Stranded with the Reclusive Earl

by Eva Shepherd

  He tilted his head and Iris hoped he wasn’t wondering how she knew about the rate of his heartbeat. She didn’t want him to know where her touch had taken her.

  ‘So I really couldn’t leave you like that, could I?’ she raced on.

  He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Dreams cannot hurt you and I am not a child who needs comforting.’

  He was wrong. Dreams could hurt you and he had quite clearly been in pain. Something terrible had caused his nightmare. Something or someone had hurt him. Something was causing his belligerence. Possibly the same thing that had caused him to cut himself off from the world, and she was curious to know what. But now was not the time to ask such questions.

  ‘Everyone needs to be comforted at times,’ she said instead, wanting to add, And you, I suspect, more than most.

  Instead of arguing with her he merely huffed out his disagreement.

  ‘Do you know what the dream was about?’ she asked, keeping her voice low and soothing.

  ‘I do not,’ he barked back. ‘Nor do I want to discuss it with you.’

  ‘It’s just that—’ Iris raised a shoulder, undeterred by his fury ‘—whenever we had bad dreams as children Mother always got us to tell her what they were about. She said that talking about them was how the bogeyman lost his power.’

  He said nothing. Merely remained standing in the middle of the room, his hands now back on his hips.

  ‘So that’s why I think you should talk about it, so it loses its power.’

  ‘I...am...not...a...child,’ he finally said, his words drawn out, his anger barely contained. ‘I am not frightened of the bogeyman and I do not require mothering.’

  ‘I know... I just thought...’

  ‘Thinking is one thing that you do not appear to do much of, Lady Iris. Intelligence is clearly not one of your strong suits.’

  Iris glared at him. That was what everyone assumed. Because of the way she looked, everyone thought she could not possibly have a brain in her head. Few people outside the family ever wanted to hear her opinions. All men ever expected of her was to look pretty, to laugh at the appropriate times, and to enjoy their attention and flattery. And the Earl was no different. Even if he couldn’t actually see the way she looked, he was still making the same assumptions about her as every other man she had met.

  ‘How dare you?’ she seethed. ‘Just because I tried to help you doesn’t mean you have the right to insult me.’

  ‘And just because you want to mother me doesn’t mean you have the right to barge into my bedroom in the middle of the night.’

  ‘I did not barge in. And I do not want to mother you.’ She looked him up and down in defiance. Then looked him up and down one more time, somewhat less defiantly and somewhat more appreciatively.

  ‘If you weren’t here to save me, then what were you doing in my room? Why were you on my bed? And why are you still in my bedroom?’

  Iris swallowed. It was a good question. The real reason why she had stayed in his room after he had calmed down had nothing to do with mothering him, but she could hardly tell him the truth.

  She could hardly tell him it was because she wanted to look at him, that she wanted to hold him, to touch him, and that she had done just that. She could hardly inform him that she knew what his muscular chest felt like, knew what it was like to run her fingers over his stubbled cheek, to touch his lips with her own.

  She clasped her hands together, as if they contained a memory of his hard body, his soft lips, his rough cheeks.

  Then she reminded herself of just how rude he was being to her, when she had only wanted to help. He didn’t know what she had done and had no right to rebuke her. Instead, he should be thanking her for trying to save him from whatever demons were torturing his dreams.

  ‘You really are the most infuriating, ungrateful man,’ she said, preferring to be angry with him rather than thinking about her own inappropriate behaviour. ‘You can’t even be grateful when someone tries to help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help, or anyone else’s.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, her hands returning defiantly to her hips in imitation of his angry stance, ‘the next time you cry out in the middle of the night, don’t expect me to come running.’

  The edge of his lip curled, presumably in disbelief at her statement. Was he thinking the same as her? There would not be a next time. After tonight she would probably never see the Earl again.

  ‘Well, I’ll go, then, if that’s how you feel.’ She sent him a fierce glare, then remembered that even her best glare was wasted on him, and looked back at the tousled bed, where moments ago he had been uncontrollably thrashing around.

  ‘Perhaps I should just straighten the sheets and covers before I go so you can get a good night’s sleep.’

  She moved towards the bed, but her progress was halted when he grabbed her arm and barked out, ‘Leave it.’

  He really was insufferably rude.

  ‘I just thought...’

  ‘You just thought that you’d mother me one more time before you left. I do not want your help and, as I have already said, I do not need your mothering.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she huffed out, still looking down at the messy bed and wanting to tidy it up. How on earth he thought he was going to get a good night’s sleep in such tangled bedding she did not know, but if that was what he wanted, well, be it on his own head.

  He released her arm. ‘Just go,’ he said.

  She huffed out another disapproving sigh, but, as there was nothing left to do or say, there was no reason for her to remain in his room a minute longer.

  ‘Well, you appear to be all right now,’ she said as she picked up her candlestick. ‘Back to your old grumpy self. So I’ll leave you to try and get some sleep in your destroyed bed.’

