearly for the first time. Even some of his right eyebrow was missing, for God’s sake.

  “I’ve got some ointment my valet applies twice a day. Greasy stuff but supposed to help the scars heal. He’s been slathering it on me ever since I had the stitches removed. A delightful experience, I must say.”

  He stared a while longer. Miraculously, his nose hadn’t broken, nor had he lost his front teeth. “Somehow, I’m still a bloody attractive fellow.”

  “With a bit more character,” Simon promised. He nodded to the mirror. “Can I take it back now?”

  Cam hesitated. Was this the face of a man who could win a beauty like Margaret Blackwood? He hadn’t been good enough before. Now, his face had been shredded and sewn. And that was only the half of it. His body still ached. And what of his limbs?

  “Take it away,” he told his friend gruffly. “In fact, I’m exhausted. You probably are, too.”

  Simon nodded. “I’ll send in your valet, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Cam nodded, wanting his friend to leave quickly, suddenly desperate to be alone. He knew he should offer him thanks for coming, but he didn’t feel particularly grateful right then. He shut his eyes until he heard Simon leave.

  Then he reached over and grabbed for his laudanum bottle. Everything hurt, and nothing was going to get better as far as he could see. At least the opium tincture relaxed him and took away most of the pain. He deserved that little kindness.

  The next thing he knew, some noise awakened him. Opening his eyes, he saw Margaret standing before him, a vision in white silk, low cut at the front and cinched in at her slender waist, flaring over her shapely hips. Her hair was pinned up except for loose tendrils clinging to her shoulders and draping over her barely concealed breasts.

  The effect was entirely erotic, and most definitely not the proper look for a debutante. Except they were no longer in a London ballroom before the entranced eyes of the ton. No, they were in his bedroom. Simon must have sent her up after all, against Cam’s wishes. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t wanted to her to visit him.

  “You look enchanting.” With those words, his rod hardened like a tree trunk.

  She said nothing, merely standing there beside the bed, staring at him. Dammit! He wasn’t an animal on display at the Zoological Society’s gardens.

  “Say something,” Cam demanded.

  Maggie’s lush lips, painted pink and glistening, curved into a smile. Instead of speaking, she began to undress.

  Deciding to enjoy whatever was compelling her to entertain him, he lapsed into silence.

  Amazingly, instead of her dealing with a million tiny buttons down her back, she shrugged effortlessly out of her gossamer gown, first one shoulder, then the other. Underneath, she wore no corset and no shift. In a moment, her breasts were exposed to him, firm and high, with pink nipples also seeming to glisten like her lips.

  His breath caught in his throat. She was even more magnificent than he’d imagined, and he’d imagined her many times in many ways.

  “Keep going,” he pleaded.

  She nodded and slid the gown over her flared hips, letting it drop to the carpeted floor. Wearing nothing but a garter and stockings, her mound was on display, with nothing but soft brown curls to shield her.

  His mouth went utterly dry. He longed to suckle on her breasts and, more than that, he wanted to put his lips on her quim and taste her there. His shaft was throbbing pleasantly, and he hoped she would be willing to do something about it.

  “Will you touch me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Smiling broadly, her eyes sparkling, she nodded. Stepping closer, Maggie reached toward the part of him most needing her attention. Following her gaze, he realized his blankets were already pushed aside and his yard stood up impressively. Thank God it hadn’t been injured!

  Watching as she closed her fingers around him, he groaned with anticipation, wanting to shut his eyes and enjoy it while also wanting to continue gazing upon her glorious, bare curves. In the end, his lids seemed too heavy to remain open, and he let them sink closed even as she began to stroke him.

  Up and down, she worked her magic. Where had she learned to do such a thing? As she squeezed him, it didn’t take long for Cam to reach the point of no return and spend into the air.

  Hearing his own guttural sound of pleasure, feeling the sticky warmth on his thigh, Cam opened his eyes again. He was alone, his own left hand clasping his now flaccid rod. Still foolishly hopeful, he glanced over the side of the bed, but no gorgeous gown pooled upon his rug.

  The most vivid dream he’d ever had—and all because he knew Margaret Blackwood was under the same roof.

  *

  The next morning, Maggie met Simon in an informal sunny dining room adorned with fresh flowers and the delicious aromas of hot breakfast foods.

  Her brother-in-law had already told her his opinion of his friend’s condition the night before, and then they’d retired, leaving Maggie to lie in bed and think on how to hide any shock she might feel when first looking upon him. She mustn’t let John think she felt revulsion or, worse, pity.

  As she ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, she simply wanted to go see him.

  “When can I visit Lord Cambrey?”

  Simon chewed thoughtfully. “I believe his mother goes to sit with him in the mornings. When I go see him midday, I’ll ask him if I can fetch you in.”

  How frustrating! Yet, she could hardly barge into his room. She would have to wait until invited. In the meanwhile, she would tour the house and the grounds of the lovely estate as Lady Cambrey had promised.

  Thus, after waiting for Cam’s mother to read him the papers, Maggie spent the day in her company, along with his estate manager, an affable man introduced to her as Mr. O’Connor. Trying not to sound too nosey, she plied him with questions about his employer’s condition, which he answered kindly though a little vaguely, as if protecting John�
�s privacy. And so he should, Maggie thought.

  But when the first day turned into the second day, and still, she had been put off, she began to feel slighted and annoyed. After all, as Simon’s sister-in-law, she was practically family.

  No, she reasoned, that didn’t make her related to John Angsley at all.

  To have come all this way, though, to be mentally and emotionally prepared to visit with him, only to be denied access, how could she bear it?

  This was most definitely not about her, she reminded herself for the tenth time. It was about John, and from what she gathered, he was enjoying his visits with Simon when he was awake and alert. Apparently, with John’s terrible pain, his doctor had prescribed a daily dosing of laudanum that could make him sleepy or dazed.

  Poor man.

  On day three, she met Lady Cambrey at the bottom of the great central staircase under the well-lit dome. Knowing John’s mother was going up to her son’s room, Maggie had placed herself in a position to intercept her.

  “My lady, shall I accompany you and offer my well wishes to Lord Cambrey?”

  “Haven’t you stopped in and said hello?” His mother seemed surprised. “Why, of course, you must. You needn’t stand on ceremony, dear girl. If you’re worried about your reputation, I think the fact he is bedridden with his leg in a sling is protection enough.”

  Maggie felt a little like a fraud. She knew Simon had specifically asked John if she could go in and the injured earl had said no. He wasn’t up to it. Whatever that meant. However, his mother didn’t know of her son’s wishes.

  “Margaret, why don’t you take these papers in to him? Cook said there was something wrong with the duck, and I told her I’d consult with her after my visit with John, but I’ll do so now. We don’t want a delay with our supper, do we?”

  Thrusting a stack of newspapers into Maggie’s hands, she started back down the main staircase. At the bottom, she turned and offered her an encouraging smile.