“The pain easing is a good sign but, still, you are not going anywhere until my physician has given you a thorough examination.”
“Physician?” She started to push from Drake’s arms, but the movement made her temple throb. “All I need is a good night’s rest and I’ll be snapping piqués turns across the stage.”
“I say ’tis a good thing the theater will be shuttered on the morrow as well. You need a full day’s rest.”
“An entire day? I’d go mad.”
“When was the last time you took to your bed due to illness?”
Bria closed her eyes. “Never.”
“Oh, I see. You are immune to all ailments afflicting mere mortals—not even smallpox can penetrate your iron heart.”
“You are unkind to ridicule me in such a way. I’ve been ill before. I just have not had the luxury of lying abed and succumbing to my misery.”
He took in a sharp breath as if she’d said something unexpected. “Forgive my sarcasm. Please indulge me this once. I do not think it is a good idea to make a habit of swooning and I insist on ensuring you haven’t suffered anything more severe than a mere bump.”
Bria gave his shoulder a thwack. “Contrary to your belief, I do not make a habit of swooning. How dare you insinuate tonight’s incident with the hackney coach was my doing?”
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“You’ve only seen me swoon once, and that was due to fatigue and hunger. Moreover, it was the first time in all my days such a thing has happened. I was famished and tired beyond all reason.”
“Yes, miss.” His arms tightened around her as the coach rolled to a stop. “Nonetheless, I will not be dissuaded on this.”
Before she could argue further, the coachman opened the door and Ravenscar whisked her out of the carriage and up the stairs to his town house. As the door opened, the duke bounded through the entry. “Pennyworth, send for my physician! Miss LeClair has received a bump to the head. She’ll be resting in the east bedchamber.”
“Straightaway, Your Grace.”
“I am able to walk,” Bria said as he headed for the stairs.
“I’m sure you are,” he said, though he didn’t stop to set her on her feet. No, the dancing, boxing, fencing duke carried her up two flights of stairs as if she weighed no more than a bushel of potatoes.
After exiting on the second-floor landing, he pushed inside a bedchamber. Ivory wallpaper lined the walls, decorated with a filigree of pink roses, blue ribbons and gold accents. He rested her on a small bed covered in ivory satin with a French canopy. As soon as Bria’s head hit the feather-down pillow she sighed with the pleasure of it.
“Allow me to remove your slippers,” Drake said while a footman came in, lit the candles and attended to starting a fire in the hearth.
Bria moved her toes over the side of the bed.
The duke knelt as he pulled them off. “Your feet are so small.”
“Right sized for me, I suppose.”
“I’m happy to see your sauciness has been unaffected by your tumble.” He grinned. “Let us tuck you under the bedclothes before you catch a chill.”
Giving in, she let him help. “Isn’t your mother expecting you to return to Almacks?”
“I made no promises.” He smoothed his hand over the coverlet. “Besides, you are far more important.”
“Than your mother?”
“Than Almacks,” he clarified, taking a candle and leaning over her. “Now, let’s have a look at your head.”
She cringed. “Is it awful? I felt a knot.”
“Hmm. There’s some bruising and a gash, about a half-inch.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
He pressed his fingers around the sore spot. “I don’t feel other signs of swelling, but I’m no healer.”
She clasped his hand, drew it to her lips and kissed his fingers. “You are very kind to concern yourself with me.”
He held her gaze for a moment while a current of energy passed between them. As if their souls kissed. But the connection waned as he glanced away.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. When I saw the carriage throw the wheel, I could have died. I should have been the person in the hack, not you. I’ll have the driver’s hide for his negligence.”
“Do not be too hard on the man. He said he checked the soundness of the carriage and, on top of that, he has a family to support.”
Shaking his head, His Grace cupped her cheek with a large, yet gentle palm. “There you are, the one who suffered the most from this night’s incident and you’re worrying about everyone except yourself.”
“It is ever so dreary to fret over oneself.”
He looked into her eyes, the intensity again growing between them. “If only…”
Smiling, Bria glanced downward, being the one to break the bond this time. Whatever he was about to say, it was best left unuttered. She could think of a hundred things—if only they were in the same class, if only she weren’t a foundling, if only he wasn’t a duke, if only she weren’t a fallen woman in society’s eyes. The list went on ad infinitum.
Rather than draw away, he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. His lips caressed her flesh as if in silent desire while he kissed a torturous trail to her ear and along her jaw. When he reached her mouth, every ounce of Bria’s restraint shed from her iron will like water off an eider duck’s back. Hungry for him, she sighed while his lips opened against hers, asking permission to take more.
Bria melted into the bed as she slid her arms around his neck and lost herself in the overwhelming sensation of kissing the one man who commanded her thoughts. Yes, she admitted she had desperately wanted to see him at the Hughes ball. She wanted him to take her in his arms and reserve every set for her. She craved for him to kiss her on the terrace, though she’d goaded and tried to turn him away.
They both drew in ragged breaths when he pulled back, his face serious, troubled.
“What is it between us, Duke?” she whispered, terrified to hear the answer.
