She muttered something that sounded to his fuzzy ears like “piffle,” if that was indeed a word.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Nothing. I was just thinking.” She crossed her arms, staring at him as if he were a particularly nasty bug to be pinned to a display. “Do you remember being attacked?”
Chase frowned. Should he pretend to remember that? Or not? Perhaps the best answer was a nonanswer. “I suppose…I think…you said you found me in a forest?”
“Yes. Not far from here. By the way, your horse is fine.”
He brightened, then caught her eye and realized his error. He forced himself to frown. “A horse? I must have been riding, then.”
“And drinking.”
Of course he’d been drinking. He’d been desperate to dull the pain of his homesickness. Still…that was not something he wished to admit to the little puritan facing him now—and he was quite certain she was a puritan. No one else could look so disapproving and for nothing more serious than a few gulps of brandy.
Chase opted for an innocent lift of his brows. “Are you certain I was drinking?”
“You reeked of brandy, and an empty bottle was found nearby.”
“Perhaps it was in my saddlebag and just leaked out,” he suggested mildly.
“Hm.” She appeared unconvinced. Completely unconvinced.
Chase’s amusement was quickly leaving, replaced by a sort of wary fascination. Miss Harriet Ward was obviously no fool. And she ruffled up like a wet hen when she was upset. For some reason, Chase found that he rather liked that outraged expression. Liked it a lot. Liked it so much that it made him want to reach out, scoop her up, and kiss her senseless.
He touched his forehead and wondered how hard he’d been hit. “I need to see a doctor.”
She turned and picked up a cloth and dipped it in a bowl that sat steaming beside the bed. “Dr. Blackthorne just left. He said you’d be fine.”
Chase had no doubt that Blackthorne was some sort of country bumpkin who knew more about torn horse ligaments than doctoring actual people. “What exactly did the good doctor say?”
As if she detected the sarcasm he’d tried to hide, Harriet shot him a look from beneath her lashes. She wrung out the cloth, then reached over and pressed it against his brow. “You can speak to the doctor yourself when next he comes.”
The warm cloth worked magic on Chase. He closed his eyes, a strange lassitude weighing him down. The ache behind his eyes began to melt away.
Harriet, for her part, was having a difficult time remaining stoic. The man was so handsome, resting against the pillows, his black hair falling over the bandage in the most interesting way. His eyes had especially caught her attention. Bright blue and clear, she had the feeling that she could see all the way into his soul.
Heaven help her, but he was a beautiful man. And the realization that this bit of perfection had held her in his arms and kissed her madly, passionately, as if she were the only woman in the world…Harriet thought she would burst into flames at any second. Not from embarrassment, though had she any sense she would feel at least a little, but from pure hot lust.
Harriet was no stranger to kisses. She’d been kissed before. Twice, in fact. Once was three years ago, at the farmer’s fair in Newmarket. She’d been walking along the stalls, a basket over her arm, when a lad had run by, grabbed her, and planted a firm kiss on her lips, then run off.
And then, two years ago, Colonel Hillbright’s grandson, Mr. Landry, had come from London for a visit. Harriet later learned that Mr. Landry was actually in hiding from his creditors, but when she’d first met him, she’d thought him dashing and pleasant.
Indeed, they’d embarked on a three-week flirtation that had ended in the back garden of Garrett Park with a very brief kiss. He’d left the following day, his pocket stuffed with the draft for funds that he’d finally wormed out of his grandfather. Harriet was certain that he never again gave her or his grandfather another thought.
For her part, Harriet had been similarly disaffected. Still, she’d been glad for the episode as she’d thought it would be the only taste of passion she’d ever have—her only brush with the fires within. Apparently she’d thought wrong. Mr. Landry’s kiss, which she’d managed to romanticize over the last two years, suddenly faded into insignificance. It was a mere peck on the cheek in the face of this new kiss.
A real kiss, she realized. From a real man. One who was obviously very experienced in such matters.
