“For once the gossips are correct. I wed the former Miss Caroline Edwards.”
“George Edwards’ sister?” said Major Rochland, frowning fiercely. “I thought you were courting—”
“Obviously you’re wrong, Rock, which never surprises us,” interrupted Sir John. “Perhaps you should be off to your appointment? I’m sure someone will send you a note if need be.”
Major Rochland stood and bowed crisply. “’Til later then, gentlemen.”
After the soldier marched from the room, Kimbolton gave him an apologetic look. “Forgive him, Westleigh, he’s…”
“A backward Neanderthal like his nickname suggests,” said Sir John. “But we tolerate him because he really does have the most splendid hunting box. Do you hunt, Westleigh?”
Agony pummeled his body. “Not if I can help it.”
“Understandable,” said Wynn-Thorne, glaring at the tactless dandy as he helped himself to a thick slice of fruitcake. “Especially in light of what happened…and of the shocking incident at the Bruce Estate. I hope those poachers have been caught and put to death as they deserve.”
Stephen tilted his head. “You are well informed.”
“An event like that would hardly stay quiet. Especially when it included a woman like Nora Bruce. The woman could talk the hind leg off a donkey, much like those awful daughters of hers.”
“Hush your mouth, Wynny,” drawled Sir John. “We all adored young Hermia Bruce. So generous and obliging with her favors.”
“Hermia?” said Stephen, surprised. “You mean the eldest who had the accident?”
“Indeed, m’boy. Hallmere liked her especially.”
“He did? Gregory never mentioned her to me in his letters. Then again I was immersed in Cambridge life at the time so perhaps missed a few.”
“Oh yes,” smiled Kimbolton. “The two of them were always escaping off to this dreadful little cottage in the middle of nowhere, I guess Hallmere didn’t mind a few bedbugs. He was so devastated after the accident, even partially blamed himself for the chit’s death, but it certainly wasn’t his fault she threw herself off a cliff.”
Jesus.
Shocked, Stephen leaned over and poured himself a cup of tea. No wonder the Bruces were so damned odd. “I thought she slipped and fell.”
Wynn-Thorne shook his head. “That was the official story. To protect the family, you ken, and ensure a Christian burial. But if you want the truth of the matter, Hermia was a little…unbalanced. Highly strung and prone to fits of terrible jealousy. She even struck your brother a few times. The day she died—”
“Stop there, Wynny,” muttered Kimbolton, leaning sideways to clasp his friend’s shoulder. “Telling this tale only upsets you.”
“No. Westleigh has a right to know. The day she died, Hermia sent an awful note to Hallmere, threatening suicide if he didn’t marry her. He was so upset. As a gentleman, what could he do other than rush to her side? But he begged and begged her to come away from the cliff edge. Told her he would always love her but couldn’t marry her because his father insisted he court the daughter of some duke.”
“You don’t need to explain,” said Stephen harshly. “Father could be very autocratic sometimes.”
“Yes. It pained us greatly to see the increasingly strained relationship between Hallmere and your father. I fear Hermia’s death only increased the rift, they were barely speaking by that terrible, terrible day at Nexham’s estate.”
Stephen flinched and gripped the arms of his chair, the words like a physical blow. “If only…”
“No. The past is the past,” said Kimbolton gently. “You cannot change it. However, what you can influence is the future. Join us. Help us carry on Hallmere’s noble work.”
“Gregory mentioned the odd story in his letters, but what exactly did he do?”
“Saved wretched females, dear boy,” said Sir John, smoothing his lace collar. “Most of them didn’t deserve his charity, London whores, bastard street urchins and criminals they were, but Hallmere made it his personal crusade to rescue them from their unfortunate situations. From his own pocket he fed, clothed and had them taught letters and numbers, then shipped them abroad to Brussels or the colonies where they found gainful employment and a fresh start as maids and seamstresses. It’s a frightful money drain, but none of us have the heart to cease it.”
