To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1)
Page 30
White’s lips twitched, but he said nothing, merely lifted a hand. The soldiers marched forward and began rounding up the men and dragging them back down the path.
Swallowing hard, she stared at her twin who now stood alone about twenty feet away. George stepped forward then hesitated, his eyes so dark in his pale face they appeared almost black.
“Caro…”
“For heaven’s sake, George, c-come here and make yourself useful, you cr-cretin.”
He sprinted over and fell to his knees beside her and Stephen. “Stupid, foolish twit. I stopped by Forsyth House to raid your brandy supply and Innes told me what happened. Can’t the pair of you go a day without getting into trouble? Am I the only responsible adult around here?”
Stephen coughed and shuddered. “It seems so.”
“Don’t talk, you goddamned idiot. You’re only rambling anyway. No one wants to hear a boring man ramble. Especially one with such a vast, gaping space where his brain should be. Now, baby sister, I’ll help you up first…UGH. Really? That’s how you thank me?”
She gave her twin an apologetic look and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A shame for his trousers, but was it any wonder her stomach had just attempted to purge itself of everything eaten within the past month?
“Caroline…” Stephen rasped, clumsily trying to pat her shoulder and instead whacking her ear. “You all right?”
She took his good hand and squeezed it. “Absolutely, dearest. Despite your attempts to physically correct me. In fact, after yet another bath I shall be ready to dance until dawn.”
“I detect sarcasm.”
A wide grin stretched her lips. Oh, how she loved this man.
“That’s just the blood loss talking. Probably the nasty sea air as well. Let’s get back to crowded streets and dirt immediately.”
“Don’t forget cake.”
“That, husband, goes without saying.”
***
Dr. Geoffrey Murray might be the most irritating man in England, with his perfectly combed silver hair, pressed gray jacket and trousers, and chilly bedside manner. Then again, when you were the very best at your profession, you could probably afford to be arrogant.
At the moment, however, it didn’t suit Stephen’s purposes at all. Narrowing his gaze, he unleashed his fiercest glare on the physician. “Another week of bed rest? I’ve already been trapped in this bloody room for three! And if I have to consume another glass of barley water or bowl of chicken broth…”
Dr. Murray didn’t so much as blink his wide gray eyes as he repacked his brown medical bag, the only colored item he appeared to possess. “You suffered a severe injury, Lord Westleigh, and lost a great deal of blood. Quite frankly you are lucky to still be with us. In the great scheme of things, I do not believe a period of bed rest or proper invalid food will kill you. Unlike pistols and knives. Now, I’ll have Victoria prepare another tonic to help your body heal. She is far more skilled than I am with herbs, I am both sad and proud to admit.”
“Victoria? Is that your wife?”
“My daughter,” Dr Murray said shortly. “If only she’d been born a boy.”
Stephen snorted. “Rubbish. One day our great nation will advance to the point where all professions are open to women. Already decided any daughters I have will be tutored in all subjects. And taught to box. Then they’ll proceed to government reforms and resolving all the continent’s issues.”
Dr Murray made a rusty, barking sound. It might have been laughter, it was hard to tell. “You might wish to speak to your wife about that. Soon.”
“Why?”
“Good day to you, my lord.”
Alone again, Stephen sank back onto a pile of pillows. Not that he would ever admit it, but between the shoulder pain and debilitating fatigue, even the thought of getting out of bed made him wince. He supposed he felt infinitely better than a few weeks ago, but Dr. Murray insisted it would take months to return to full health, and Stephen suspected the man might be correct.
The connecting door between the earl and countess’ bedchambers inched open.
“Yes, Caroline, he’s gone,” he called. “You can stop pressing your ear to the keyhole and come in.”
She sashayed into the room and carefully arranged herself on his bed. “Excuse me, who discovered all the details about Sir Albert escaping to France? And Sir John dying of his wound? And Kimbolton and Wynn-Thorne being locked up in Tower rooms entirely unbefitting of their station?”
“I think you give Albert Bruce far too much credit. If White didn’t want him to escape, there is no way he would have. But what else have you been doing with your days?”
“Resting,” she grumbled. “Resting, resting, resting. I’m perfectly fine yet I’ve been ordered to nap for an hour every afternoon. And eat awful nourishing food.”
“Don’t cry to me about food. When you’ve been on the diet I have…wait a minute, why is Dr. Murray being strict with you?”
Caroline’s gaze shifted. “Er, well, I…”
“Your head?” he asked, frowning. “Or something else you didn’t tell me?”