Harriet dipped the cloth back into the basin, noting that the patient’s eyes opened reluctantly. He gave her a sleepy half smile, his lids lowered over his eyes. “That felt soooo good.”
Harriet resolutely subdued the hot tingle that flashed through her. What was it about this man that ignited such feelings? Perhaps it was the mystery. Yes, that’s what it was. She was a tidy person, one who liked all the chess pieces left on the board in their proper places. And this man, lying before her, was definitely out of place. She lowered the warm cloth to his face once again. “Better?” she asked in her most practical, efficient voice.
“Somewhat.” His hand wrapped about her wrist, holding her hand to his cheek, his eyes shimmering with a surprising heat. “If you really wanted to make me feel better, you’d kiss me again.”
She pulled back—as far as she could considering he held her wrist in an uncompromising clasp. “Really, Mr.—” She paused. “If you don’t know your name, what will we call you?”
“Good question. We’ll think about that while we’re kissing.” His eyes twinkling up at her, he pulled her wrist to his mouth, where he placed a warm kiss to her bare skin, the wet cloth dangling useless. “I can do both, you know. Think and kiss. I’m quite talented.”
She tugged on her arm, alarmed at the wave of heat that shivered up her spine. “I am in no mood to kiss you, and I have no desire to think up names for you either.”
He tugged her closer, his lips curled into a smile that was as hard to resist as Cook’s cinnamon scones. Harriet found herself wanting to smile in return, a response she firmly suppressed. Whatever else he was, the man was obviously a wastrel. The last thing he needed was encouragement. “Please release my arm.”
“Once you kiss me.” He wagged his brows. “You’d better do it. I’m injured, you know; I could hurt myself pursuing you.”
He was so ridiculous that Harriet’s smile almost broke loose. “Look, Mr…. whatever your name is, I—” She stopped and frowned down at him, a thought suddenly occurring. “For someone who has just realized that he has no memory, you are in a spanking good mood.”
His gaze flickered just an instant, but his smile remained in place, as did his hand about her wrist. “That’s because I know my memory will return soon.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “How?”
He paused, and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. Something wasn’t right here.
The patient pursed his lips, his thumb rubbing intimately along her wrist. “I know because,” he said with great deliberation, as if trying to explain some thing to a person of lower understanding, “I remember some things. Like how to put on my boots. And how to kiss a woman.”
“Useful talents.”
He ignored her dry comment. “I know I’m going to get my memory back the same way I know that doing this”—he nodded toward where his thumb was rubbing a spate of delectable tingles through her entire body—“can make you do that.” His gaze shifted to her arm, where gooseflesh danced across her skin. As warm as the cloth in her hand had been, it was nothing compared to the feel of his fingers clasped about her bared skin.
Heavens, what was wrong with her? She tried to free herself, but his hold tightened, and he looked up at her, his glance issuing a distinct challenge. “Afraid?”
“Of what? A man with no memory? Piffle.” She cast about for something witty to say, but all she could find was, “So. You believe for some inexplicable reason that you’re going to regain your memory. That’s the most asinine t
hing I’ve ever heard.”
He raised a brow. “Have you ever lost your memory?”
“No, but—”
“Then how do you know what it’s like?”
“I know because—” She clamped her mouth closed, realizing she really had no idea why his reaction struck her as false. The patient’s smug air irritated Harriet to death.
She opened her mouth to argue her point, when her patient tightened his grip on her wrist and yanked her to him.
Her legs hit the side of the bed, and she pitched forward, once again in his lap.
“There,” he murmured, his arms holding her prisoner. “I’m feeling better already.”
Harriet struggled to right herself, tossing the wet cloth onto the floor so that she could use both of her hands. “That is quite enough—”
The door pushed open, and Mother’s soft voice said breezily, “Harriet dear! Dr. Blackthorne says—Oh my goodness!”
Harriet sent a glance of triumph at the infuriating man who held her prisoner as she waited for her mother to take him to task for his reprehensible behavior.