Stephen cleared his dry-as-desert throat. “I never…I never knew he cared like that. Actually I can’t believe my parents held this group and its activities in such low regard.”
Wynn-Thorne shrugged. “Tis often the case when you try to help others, you are accused of all sorts of ulterior motives. But I must warn you, Westleigh, we aren’t all work. We like to let our hair down so to speak, especially with the ladies. Brother Smythe hosts the most wonderful parties.”
“Don’t tempt him, he’s a newly married man,” chuckled Kimbolton. “But I have a better idea. One of our mercy ships is sailing later this week. Why don’t you come down to our offices and have a look around? Meet some of the fallen angels being given a second chance?”
“I’d like that,” Stephen replied, nodding slowly.
“Capital. I’ll send a note with directions. We all look forward to seeing you again.”
“Even Rochland!” added Wynn-Thorne, as all three men stood to shake his hand.
Five minutes later Stephen paused at the bottom of the wide front steps, inhaling deep breaths of slightly putrid central city air and in desperate need of a drink. Make that several.
He’d always thought his mother to be a reasonably sane woman, but she was so wrong in regards to Gregory and this group it was ridiculous. Perhaps he needed to organize a physician to visit Westleigh Park once she was resettled there. If grief had again risen and begun to twist her mind, he would ensure she received specialist care. Hopefully before other people noticed her erratic beliefs and behaviors.
Strolling down the semi-crowded footpath, he dodged elderly couples, a group of laughing young bucks, two young children playing with a stick and hoop and a pie seller’s stall as he made his way toward his waiting carriage.
He grinned to himself. Gregory, an unsung hero with a soft heart. Who’d have thought? Instead of all those stupid practical jokes—God, the terrible stunts he’d pulled, the yappy lapdog, the starred recommendations of London’s best courtesans, the exploding tobacco pipe and feather slippers—all he needed to do to make his reserved older brother smile was join his beloved society and help with charitable works. What a fool he had been, wasting so many years.
These gentlemen were offering a chance to honor his brother. Make up for being off gallivanting around the continent, drinking himself into a stupor and immersing himself in the charms of faceless, nameless, women when he’d been needed so badly back in England. Well, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He had the connections, the resources and the drive to take up Gregory’s crusade, to do it even better. And by God, he would—
“My Lord! Look out!”
Startled, he jerked his head up at the sound of his coachman’s voice. Just in time to see a heavily-laden produce cart lurch onto two wheels and speed straight for him.
“Damn,” he snarled, leaping backwards.
Except instead of empty footpath, he felt two hands press into his back. And instead of assistance, they shoved him firmly forward onto his knees.
Straight back into the cart’s path.
“Git out the way!” the cart driver barked, yanking hard on the reins to stop the deadly momentum, his curses even louder than the horses’ screams and general pandemonium as crates and barrels flew off and smashed onto the unforgiving cobblestone street.
But it was too late. Even as Stephen frantically tried to roll sideways, something hard and heavy landed on his left shoulder, pinning him to the ground and sending a wave of vicious pain through his body.
&
nbsp; Then everything went black.
***
“My lady! My lady!”
At the excessively loud hail, Caroline dashed to the top of the staircase and peered downwards. The distraction was a relief, surely there couldn’t be anything more dull than inspecting a walk-in linen closet with the pleasant but particular Westleigh housekeeper Mrs. Conroy. Yet the footman sprinting up the stairs wore an expression far too bleak for a small, everyday issue.
What on earth could it be? George finally receiving his comeuppance, coated in honey and staked on a giant anthill? Sir Malcolm slumped over a soup bowl with one of Mama’s high heeled slippers protruding from the back of his skull?
“Yes?” she called quickly. “What is the problem?”
The footman bowed clumsily, panting as he came to a sharp halt three steps below her. “It’s the earl, my lady. He’s been run down by a cart!”
Caroline’s heart stopped. Her vision swam, and blindly she reached out for the polished wooden banister to hold herself upright.
