by Alyssa Drake
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mr. Reid slept, his face contorted by a blistering fever, raging ruthlessly through his body. After two days of constant worry, Lady Westwood and Aunt Abigail had retired, desperately needing rest. Daphne, settled into an armchair, looked over the edge of her book when Mr. Reid mumbled. Setting the book on the edge of the bed, she leaned over, pressing her ear against his mouth. However, she could not discern his need from the garbled mess tumbling from his lips.
His hand closed around her fingers, refusing to release its grasp. Sliding her fingers between their hands, she tried to pry Mr. Reid’s iron grip from her hand, but his fingers refused to loosen. She shifted, uncomfortably stretched across the bed, the lower half of her body positioned in a chair. The proper location of a woman who is concerned for her fiancé’s life but does not want to risk scandal. At this moment, however, she’d risk every scandal in the world to wake Mr. Reid from his slumber.
The doctor had retrieved a bullet from Mr. Reid’s shoulder, digging it from his soft flesh, then stitching the wound closed. Daphne had nearly fainted at the amount of blood pouring from Mr. Reid’s shoulder. He should survive if he outlasted the fever.
Standing, Daphne lifted a cloth from a bowl of water. One-handed, she wrung the cloth, knelt on the bed, and placed it on Mr. Reid’s forehead. Water dripped down the sides of his face, dampening the pillow. A curse word escaping from Daphne’s mouth, she yanked the cloth from his head. The hand wrapped around her fingers released, flying up and grabbing her wrist.
“Swearing, Miss Clemens.” A smile cracking his lips, he opened his eyes, turning his head toward her. “Your fiancé would be appalled by your language.”
“Mr. Reid!” Daphne leapt onto his chest, knocking the book to the floor, and ripping her wrist free of his grip. Flinging her arms around his neck, she jostled his shoulder. He groaned, sucking in a sharp breath. She pulled away, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”
He stopped her, dragging her forward until she laid on top of his body, his arm wrapping around her waist. “I like your current position.”
“You are indecent,” she murmured, a blush creeping into her cheeks.
“Am I?” He glanced down, grinning. “How indecent?”
“As much as any person can be.”
“More than you were?” His mouth brushed over her head.
“Much more.” Daphne pushed up on her hands, staring into his eyes. “Are you in pain?”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes burning. “Do you remember when I told you I was a patient man?”
“Yes…” Daphne dragged out the word, unsure why Mr. Reid would ask the question.
“I lied.” His hands slid up her back, entwining in her hair. Drawing her mouth to his, he placed a searing kiss to her lips. His tongue darted out, pushing past her lips and dipping into her mouth, drawing a moan from her. A tremble rippled through Daphne’s body. She ground herself against him, aware of his growing passion. He smiled against her mouth. “I see you are not patient either.”
“Mr. Reid,” she panted, her body waking as his mouth moved along her throat. Her hands skated over his bare chest, tracing the edge of the bandage. She lifted her eyes to him. “I do not want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” His hands slid down her back, loosening her bodice.
“Aunt Abigail…” Daphne managed as his mouth brushed over the hollow of her throat.
“Is not here.”
Torn between propriety and desire, Daphne sat up, straddling Mr. Reid, the heat from his skin blazing through her clothing. Her stomach clenched, her body burning with need. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, her hands splaying across his chest. His fingers caressed her leg, beginning at her knee and sneaking under her skirt, drawing a trail of seduction to her thigh. “Since you have answered my final question, I think I should give you another riding lesson.”
Daphne shivered. “I appreciate your tenacity, Mr. Reid, but I fail to see how either one of us will be able to ride a horse.”
“I did not say horse.” He grinned.
“I do not understand.”
Sliding her to his left, Mr. Reid deposited her on the bed, pulling the sheet from his body, exposing his hard length. He rolled toward her, his hand reclaiming her leg. Navigating layers of petticoats, his hand traced small circles on her sensitive skin, brushing against her center. She gasped as they plunged into her core, moaning his name, her breath coming in short gasps, her fingers scraping across the mattress as passion raged through her body. Moaning, her hips lifted to meet his hand. His mouth brushed over hers, swallowing her cries.
“Ow!” Tensing, Mr. Reid withdrew his hand, rolling onto his back. He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry.” Daphne sat up, guilt flooding her body. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she retrieved her fallen book from the floor.
“Do not apologize,” he ground out, flinging his arm out and catching hers. He tugged until she turned, facing him. “I moved too quickly.”
“You should be resting, Mr. Reid,” she replied, setting the book on the chair.
“First, I am your fiancé and have been for…” He paused.
“Two days.”
“Two days?” He arched an eyebrow. “I was asleep for two days?”
Daphne nodded.
“Has my brother recovered?”
“He woke from his fever this morning, but he is in a fair amount of pain.”
“I would concur with that assessment.” Mr. Reid groaned, adjusting his arm. “As I am your fiancé…” He paused again, a strange emotion passed over his face. “Unless you have changed your mind… Have you changed your mind?”
“No.” Daphne shook her head violently.
“No dead uncles have threatened to kill your mother?” Mr. Reid forced a smile.
She chuckled. “No.”