“Harriet!” Mother said in a scandalized tone. “What on earth are you doing to our poor patient?”
Chapter 5
Women are really simple creatures. Simply indecipherable, that is.
The Duke of Wexford to the Duchess of Wexford, while driving home from church on a Sunday afternoon
“Mother, I—I’m not—he just—I didn’t—Oh, piffle!”
Elviria Ward blinked at her usually staid, calm daughter—the very same daughter who now lay red-faced and prone across the lap of their patient.
“Well!”
It wasn’t what Elviria meant to say. Or even what she thought she should say. It was just all she could get out at the moment.
She was certain that later on, the perfect words would come to her. Sadly, they always did.
Harriet’s face flooded bright red as she struggled to push herself back into a standing position, but it was difficult given the softness of the bed and the fact that the patient, though watching calmly, did nothing to help. Harriet twisted this way and that, a huge thunk echoing as she scrambled to her feet, followed by a muffled exclamation.
Elviria wasn’t certain, but she thought perhaps that Harriet had uttered a rather colorful comment. Goodness, but Harriet was getting more like her father every day.
Finally back on her feet, Harriet glared down at the patient. “Oh! You made that as difficult as you could, didn’t you?”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and grinned. “If you’d wanted help, all you had to do was ask.”
Harriet muttered something incomprehensible, then turned to face her mother. Elviria had never seen Harriet’s face quite that shade of red.
“Mother, I know how this must look, but we didn’t—that is, I was only—”
“Miss Ward fell across the bed, and I caught her,” the patient said, a slightly imperious air to him even though he was dressed in one of Stephen’s nightshirts, his head wrapped in a bandage. He did not appear the least bit regretful for what Elviria was certain must have been a gross impertinence of some sort.
She glanced at her daughter. Or had it been a gross impertinence? Harriet seemed flustered, but not precisely angry. Just irritated and infuriated and outraged.
How…unusual.
The patient slanted a lazy smile at Harriet, and Elviria’s brows rose. Heavens! Even her heart stuttered a bit at such a smile. Poor Harriet’s must be galloping like a hound-chased fox.
“Miss Ward,” he said, a devilish glint in his blue eyes, “I hope you’re not injured.”
“Injured?” Harriet said stiffly. “Of course I’m not injured.”
“Didn’t you bump your elbow?”
Harriet’s red cheeks puffed out a moment in pure indignation. “I didn’t bump anything, thank you.”
Frost chilled each word, though the air between Elviria’s normally staid daughter and the handsome stranger hummed with definite heat. My, but this was interesting! Harriet never let her temper get the better of her. Even when she’d been a wee thing, unable to climb into a chair on her own, she’d never shown anything but calm good sense and reasoned judgment.
Which was why Elviria could only stare at her eldest daughter.
Harriet caught her mother’s glance and colored even deeper.
Elviria’s gaze drifted back to the patient. “I must apologize for not introducing myself. I am Elviria Ward, and you must be…”
No answer was forthcoming. Elviria glanced from the patient, to her daughter, and back. Neither one moved.
Finally, the patient sighed. “I’m afraid I cannot remember.”
Elviria blinked. “You can’t remember?”
“No.”
Oh dear. How dreadful. “Not anything at all?”
“Nothing. It’s as if the slate was wiped clean.”
“A very small slate,” Harriet said under her breath, but loudly enough to be heard.
“Harriet!” Elviria said.
“Sorry,” Harriet muttered, though she smirked at the patient in a way that showed anything but remorse.
Elviria was hard-pressed to hide an unexpected grin. The patient, however, did not appear amused. Instead his handsome face had taken on a distinctly predatory appearance, as if he was marking the comment for further retribution.
Elviria wasn’t sure she liked seeing that look directed at her own daughter. Good Lord, the wounded man was turning out to be a problem, indeed. But not for long. Elviria had been on her own since her dear Randall’s death seven long years ago. If there was one thing she’d learned in that time, it was to address problems as efficiently as possible. She wasn’t always successful, but not for lack of trying.