“Lord have mercy,” cried Mrs. Conroy, dashing over to slip a sturdy arm around her waist. “Where’s his lordship now? Has a physician been summoned?”
“They’re bringing him in the carriage, Mrs. Conroy. Real slow like. I ran ahead to sound the alarm, don’t know if any of the other lads got sent to fetch Dr Murray.”
“Does Jane know?” whispered Caroline through bloodless lips.
The young man gave her a blank look. “Jane, ma’am?”
“The dowager.”
“Oh. Probably not. The girls in the kitchen said she’d gone out visiting on account of her leaving for the country tomorrow.”
Mrs. Conroy frowned darkly. “The girls in the kitchen should mind their business. What should I prepare, Lady Westleigh? Lady Westleigh?”
Caroline blinked as she realized the question was directed at her. Yes. She was the lady of the house, she must make a decision. Her husband could be completely incapacitated. Missing limbs. Bleeding from all kinds of horrific wounds. Dying…
She choked on a sob.
“B-boil water. Lots of it. And b-bandages. We’ll need linen bandages. And, um…”
“Wood for splints,” Mrs. Conroy said, nodding. “Sharp scissors. Needle and thread. No doubt Dr Murray will give me a list of any extras he needs, but I’ll fetch my herb basket for poultices too.”
“Yes. Yes, do. At once, Mrs. Conroy. I’ll wait downstairs for my husband.”
The housekeeper curtsied, then she and the footman hurried away.
Oh God.
Her hands still gripping the banister, Caroline inched her way down the staircase. A bride and a widow in less than two days? Could fate really be so cruel? Terror turned her legs to syllabub and she collapsed onto a step. No. Stephen couldn’t die. She would not permit it. They had places to go and children to create. Day and night she would haunt his bedside and nurse him until he recovered enough to growl he was absolutely sick of the sight of her. And even then she’d probably only give him an hour’s respite before commencing the most thunderous lecture he’d ever experienced for worrying twenty years from her life.
What if he has lost a limb?
He’ll still be more man than most of those in London.
What if he can no longer walk?
I’ll commission several of those wheeled chairs. We’ll redecorate the whole house. Install ramps and turn one of the drawing rooms into a bedchamber so everything he needs is on the ground floor.
What if he dies?
Caroline shuddered and clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened.
“Lady Westleigh!” called a parlor maid. “The carriage has pulled up!”
Hauling herself to her feet, Caroline stumbled down the rest of the stairs and half ran-half skidded into the marble-floored foyer, just in time to see Innes yank open the heavy front door.
Her breath caught as she braced herself for the worst.
Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead…
Seconds later Stephen stalked through the door, his jacket badly torn, several bloodstains decorating the sleeve of his white linen shirt, but wonderfully, perfectly whole.
She stared uncomprehendingly, her mouth open. “You’re alive,” Caroline mumbled stupidly. “They said…I thought…”
“My apologies, madam, for only suffering a blow to the head and a crushed shoulder that will no doubt shortly closely resemble Lady Havenhurst’s drawing room rather than conveniently perishing,” he snarled in return, pushing past her.
“Stephen…”
“My lord?” called Innes, after he’d practically sprinted across the foyer behind his employer. “Is there anything I can fetch you? Do you need a physician?”
“No,” said Stephen over his shoulder as he opened his library door. “I’ll be fine. But I don’t want to be disturbed. By anyone.”
“Of course. I’ll see to…” the butler replied smartly, but the sound of the door slamming shut cut off any other words he might have added.
Instead, new countess and old butler assessed each other for a long moment.
Caroline lifted her chin, preparing for a war. “I’m going to check on him.”
“I don’t know whether that’s a wise idea, my lady.”
“Probably not. But if you try and stop me I’ll crush your feet to oatmeal and knee you where it will really hurt.”
Innes’ lips puckered then twitched violently. “I shall forever keep that in mind, Lady Westleigh. Tea?”