“No. Just a little, ah, sickness.”
“What kind? What did he say? Is it serious?”
She snorted. “Yes and no.”
“Now you’re just talking in riddles.”
“Perhaps,” Caroline replied, gently resting her head against his uninjured shoulder. “My mind does wander a little. A common affliction, I’m told, for pregnant women.”
He stilled, as pure joy warmed his entire body. “You’re with child?”
“I am indeed. And if you think it is an enjoyable experience, you are entirely mistaken. Even the sight of cake makes me cast up my accounts. Instead I want creamed peas. Peas! All the damned time!”
Curving his good arm around her shoulder, he tugged Caroline down until she rested against his chest. So she couldn’t see the stupidly huge grin on his face or the suspicious dampness in his eyes. “If it’s peas you want, Lady Westleigh, then it’s peas you shall have,” he muttered unsteadily.
“I should think so, Lord Efficient and Dedicated to the Cause. The very least you can do.”
“Does Dr Murray know when approximately?”
“He thinks perhaps late January or early February. Plenty of time to prepare for the rogue mathematician or too-clever hellion.”
“Or perhaps one of each? Ow, Caroline, no pinching, I’m a seriously injured man.”
She gave him a fierce glare. “You’ll be even more seriously injured if you keep up that talk. One child at a time is more than sufficient, thank you very much!”
“But you are a twin, my dear. The probability…Ow! Vicious, bloodthirsty wench.”
“And yet you still married me.”
“Had to, as a public service. Who else could manage you?”
Caroline tilted her head then shimmied upwards until her mouth hovered inches from his. “Oh, you think you manage me, do you?”
“Occasionally,” he groaned, as her tongue brushed against his lips. How cruel, seducing him when he didn’t have the energy to do a thing about it.
“And the rest of time?”
“I thought perhaps I’d try…well…”
“Loving me?”
“Something like that.”
She snorted. “I think exactly like that. Say the words. Like you mean them, and I’ll hold them until we’re ancient and you deign to say them again.”
“So demanding,” he said, sighing theatrically. “Very well. I love you, hellion. Today, tomorrow and always.”
“Now that,” Caroline replied happily. “Sounds like a plan.”
Epilogue
December 1815
“You cannot seriously mean to eat that. There are men working all day in mines who don’t fill their plates half as high.”
“According to you, the baby is always hungry. I’m starting to suspect you are carrying an entire regiment at the very least.”
“That is not in the slightest bit amusing,” she growled, pressing a hand into the small of her back to relieve the near-constant ache caused by a very rounded belly.
In his last examination Dr. Murray estimated she still had about two months to go and she’d nearly belted him with his medical bag. It already felt like she’d been pregnant for at least three years and between the nausea that still plagued her occasionally, the insistent middle of the night tap dances on her ribcage, and constant need to use the chamber pot, she was more than ready to squeeze this active darling out of her body. The only positive aspect in the whole palaver was the cold weather. Heaven knew how women coped with this nonsense in the heat of summer.
“Perhaps not,” Stephen replied, almost contritely. “Times like these I’m very glad to be a man.”
“Yes, well, God in his infinite wisdom knew men were complete milksops, that is why women are tasked with pregnancy and childbirth. However I’d be delighted to kick you twenty times in the groin, wake you half-hourly at night and pour purging liquids down your throat so you can experience some of the excitement though.”
He went green. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“So it is,” she replied serenely, carefully lowering herself into a high-backed chair and digging into her food.
Unfortunately she’d barely cleared half the plate when Innes poked his head through the door.
“Your pardon, but there is an urgent messenger here to see you, Lady Westleigh.”
Anticipation flared. Was it the investigator Stephen hired to discover the identity of her real father? The dapper, bespectacled man had only been given the vaguely dated family portrait which was hardly a great deal of information to work with, but she still clung to hope that one day he would come calling with a bulging folder to answer all her questions once and for all.
“Who from?” she said quickly.
“Master George.”
“Oh. Inform the boy I will see him in the foyer presently.”
Innes bowed. “Very good, my lady.”
Dabbing her mouth with a white linen napkin, she glanced at Stephen. “George never sends messengers. It must be important.”
“Indeed.”
“Maybe Sir Malcolm is dead.”
“I think if that were the case we’d be hearing a brass band, and fireworks.”