Fortunately, this seemed to be a fairly easy puzzle to solve. She’d just get the man out of her house. Yes, that is exactly what she’d do. Perhaps the Langleys could be convinced to house him until his memory returned. The Langleys had only one child, a son about Stephen’s age. That would be far more appropriate than housing a handsome profligate with three attractive, eligible females.
For some reason, Elviria was certain the stranger was a handsome profligate, whether he remembered his name or not.
As if to prove her point, the man never removed his gaze from Harriet. “Miss Ward, I’m certain your elbow hit the headboard. I heard a decided thump.”
Elviria had to admit that Harriet gave the man her best “I’ll-show-you-a-thump” look. “Was it a very loud, solid thump?” Harriet asked, blinking innocently. “Like a rock on wood?”
His smile froze, and his gaze became more shaded. “Perhaps. Why?”
“If it was rocklike, then it was your head against the board and not my elbow.”
Elviria snatched her kerchief from her pocket and pretended to cough.
The patient’s lips twitched, but he managed to say in an even tone, “No. It was more of an elbow sound.”
“An elbow sound? What does an elbow sound like?”
“If you’ll lend me yours for a moment, I’ll show you what it sounds like,” he retorted easily.
Well, thought Elviria. Now we know that the young man has brothers and sisters. Only a well-teased sibling would have responded so quickly. She wasn’t sure why that information pleased her, but it did.
“Only,” Harriet said, “if you will grant me use of your head for a like experiment—”
“Harriet,” Elviria interjected, tucking her kerchief back into her pocket. “The poor man cannot possibly allow you to thunk his head against the headboard for no other reason than to ascertain what it will sound like. He’s wounded.”
Harriet eyed his bandaged head as if just seeing it. “I suppose you’re right. But once he’s better—”
“I’m certain he’ll heal much quicker without you using his head for a drum.” Elviria went to the bed, careful to place herself between the man and her daughter. “Please forgive Harriet. She has been under a strain la
tely.”
“Oh?” The man’s dark gaze flickered past Elviria, then back. “We all have. I’m sorry I’ve forgotten everything—”
“So you say,” Harriet said from behind Elviria.
“He says?” She turned to look at her daughter. “You don’t believe him? But why—”
“Mother!” Derrick stood in the doorway, his dark brown eyes filled with worry.
Elviria noted how his head barely cleared the doorframe. Though only sixteen, he was hands taller than she was. “Yes, dear?”
“It’s Mr. Gower from the bank.”
Elviria’s good mood left her in a whoosh. Good God, surely it wasn’t that time again. Her stomach began to knot. She hated owing money. If she had a pence for every night since Randall’s death that she’d lain awake, wondering how she was going to find funds to keep Garrett Park for her children, she’d be a wealthy woman indeed.
Derrick ran a hand through his hair, his shoulder bumping the door. He was at that gangly stage, too large for his own feet. Elviria managed to smile reassuringly at him even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. “Please tell Mr. Gower that I’ll be down soon.”
Derrick frowned. “Are you certain? If you’d like, I can ask Stephen to speak with him.”
Oh dear. That wouldn’t do at all. Stephen might be older than Derrick, but he also possessed a much hotter temper and a tendency to think he was in charge of the world. “No, no. I don’t wish Stephen to be made uncomfortable.”
“Then I’ll do it. I’ll tell that old bag of wind to go and jump in the lake and drown—”
“No!” Elviria said hastily. “But thank you for offering your assistance. I’ll take care of Mr. Gower.”
Someone placed a hand on her shoulder. Elviria turned to find Harriet beside her.
Elviria managed a smile. “It seems as if we barely make one payment before another is due.”
“It will be all right,” Harriet said, giving Elviria’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll go and talk to him. You stay here with the patient.”
“No. No, I’ll go and—”
“Piffle! I said I’d go, and I will. Meanwhile, you stay here and tend the patient. Of the two of us, I think you have the more harsh task.”
How to Treat a Lady Page 5