“I believe he’ll want something stronger with his privacy. But thank you.”
He bowed low. “Good luck, madam.”
Turning, Caroline hurried down the portrait-lined hallway until she stood outside the library. Two deep breaths for courage, then in one quick movement she opened the door, leapt inside and banged it shut behind her.
“What the hell are you doing in here? I thought I made it quite clear I wasn’t to be disturbed. Get out.”
“Barked orders don’t apply to wives. It’s written somewhere. The Magna Carta perhaps.”
Stephen made a growling sound from where he sat slumped behind his desk. “God, you are one stubborn, unruly, annoying female. Well, if you won’t leave, make yourself useful and pour me a drink.”
“Joyfully,” she trilled, pleased at how relatively normal her voice sounded, considering it felt like she’d just gone a few rounds with Gentleman Jackson.
“Don’t use that tone, either. It’s grating my last nerve.”
With a haughty sniff, she went to the sideboard and filled a crystal glass to the brim with whisky. After setting it in front of him, she sauntered around the edge of the desk and perched on top.
“There are plenty of chairs in the room, Caroline.”
“So there are,” she said, leaning forward to smooth his hair. Inwardly rejoicing when her strong, tough as teak husband actually closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. “Where does it hurt?”
Stephen blinked and snatched up the glass. “My left shoulder took the brunt of it, aches like the devil. And the back of my head,” he muttered, but surprisingly still not pulling away.
Fortunately he couldn’t see her wobbly smile as she eased his head forward until it rested on her cleavage.
“Here?” she asked, running the pads of her fingers against his skull. “Or here?”
“Actually, the discomfort’s moved south now.”
“How south?”
“Significantly south,” he replied, his lips brushing the top of her right breast.
Caroline shivered. “Don’t even think about it. There are things we need to discuss.”
“Really? I can’t think of a single topic just now, other than the fastest way to get you undressed.”
“Be serious. You could have died today. When that footman came sprinting
up the stairs—”
“If he’d waited a minute longer he would’ve seen that apart from a few seconds’ unconsciousness and some nasty cuts and bruises, I’m fine. My pride suffered the harshest blow, I wasn’t hit by the cart; I was felled by a flying chicken coop.”
A snort of startled laughter escaped. “A chicken coop? Oh dear.”
Slowly, deliberately, he got to his feet, one hard thigh nudging her legs apart until he stood between them.
“Making fun of me, wife?” he murmured, one finger tracing the length of her collarbone.
Her nipples hardened. “N-no.”
“Good. Because that would get you into a world of trouble,” he added, cupping her breasts and sliding both thumbs into her bodice to torment the sensitive peaks.
Caroline moaned, suddenly more than ready to discuss swift undressing. “Trouble?”
“Mmmm. Serious trouble.”
“Ah, you know trouble and I are the best of friends,” she said, shivering as one strong hand dropped from her breast to steal under her gown and caress the underside of her knee. How did he find these ridiculously sensitive spots?
Well, two could play at that game.
Leaning forward she rubbed the back of her knuckles against his already tenting trousers, eagerly cupping and stroking him through the fabric. He sucked in a harsh breath and she smiled inwardly, loving the feeling of power as his hips jerked.
But soon his fingers had her equally helpless as they skated along her inner thigh and brushed her dampening curls.
A bit harder. A bit higher…oh please…
“Soon, sweet,” he said, making her flush. Oh no. Had she really said that out loud? “But first I’m going to…”
A loud knock sounded and they jolted apart.
“What?” Stephen barked.
“Forgive me, my lord,” came Innes’ disembodied voice. “Mr. Taff is here. He says he needs to speak to you without delay.”
***
It figured that just when his day threatened to improve, they would be interrupted.
Gritting his teeth, Stephen stepped back from his wife and resisted the urge to reach down and adjust himself. How bloody brilliant, a stone-hard cock as well as a stinging head and aching shoulder.
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 16