  Although he could not see her, she lifted her head high and swept out of the room, determined that her exit would be one full of self-righteous indignation. At the doorway she stopped and turned. Even in a state of self-righteous indignation she could at least indulge herself in one last look at that exposed chest. After all, as they both knew, there was not going to be a next time, and she was not going to be able to feast her eyes on him ever again.

  Chapter Six

  Unbelievable. There was no other word for it. It was unbelievable. She was unbelievable.

  When he heard the door click closed behind her, Theo climbed back into bed and wrestled with the sheets and bedcovers, trying to get them into some semblance of order. He had no idea where his nightshirt was, having pulled it off some time during the night, and there was no point trying to find it now.

  He tugged at the tangled top sheet and pulled it up over himself, still cursing under his breath about that infuriating Lady Iris. Just who did she think she was, coming into his room uninvited? The last thing he wanted was some interfering woman who thought she could save the poor, unfortunate blind man.

  Could she be more annoying? He doubted it. And then she had the audacity to act all haughty and offended, when all he had done was express his objections to her presence in what was, to his mind, a very restrained manner.

  What on earth was she expecting? That he’d be eternally grateful to her? He was not a child and he did not need some do-gooder trying to turn him into one, and she needed to realise that.

  He tugged at the twisted sheet. What was wrong with her? It was just a bad dream, for God’s sake. He’d had them before and he’d no doubt have them again. There was no need for her to get quite so dramatic.

  As he lay down on the pillow vague memories of his nightmare drifted back into his mind, flames lapping at the edge of his consciousness. It was a familiar dream, one that had often resurfaced over the last six years, but tonight’s dream contained something else. Something different. Something gentle and tender. A woman’s caresses, her light kisses, her soft body.<
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  Had she touched him, caressed his face, his chest, or was that just something he had conjured up in his fevered state? He must have dreamt it, because he was also sure he had felt her lips on his forehead. That would never happen. No one would ever kiss him there, not on those ugly, disfiguring scars.

  Damn that woman. She was even starting to invade his dreams now. He sat up and punched the pillow, trying to make it more comfortable while exorcising some of his rage. He neither wanted nor needed her help, and certainly did not want her caresses or kisses, even imagined ones. He knew the danger of letting a pretty young woman like Iris Springfeld into his life. He knew how easy it would be to fall under her spell. As enticing as it was to consider repeating the same mistake, it was too high a price to pay. One he would not be paying again.

  No, he was perfectly all right on his own. So what if he had the occasional nightmare? He was perfectly capable of coping with them without her trying to mother him. He had lost count of the number of times he had woken from a fitful sleep, his sheets in a tangle, his body drenched with sweat. It was something he was used to. It was something he had learnt to deal with in his own way, without any help from anyone else.

  He rolled over and his senses were filled with her scent, lingering on his pillow, on his sheets. Damn her again. Even when she wasn’t present, he could not get away from her. He inhaled deeply. Orange blossom and rosewater. Despite himself, he had to admit there was something comforting about that scent.

  Rather than turn away he continued to inhale her perfume. With each inhalation his breath slowed down, his anger dissipated. Then he drifted off into sleep, a sleep that this time was filled with the sensation of being held, being healed, being loved.

  * * *

  The warmth of the sunlight coming through the curtainless windows woke Theo from a restful sleep. He stretched in the bed, feeling more relaxed than he had for many a year. It made a nice change to have a good night’s sleep, and he wondered what had caused it.

  He lay in bed for a moment longer, replaying all that had happened yesterday and last evening, each memory chipping away at his calmness until it had completely evaporated and that familiar sense of rage engulfed him.

  While he was often angry, this morning there was only one target for his irritation. Lady Iris Springfeld. That interfering, chattering busybody with that relentless laugh.

  And she was still in his house. He was going to have to face her again. A woman who was not only annoying but had also seen him at his most vulnerable.

  He hated the thought that she had been witness to his night-time terrors. He did not want anyone to think he was weak, least of all any young woman, and in particular Lady Iris Springfeld. It infuriated him that she was under the delusion that his nightmares meant he needed help. He needed no one, and he particularly did not need an interfering little ray of sunshine who thought she could make everything all right with a few comforting words and gentle caresses.

  He threw off the bedclothes, their tangled state insulting him with further memories of last night, of the disarrayed state in which she had found him. His anger continuing to simmer within him, he walked to the window and pushed it up, hoping the fresh air would cool his temper. The wind had stopped howling and battering the house. Birds were now singing in the trees and the air had the sweet scent of wet grass and leaves.

  There was nothing to stop her from returning home and out of his life. Good.

  Turning from the window, he wrapped himself in his robe and rang for his valet. As he waited, he paced the room.

  She was going to leave, but unfortunately he would still have to see her again for one last time. For politeness’s sake, he would need to say his goodbyes, but then that would be that. She would be gone, her meddling would be gone, her damn interference and any further attempts to comfort him would be gone.