“Talking of fireworks, or lack thereof, Mama mentioned that her life with Sir Malcolm has improved immeasurably, in fact, she hardly sees him anymore. Ever since a day when there was some sort of violent altercation in his library. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Stephen swallowed a forkful of bacon. “Violent altercation? No, no. I was amiable. In a particularly amiable manner I demonstrated my extreme displeasure with the tea tray incident, and that if anything similar happened again involving you or your mother, there would be severe consequences. And in case Sir Malcolm wondered, Southby, Standish, Liverpool, Castlereagh and White were all more than happy to provide me with an alibi.”
“Most amiable of them.”
“I thought so. Now, the sooner you go and see what George’s messenger has to say, the sooner you can conquer the second mountain range on your plate.”
“Have I told you lately how splendidly humorous you aren’t?” she asked, bracing both hands on the table and hauling herself to her feet. “I actually feel a little sorry for the baby. I’m not sure my far superior intelligence and wit will be enough to counteract your pitiful contribution.”
Her husband nodded sadly. “Poor wee thing. And poor me. Inadequate in so many areas. A decent wife would attempt to cheer me up.”
“When you find such a paragon, give her my regards,” Caroline said pertly, ambling past him. But before she’d gone two steps, Stephen grabbed her hand and pulled her sideways into his lap.
“One moment please, countess.”
“I’m getting too big to hug,” she groaned, resting her head on his shoulder and sighing deeply at the thought of having to forgo the absolute pleasure of being securely wrapped in his arms.
“Nonsense,” he replied, reaching down to knead either side of her spine with the knuckles of his left hand, right in the sore spot, until she whimpered at the soothing deliciousness of it. “I’ll just grow longer arms.”
“The least you can do.”
He grinned, cupping her cheek and turning her face towards him. Then his lips brushed hers and as it always did, heat flared. In seconds they were devouring each other, she loosening his cravat and stroking his chest, him tugging down the sleeve of her gown and cupping the generous fullness of her breast.
Caroline moaned, rubbing herself against Stephen until he took the hint and began to pluck and tease her swollen nipple. Their increased sensitivity made this particular activity a sheer delight, how divine it was to settle on a pile of pillows and let him play for hours. Of course they had to be rather creative nowadays to accommodate her ever-growing belly, but in the process had made some exquisite discoveries. Like the time he’d braced her against the…
“A-hem.”
They both froze.
“As requested, my lady, the messenger is awaiting your arrival with great anticipation in the foyer,” intoned Innes, his face carefully blank.
Caroline bit her lip, keeping her gaze fixed on a painted seaside landscape while she adjusted her gown and clumsily scrambled off her husband’s lap.
“I will be there directly.”
“The boy will be delighted to hear such welcome news, ma’am.”
Glaring at the butler’s retreating back, Caroline scowled.
“Why haven’t you fired him?”
“Because he knows too much,” replied Stephen. “Probably just as well Innes interrupted us though. Since you won’t permit her to retire to the dower house, Mama will no doubt be down for breakfast soon.”
“Her first grandchild will be arriving soon. At least I hope so. And, now she has learned to clomp her heels or cough when approaching communal rooms. Besides, between all her charity committees and finally being allowed to sponsor your cousin’s come out…”
“We’re all going to help with that. With her parents, poor Samantha will need all the heavyweights she can get.”
She sniffed. “Heavyweights? Exactly what are you implying—”
“Caroline. Messenger.”
“Yes, yes, I’m getting there.”
“Caroline.”
“What?” she said irritably, waddling towards the door.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Pfft!” she replied, waving a hand so the infernal man didn’t see the smile tugging at her lips.
The foyer was far cooler than the morning room, and she rubbed her arms.
“You have a message for me?” she said politely.
The young, dark-haired boy swung around. “Please, Lady Westleigh, you need to come now. Mr. George said right away. That it’s an e-mer-gen-cy.”
Exasperation filled her.
Oh God. What had her twin done now?
The End
About the Author
New Zealander Nicola Davidson always adored words, romance and history, so writing historical romance was a logical career progression…er, eventually. After completing a communications degree and journalism diploma she left to teach English in Taiwan and travel through Asia before returning home to work in television. Jobs
in tertiary education, local government communications and print media followed, but the lords and ladies in her head wouldn’t hold their peace a moment longer and so began the years of professional daydreaming. When not chained to a computer writing wickedly sexy, witty and twisty turny stories, Nicola can be found ambling along a beach, cheering on the champion All Blacks rugby team or driving her nearest and dearest batty with her history geekisms, chocolate hoarding and complete lack of domestic skills.
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