“Did Sir Malcolm push you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle despite the full-blown fury now churning his gut.
“No.”
“Horseshit, Caroline.”
“Don’t you dare c-curse at me!”
He hardened his tone. “Don’t lie to me. Did he push you?”
“No.”
“Then what? Tables do not hurl themselves at shoulders.”
She looked away. “We were arguing about my real father. Sir Malcolm kept being his usual charming self and I was foolish…tipped tea over him. He put his hand around my throat. I tried to kick him but he twisted my arm and th-threw me backwards.”
Stephen went rigid, the urge to put a fist through a window or break something in half unendurable. That bastard. That fucking no-name piece of shit had actually laid hands on the Countess of Westleigh. No, not just laid hands on, thrown her across a room. What if Caroline had hit her neck on the table edge rather than her shoulder? Or her head? She could be paralyzed or dead right now.
“I’m going to kill him,” he snarled. “Slowly.”
She stiffened. “No. He’s not worth Newgate. Or Tyburn.”
“Of course he is. Although they would have to prove it was me and convince the House first. I don’t believe for a second I’m the only person in England who would spit on Sir Malcolm Edwards’ cold, mangled corpse.”
“True. You’d have to line up behind me, Mama and George at least. But you think you could outwit the entire British legal system?” she asked with a teary smile that constricted his chest, and some of his fury drained away.
“I’m staggered you could doubt that by even half a percent.”
Caroline shuffled closer to him, resting her uninjured shoulder against his chest. “I have heard tales you might be smarter than the average donkey.”
“As smart as that?” he mused, carefully curving an arm around her waist. “Then my legend has grown over the years. I do hope to make it as high as wolfhound one day. Or falcon perhaps.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“You’re right,” he replied, twining his fingers with hers to warm them. “One step up the creature ladder at a time.”
Remarkably, they sat in companionable silence for the remainder of the journey to Forsyth House. Helping her out of the carriage, they walked arm in arm up the stairs, but his mind had already leapt forward into planning mode. Sir Malcolm must suffer the consequences for today’s antics. It was just a matter of how and when.
***
“Good afternoon, my lord, my lady,” said Innes as he opened the front door for them.
“It’s practically evening, Innes,” said Stephen, before she could say a word. “But I need you to dispatch some footmen, Lady Westleigh took a nasty tumble while we were out and requires a hot bath at once. Along with whatever Mrs. Conroy has in her herb basket for compresses.”
“Witch hazel and St. John’s wort,” she said softly. “Distilled or in a poultice.”
“Exactly. Oh, and would you send an apology note to Ardmore telling him we won’t be making it to dinner tonight.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler began before sending her a worried glance. “Perhaps some cake, Lady Westleigh? Or a nice dinner tray for you after your bath?”
Instead of answering, she turned to Stephen. Knowing she probably looked a wild-eyed, pasty fright and hoping he wouldn’t run screaming at her next suggestion.“Two trays?”
He hesitated then nodded. “Yes. Two trays, Innes. And would you also tell the staff that unless the house is ablaze or Napoleon knocks on the door, we are not to be disturbed this evening.”
Innes bowed. “I shall inform the kitchens, my lord. And dispatch the footmen. I do hope you feel better soon, Lady Westleigh.”
Yet again Caroline gave thanks for the efficiency of her husband’s household, as in record time a giant copper tub was set up in her chamber and filled with buckets of steaming hot water. Mrs. Conroy brought in her well-stocked herb basket, along with soft linen bandages, washcloths and some lavender water ‘for her ladyship’s pillow to help her sleep’. But when the housekeeper and Penny hovered to attend, Stephen politely but firmly shooed them away and shut the door.
Surprised, she immersed herself in the delicious-temperature bath until only the tops of her knees and head were uncovered, although she had to twist her body slightly to minimize the pressure on her wretched stepfather’s handiwork. But soon she blinked back more tears as Stephen pulled off his boots, jacket and cravat, placed them on a chaise and padded over to the tub. He was staying.
Even better, he knelt down, picked up a washcloth, lathered it with citrus soap and began to rub her arms.
She sighed in pleasure at the soothing touch. “Continue that, and I might just keep you.”
“So my non-mathematical calling is a lady’s maid, hmmm?”
“I’d specify Lady Caroline Westleigh’s maid, not ladies in general,” she said acerbically, unable to stop herself.
But instead of irritation at her anti-mistress stance, Stephen looked like he might be suppressing a grin. Well. He might not smile if he knew exactly what she would do to any woman who sidled up to him with that particular glint in her eye. Snatching bald, crushing feet to the consistency of coddled eggs and heaving them over a balcony into a handy clump of shrubbery would be just the first hour.
“Legs,” he murmured eventually, startling her out of a rather uplifting daydream of a bald and blubbering Lady Beecham.
When Stephen had thoroughly soaped and rinsed every inch of her body he assisted her out of the tub and patted her dry, careful not to hurt her shoulder, although she could practically feel his eyes shooting daggers at the injury.
“Glaring at it will not fix it,” said Caroline, loosely wrapping a green silk robe around herself.