  His pacing halted. What was he doing? Why was he so angry with her? Did her actions really justify this level of condemnation?

  He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Was he being unfair? Or worse, a complete cad? What had she actually done? She had heard his cries in the middle of the night and had come running.

  Her intentions had been good, if misguided. And, despite his annoyance, he did have to admit it had been brave of her. She was in a strange house with a man she did not know, but still she had responded to what she thought was a person in distress. And he had repaid her bravery with anger and scorn.

  Clenching his jaw tightly, he recommenced pacing the room. Damn her yet again. Now it looked as if he was going to have to further belittle himself by apologising to the lady for his ungracious behaviour.

  The sooner he got that particular indignity over, the better. Then she could be on her way and leave him in peace.

  His valet arrived with a bowl of warm water and his shaving gear. Theo sat down and James ran the soapy shaving brush over his cheeks and neck. He continued to fume as the blade was swished along the leather strop to make it razor-sharp.

  Why did she have to come into his room and make his life so complicated? Didn’t she know that young, unmarried women were not supposed to, under any circumstances, enter a man’s bedroom? Did she not realise how compromised she could become by such an action? That if anyone knew of what she had done they could be forced to marry? His seething ratcheted up a notch.

  Did such considerations not even enter her empty little head? Or did she believe that she would be safe from such a fate because it was his bedroom she was entering?

  That presumably was her thinking. Even if she had been compromised, no family would insist that a man like him must marry their daughter.

  He tilted back his head as the valet drew the blade up his neck and over his cheek, and drew in a series of long, calming breaths.

  Now was the time to put all thoughts of Lady Iris Springfeld out of his mind. The last thing he should be thinking about was a woman who made his blood boil. Not when a cut-throat razor was being run over his face and neck.

  Still breathing slowly and deeply, he fought to stop that little minx from entering his mind again, with all her laughter, chatter and inappropriate behaviour.

  When the valet placed a warm towel on his face, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had managed to survive his agitation without receiving the slightest nick. Although that was due more to James’s skill than it was to Theo’s ability to keep Lady Iris out of his thoughts. And now he was going to have to endure her company for a little longer and try his hardest not to let his annoyance show, something that was going to take a level of self-control he was not sure he possessed.

  ‘Is Lady Iris awake?’ he asked his valet as soon as the warm towel was removed.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I believe the young lady rose quite early.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And she’s now dressed in her own, dry clothing.’

  He could hear the amusement in his valet’s voice. Presumably, Charles had informed him that Lady Iris had been forced to wear Theo’s clothing last night.

  ‘And where is she now?’ he asked as his valet removed his suit from the wardrobe.

  ‘I last saw her in the breakfast room,’ James replied, handing Theo his trousers and shirt.

  ‘And has the coachman been instructed to take her home as soon as she is ready to go?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Theo nodded. All he had to do now was make a quick apology, say goodbye, put her in a carriage and then it would all be over. His life would return to normal.

  Once the valet had helped him into his jacket and finished brushing it down so it reached a standard that James would be happy with, Theo walked the well-practised route from his bedroom.

  He made sure that the routes he regularly walked were clear of all obstacles. While the rest of the house was decorated with an array of fripperies collected over the years by his ancestors, the corridor outside h
is room was as spartan as a military barracks.

  He also insisted that no hinges or locks be oiled so he would always know when doors were being opened and people were entering the room. Such arrangements gave him the confidence to move freely about his own house, whereas in public he never knew what obstacle might trip him up and reveal his affliction to the world.

  He gripped the banister. And yet, in his own house, that little miss had seen him at his very worst. No wonder he avoided company. No wonder he shut himself off from the world. He did not need her or anyone else pitying him.

  Holding on to the banister, he counted each stair until he knew he had reached the ground floor. Then he paced out the number of steps that would take him to the breakfast room.

  He reached the door, gritted his teeth together and paused, his hand clenching the doorknob. With a resigned sigh he opened the door, determined to get this over and done with as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Good morning,’ came her sunny greeting from the direction of the dining table. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’

  He mumbled his good morning, sat in his usual chair, reached for the coffee pot but found only air. That annoying woman had moved it. Charles quickly stepped forward and moved the coffee pot into the path of his waving hand. He murmured his thanks, poured his coffee and resisted the temptation to inform Lady Iris that he had a place for everything and he did not like things moved about, nor did he like having to rely on others to do even basic things for him, like pour the coffee. But he held his tongue, reminding himself that he had an apology to make, and an apology should not start with a rebuke.

  ‘You may go now, thank you, Charles,’ Theo said. He did not need anyone hearing what he was about to say. He suspected the servants already knew about his nightmares—after all, servants knew just about everything that happened in a house—but they did not need to know about Lady Iris’s night-time activities, and Charles most certainly did not need to hear Theo abasing himself and apologising to this flibbertigibbet.