“I wish I knew.” He traced the pad of his finger over the sensitive lips he’d just kissed. “I have an overwhelming need to protect you.”
She tried to smile as if his words were a trifle. How long had it been since anyone cared enough to look after her? Her heart stretched. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time,” she whispered, both elated and afraid.
“I know you have, and I admire your courage. Though it doesn’t hurt to have a guardian angel at your back.”
“I like that you look out for me, but…” A myriad of thoughts warred in her mind. Dance was her master. I need to tell him.
“But?”
“I do not want to be any man’s mistress.”
Black brows drew together while a storm passed behind his eyes. “Who said anything about mistresses?”
Isn’t that what men like you want from women like me? Bria looked away. “I thought it best for you to know…ah…before things grew out of hand.”
“Your Grace,” said Pennyworth, opening the door. “The physician is here.”
Chapter Thirteen
The doctor ordered a day of bedrest which Britannia tried to refuse. But as the theater owner, Drake insisted she obey. Not to mention he was delighted to have a houseguest. He busied her time reading aloud and making himself refrain from stealing another kiss.
She wasn’t wrong to inquire about what was happening between them. Quite frankly, he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to think on what the future might bring. Presently, he enjoyed Miss LeClair, full stop. He intended to respect her virtue—to put her on a pedestal and worship her for the talented woman she was. Why did there need to be an ulterior motive? Though he couldn’t deny he’d considered exploring a relationship of a more intimate nature, he certainly would not insult her by asking the woman to be his mistress.
Especially not while La Sylphide was still playing at Chadwick Theater.
This morning, upon Britannia’s
insistence, Drake had sent a missive to Miss Renaud explaining what had happened and that the doctor expected Britannia to be able to perform as scheduled the following night.
Drake closed the book of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. “Which do you prefer, tragedy or comedy?”
She narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. “I think comedy, because I enjoy laughing. There’s always plenty of tragedy about, so who needs more of it?”
“Well put.”
A clatter came from the staircase. “No, I will not wait in the parlor!”
Drake set the book aside. “My mother sounds rather upset.”
Britannia tugged the bedclothes up to her chin. “You should have returned to Almacks last eve.”
“I did exactly what I should have done, and she will simply have to accept it. Sometimes dearest Mother forgets I am duke now.” He stood, intending to meet Her Grace on the stairs, but the door to the bedchamber burst open.
“There you are.” The dowager duchess’ gaze shot from Drake to the bed and back, her eyes filling with shock. “I must speak with you in the parlor at once.”
“Excuse me,” Drake said, bowing to Britannia before ushering his mother to the corridor and downstairs. He waited until they reached the ground floor, well out of the dancer’s hearing range before he said a word. “It is not what you think,” he whispered, opening the door to the parlor. “Miss LeClair was injured last eve when her hack threw a wheel.”
“And why are you the poor chap who came to her rescue? Why not appoint your coachman, or a footman or Pennyworth? You are a duke, not a nursemaid.” Mother swept inside and onto a chair. “That woman has no business in this house.”
Drake strode toward the hearth, intent on refraining from engaging in a war of words, but he would make his position clear in a low, intense tone. “I daresay, it is up to my discretion whom I entertain, and you have absolutely no say in the matter.”
“You think not? In light of your carelessness, I believe I should be more involved in your activities. And what about the French dancer’s reputation? What will people think when they discover she’s staying under your roof.” Mother rapped her palm with her fan. “Whether or not you have acted respectfully, the prattle baskets will run rampant with this news.”
His blood simmering to a low boil, Drake threw out his arms. “Bloody hell, she needed my help. She’s not a member of the nobility, and who gives a rat’s arse if the blatherskites out there think she’s my mistress?”
“Mistress? For once in your life would you be serious about taking a wife, and leave the whoremongering to less respectable members of the nobility? For heaven’s sake, I have worked my fingers to the bone for the past few Seasons, taking it upon myself to parade an endless number of debutantes under your nose. And you have yet to look twice at a single candidate. What are you waiting for? A goddess to come down from Mount Olympus?”
“I have never asked you to play matchmaker.” Drake grabbed the back of a chair and dug his fingers into the upholstery. “Mind you, I have plenty of time to find a duchess and I will do so on my own schedule.”
“You are five and twenty. You are a duke who can trace his lineage back nineteen generations!” Mother thrust her fan upward. “The woman above stairs cannot even tell you who her parents were, let alone if they were married. Your father was only six and thirty when he passed. None of us can afford to idle away time, wasting it on women of easy virtue.”
His fingers drilled into the upholstery with such force, the fabric stretched to the point of tearing. “Miss LeClair is not a woman of easy virtue and I resent your referring to her as such. It isn’t like you to be discourteous toward those of the working class.”
“Well,” Mother huffed. “I am at the end of my tether. I, a matriarch of the ton, hosted what should have been the best attended ball of the Season and not even halfway through, you disappeared—along with a quarter of the eligible men in London. I could not believe how you usurped me so!”