“Then sit yourself down on the stool and I’ll randomly mix various concoctions together and pour them over your shoulder. Be aware this process may also involve manic cackling and small gunpowder explosions, but no need to be alarmed. Everything is under control.”
She laughed. “Good heavens, you sound like Louisa. I thought scientific experiments went by the wayside after the time you and George singed your eyebrows and turned your hair grayish-purple.”
“A small setback, nothing more. Actually it’s a documented fact that frequent gunpowder use is the mark of a true aristocrat.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Really? And here was me believing it to be lineage, surnames and estates. Not to mention behavior.”
“Poor, deluded peasant.”
“Excuse me,” she said, sniffing haughtily as she perched on the padded stool in front of her dressing table. “I may not be a peasant. My father might have been a prince for all you know. I could outrank you so far you’d be forced to bow sixteen times just to say good morning.”
“Well, your highness, it’s time to doctor that shoulder. What I should I use and how?”
“Is there an infusion of St. John’s wort?”
“Ummm,” he replied, checking each of the labeled glass bottles. “Yes. Here.”
“Then pour some on a clean muslin cloth and let it soak into my shoulder. It really is a wonderful herb, speeds up wound healing and is an antiseptic too.”
“I’m curious,” he said while he dipped, pressed and dabbed. “Did your mother teach you herbals, or did you study Culpeper’s book?”
Caroline immediately tensed. Nothing like a constant need to hurry along an education. “Please, I’m not an herbalist, nowhere near one. I just know what to use for cuts and bruises.”
The washcloth froze in midair, the herbal infusion dripping onto the carpet instead of her skin. “Don’t be angry, but I wanted to ask…has he done this before?”
“Countless times,” she said, bitter anger coating the words. �
�He’s been violent for a long time, although more frequently in the past few years. All those occasions I perspired in the heat wearing silly long-sleeved gowns and shawls were for a reason.”
“And George did nothing?”
“Don’t use that tone, George didn’t know. I made sure he didn’t know. He might have acted foolishly, and there is enough bad blood between them already.”
“You should have said something.”
“Said what? To whom?” she replied, gently mocking. “Correction of wives and daughters is a fully accepted practice.”
He made a growling sound, but she ignored it. Just because he was relatively enlightened about the place and treatment of women didn’t mean others were. But one thing was for certain, if they had a daughter or two, Stephen would be giving the little poppets boxing lessons as soon as they could walk.
“Caroline,” he began seriously, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yes?”
“Excuse me, my lord, we have your dinner trays,” came back a female voice.
“Come in. Just leave them there on the side table,” he directed, and the two kitchen maids hurried to obey. They bobbed curtsies and just as quickly were gone.
“What have they sent up?” Caroline asked.
“No idea. Get into bed and I’ll bring you your tray.”
“My word. You might be the best, if largest, lady’s maid ever.”
“If you’re going to do something, do it well. Bed. At once.”
Strolling to the bed, Caroline eased herself under the blankets, and he propped the tray on her lap. “Mmmm,” she said, lifting the covers off the food. “Chicken in cream sauce. Baked potatoes, steamed asparagus and…vanilla cake and custard.”
Stephen sat on the other side of the bed with his tray and they ate in silence, until Caroline leaned back on the pillows and smilingly yawned.
“I’m so full I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Good,” he said over his shoulder as he took both empty trays and stacked them outside the door. “Time to get some rest then, wife. I’ll leave you to it.”
Her spirits plummeted. “You’re going?”
As in the foyer, he hesitated. “I have letters to read. Documents to sign.”
“Oh,” Caroline replied, plucking a loose thread on the embroidered bed covers, so unbearably disappointed she could no longer meet his gaze. “Of course.”
This time Stephen didn’t reply. Could he be wavering? She didn’t dare look at her husband, but his firm tread towards the connecting door between their rooms had halted at least.
Stay with me, she begged wordlessly. Please, please stay with me.
The silence stretched to breaking point, until Stephen cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could remain a little longer,” he said. “Just until you fall asleep.”
Joy bloomed to the tips of her toes, but she made herself offer a token protest. “You don’t have to. If there are important matters…”
“They can wait a half hour or so.”
The bed dipped when he sat down and swiveled his hips so he was stretched out on top of the covers. She smiled and turned onto her right side, tucking one arm under the pillow. “Goodnight, Stephen.”
“Goodnight.”
***
Long after Caroline had fallen into a deep, unmoving slumber he still laid beside her, but after today it was hardly any wonder. The strange incident at the dock with the girl Clara as well as his dislike of Sir John Smythe had somewhat tempered his enthusiasm at joining Gregory’s friends, although perhaps he’d just completely overanalyzed the situation. Then of course there was the opium-eating rat Sir Malcolm to deal with.
But all of that came a distant second to thinking about his wife, which he was doing altogether far too much of lately. Like the other evening after stealing her away from dinner. Despite wanting to keep some needed distance between them, he’d nearly fallen asleep in her bed. Damned foolish. He didn’t want a marriage like his parents. That ‘love’ might have resulted in some good times, but losing it had nearly been his mother’s destruction.