Ah, now she reveals the true source of her ire. “I apologize on that account. I had intended only to stop in to pay my respects. I fully expected to return until Miss LeClair’s carriage threw a wheel.”
Mother threw up her hands. “Why were you watching her carriage and not some hired man?”
“She was ready to go home and her companion was not. As her employer, before I rejoined you at Almacks, I felt the necessity to follow her hack to the boarding house to ensure she made it safely.”
“Which she did not.”
“Alas, no.”
Mother opened her fan. Flicking it passionately, the plume atop her hat flipped about while she looked up at the picture of the thirteenth duke hanging above the mantel. “Why must Chadwick men be so difficult? All I ask is that you take my recommendations seriously. I do not maintain a hectic social calendar for my health.”
“I thought you enjoyed being an engaging grande dame.”
“In truth, I do it for you. All of it.”
Drake unclamped his fingers from the chair. “Next you’ll be telling me you wish to retire to the dowager house at Peak Castle and idle away your remaining years painting landscapes of the shore.”
“The idea has its merits.” Mother snapped her fan closed. “That is if you were properly situated, spending the Season in Ravenscar Hall with a new bride and my grandchildren.”
Though his lenders were satisfied for the moment, at some time he needed to tell his mother about the Pall Mall mansion and how close she came to residing in the country permanently. However, today was not the day. Not when she was already riled. He dropped to his knee and took her hand. “You have nothing to worry about from me. I will marry. But I must find someone who takes my fancy. Someone with whom I can be allies.”
“I daresay familiarity comes in time.” She smacked him on the shoulder with her damnable fan. “Though not when you are entertaining the bit of muslin upstairs. There is nary a distinguished prospect out there who will bide her time while a potential suitor dallies about with mistresses. And all the diamonds of the ton are courted early in the Season so their weddings can be announced by the end. You must act swiftly. Lady Blanche, in particular, will not have a second Season, not a woman of quality like the daughter of Viscount Falmouth.”
Drake stood. “What do you find so alluring in Her Ladyship?”
“She’s well-mannered, has an impeccable family, and she’s quite handsome if I may add.”
“I found her rather plain. Rather guileless and sheltered.”
“She is young, my dear boy. A canvas upon which you can build.”
“I understand your anxiousness for me to marry, but I do not want you to feel as if it is your responsibility to find my bride. I will know the right woman as soon as I set eyes on her. Next Season the theater will be fully in Mr. Perkins’ control and I will not have as much with which to concern myself. Perhaps then I’ll find my duchess.”
“Next Season?” Mother drew a hand over her heart. “I could be a withered prune by then.”
“You will not be.” He kissed her hand. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to Miss LeClair’s bedside. We are reading A Comedy of Errors next.”
“If you must.” Mother gave a wee snort. “At least spirit her out the mews and have her taken home in a hackney. There’s no point in making a grandiose display of your escapades. Polite society will not understand.”
He placed his palm in the small of her back and started for the door. “Very well. I will be more discreet.”
“You care for her, do you not?”
“Let us say I admire her,” he said over his shoulder. “Miss LeClair has inner strength that I haven’t encountered in many women.”
“Well, perhaps once she returns to France, you’ll be more amenable to the idea of marriage.”
“Perhaps.”
After Drake escorted his mother out, he looked at the stairs with a sense of foreboding. The woman occupying his guest chamber was more tempting than lemon cream. More desirabl
e than any debutante in London—any female in London for that matter.
But she was in his employ.
Britannia was not his to kiss. She was not his to caress or fondle or for him to do any of the other things he’d lain awake at night trying not to think about.
Mother had been right on a number of counts. The one he remembered most? There was no chance he would be able to choose a bride while Britannia LeClair remained in England.
A few weeks later, the stage manager popped his head in Bria’s dressing room as the dancers were preparing for the night’s performance. “Miss LeClair, there’s a Mr. Gibbs at the stage door asking to see you.”
Her heart skipped a beat as she clasped Pauline’s hands. “He’s the investigator I went to see,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes. I hope he has some news.”
“Come with me—he’s a little chilly.”
Mr. Gibbs stood outside, smoking a pipe. He pushed off from the wall as the dancers approached, the moonlit alley doing nothing to make him more amiable.
Bria introduced Pauline. “Please tell me you’ve found something.”
“I have news, though I doubt you’ll like it.” Gibbs tapped his pipe on the brick wall. “The Prince Regent’s only known mistress in 1814 was Isabella Ingram, now the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford. Presently, she is still living, though she has attained the ripe age of four and seventy. Might I add that it is highly improbable Her Ladyship is your mother. No woman could possibly survive confinement at the age of three and fifty.”
“I see.” Bria pressed her hands to her abdomen. “That is disappointing.”
“As I said before, it will be highly unlikely to discover the identity of your mother after nineteen years. The kerchief could have come from anywhere—even purchased as a keepsake by some passerby—most likely a Frenchman.”
Bria shifted her fingers to the miniature, secure beneath her costume. “Does the dowager marchioness reside in London?”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 188