Tonight was different, of course. Staying here didn’t mean aught other than doing the right thing toward an injured person. Bloody hell, no man could have turned away at the sight of a lady looking so small, pale and fragile. Exactly how his six foot one wife had managed that he didn’t know. But her hunched, forlorn figure, nearly swallowed up by the oversized pillows and blankets as she fumbled with the bed cover rather than look at him meant leaving wasn’t an option. Remaining like a sentry, ready to beat the living daylights out of anyone who dared come near, was. And ensuring no one ever hurt her again.
Leaning over, Stephen stared at Caroline. Her green silk robe had slipped off one shoulder and tangled around her elbow, so very gently he removed it, giving himself extra credits for not lingering on the perfection of her naked breasts or bottom. There would be plenty of time for that when she felt better. Quickly he tucked the covers around her shoulders, he was only human after all.
Then he tugged off his own wrinkled shirt and tossed it onto the floor. He wasn’t going to sleep here all night, just an hour or so. And it was uncomfortable. With those reassuring thoughts in mind, he slid under the blankets, his eyes drifting shut, finally lulled by the softness of the pillows and muted light of the three candlesticks in the corner of the room.
Only to be jolted awake some time later, his brain unable to function but still entirely certain the world was askew. And yet it felt good. So damn good…Endeavoring to keep his breathing steady, he opened one eye the merest slit.
Well, well, well.
The blankets had been pulled right down to his waist, and Caroline lounged beside him, propped on her right elbow, the fingers of her other hand performing a deliberate, exploratory dance across his remarkably over-warm chest. Slowly, so slowly, her gaze utterly intent, she trailed her fingers around, tracing the muscles and testing the springiness of his chest hair. Next she moved onto his left nipple, circling and caressing the small pale brown nub until it grew firmer and larger, instantly stirring his cock to life.
It took every shred of self-control he had to remain still. But when she leaned down and flicked her tongue across his nipple, he couldn’t stop a soft groan of pleasure. God. So good.
Caroline’s head jerked up, her cheeks scarlet. “Stephen! I…um…” she mumbled, clumsily trying to move away from him and only tangling herself in the blankets.
One hand shot out and grasped her wrist, halting her movements.
“If you want to touch me,” he said roughly, about ready to plead with her to continue. “Go right ahead.”
She smiled and licked her lips in a way that instantly hardened his cock to a point where it might yet tear his trousers or explode before she got anywhere near it. Hell, each time he thought she couldn’t arouse him more, she went and surprised him.
Bracing herself on her knees and right hand, Caroline leaned down again to tongue his nipple, gently biting and sucking like he’d done to her so many times, while she plucked and teased its twin. Then she shifted on the bed so she could reverse the action, and her soft breasts brushed his lower belly, tormenting him until he was actually panting.
Sitting back on her heels, she folded her arms. “Your trousers. Take them off.”
“That sounded like an order,” Stephen said mildly, resisting the urge to claw them from his body as his cock begged him to comply immediately if not sooner.
“It is. Don’t make me repeat myself, or there’ll be the devil to pay.”
His lips twitched, but he undid the buttons and pushed his trousers down until his thick erection sprang free.
“Oooh. Well hello,” she murmured, allowing one lazy finger to trace the rock-hard length of him. Up and down, back and forth she stroked, sometimes down as far as his swollen testicles, sometimes across the dampening tip.
Christ Almighty. When the hell had she learned that?
But ‘that’ was only the beginning.
Swirling her thumb in the dripping moisture, she lifted it to her lips for a taste, nearly making him laugh when her nose wrinkled. Yet he wasn’t laughing a second later when she bent forward again and dragged her tongue across the end of his cock, once, twice, three times.
Gasping for breath as she lapped at his cock, he clenched the sheets, fighting the overwhelming desire to thrust his hips upwards and shove himself down her throat. No. This was her show. But as if she’d read his mind, his perfect woman enveloped the swollen head in her mouth and sucked firmly.
He swore, jerking so hard she nearly lost her precarious perch on his thighs.
“My, my, Lord Westleigh,” she tsked with a raised eyebrow. “Such appalling language in front of your wife.”
“My wife,” he ground out, “is doing her very best to torture me.”
“Really? Should she stop?”
“God no.”
Clearly stifling a grin, Caroline wrapped her left hand around the base of his cock, alternately squeezing and releasing while taking him into her mouth. Sometimes just the tip, sometimes several inches, hollowing her cheeks and using her tongue to lash the sensitive underside.
Unable to stand a moment more, so close to coming in her mouth he was shaking, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her away.
“What?” she said, blinking like an owl. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to be inside you when I come. You’re ready, aren’t you? I can smell your wetness.”
Her cheeks flushed bright red, but she couldn’t deny it, not when musky cream glistened on her inner thighs. Delighted at the thought she enjoyed giving as much as receiving, he lifted his hand and stroked the damp curls between her legs, and she made a choked gasp of pleasure. Determined to ensure she was as ready as him, he teased her slick, swollen center, thumbing her clitoris while sliding two fingers deep into her soaked channel, in and out, in and out until she thrust her hips forward and moaned loudly.
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 21