“Then, I expect you to address me as Thomas.” He pulled her toward him. “Second, I am already in bed, and therefore, I am resting, per your request.” He dragged her knee over his hips, centering her on his thighs. “Third, my fiancée has not screamed my name in two days, and I intend to rectify that situation right now.”
Daphne’s stomach clenched. “How do you propose to accomplish that?”
He grinned. His hand slid up her leg, digging through layers of petticoats until he reached the split in her drawers. Spreading the material apart, he angled her directly over his erection, thrusting upward. Daphne gasped. His fingers dug into her waist, pulling her toward him.
“Roll your hips,” he managed. Daphne placed her hands on his chest, rocking her pelvis forward. He drove himself into her, his hand gripping her hip as she ground herself against him, meeting each thrust with enthusiasm. Her body, humming with desire, begged for release. Overwhelming sensations ricocheted through her body. Building quickly, the orgasm overtook Daphne, ripping through her limbs. Convulsing on top of him, her voice rose as she reached her apex. He thrust himself into her again and again, drawing out her ecstasy. A shudder wracked his body. Burying himself in her center, he yelled her name, falling back against the pillows.
“Mr. Reid?” Mr. Davis’ tentative voice called. “Your mother asked me to update her on your condition.”
Pushing herself up, Daphne tried to crawl off Thomas, but he stopped her, his hand pressing against the small of her back, pinning her to his chest. His eyes gleamed. “I like your current position.”
“You may. However, I doubt Aunt Abigail would be as appreciative.”
Grinning, Thomas placed his finger over Daphne’s lips, calling to Mr. Davis. “Please inform my mother I am awake.”
“I heard.” Mr. Davis’ smirk slithered under the doorway. “Do you intend to be decent when your mother arrives?”
“I have never been decent in the whole of my life. I have no intention of beginning that practice now.” Thomas’ hand slipped between them, diving through layers of clothing again, his fingertips brushing over her sensit
ive nub. She cried out.
“Mr. Davis.” Thomas’ voice strained, his wicked fingers stroking Daphne’s center. “Please inform my mother I will be decent in the morning.”
“Your mother has no intention of waiting that long.” An angry voice vibrated through the door. “Neither do I.”
They froze, their eyes locking and widening at the same moment. Aunt Abigail.
“You have exactly one minute to make yourself presentable, Thomas.” Her ire seethed through the room. “Do not stand in my way, Mr. Davis!”
Daphne scrambled off the bed, dashing to her armchair, and snatched up the discarded book, lifting it to her face just as Aunt Abigail burst through the door. Lowering the book, Daphne smiled, praying the blush faded from her cheeks. “Good evening, Aunt Abigail. I thought you were resting.”
“I was.” She marched across the floor, her gaze sweeping over the room. “However, I had a peculiar feeling I should check on the welfare of my charge. Daphne?” Aunt Abigail tilted her head. “Is there something I need to be made aware of? No confession you’d like to make?”
“No.” Daphne widened her eyes. “I am merely tending to my fiancé.”
“Hmph.” Grumbling, Aunt Abigail hobbled to the bed and sat with a groan, inspecting the bandage on Thomas’ shoulder. “The bodies of Mr. Morris, Miss Randall, and Miss Larson have been removed from the property. The constable charged Mr. Morris with murder and Miss Randall as his accomplice.”
“Miss Randall committed murder as well.”
Aunt Abigail’s head whipped around, staring at Daphne. “Pardon?”
“She admitted she killed Jeremiah Shirely.” Daphne leaned forward and hissed, “Then she coerced Mr. Shirely into silence first by blackmailing him, then by bedding him.”
“That poor boy.” Aunt Abigail shook her head. She turned back to Thomas, peeling away the dressing. He sucked in a breath when it stuck to the wound. “Have you been overexerting yourself?”
“No,” Thomas ground out. His eyes flicked to Daphne, a smile tugging at his lips. “I have not left this bed.”
Glancing up, Aunt Abigail caught Daphne’s blush. “Thomas.” She placed a firm finger on his chin, drawing his attention back to her. “Do not do anything that would ruin Daphne’s reputation. A rushed wedding will not help her situation.”
“I do not care what society, or my family thinks of my fiancée!” Thomas slammed his hand on the bed. Aunt Abigail jumped, startled by Thomas’ response.
Tilting her head, her eyes studied him. Lifting a clean dressing, she placed it over Thomas’ wound, speaking to his shoulder. “When did Mrs. Dubois tell you?”
Thomas’ face paled. Daphne, drawn by his distress, moved to the bed, sliding her hand toward his. He wrapped his fingers through hers, squeezing, keeping his gaze on Aunt Abigail.
“How do you know about Alana?”
Sighing, Aunt Abigail tapped her cane absently on the floor. “A few months ago, Mrs. Dubois sent a letter to the house. It was quite common, most of them came to you, and you either ignored them or burned them. However, this particular one was addressed to your mother. It explained Benedict’s involvement in the dissolution of your engagement.” She paused. “She asked for our forgiveness, for being too frightened to reveal Benedict’s betrayal when it occurred.”
“You should have said something,” growled Thomas. His hand tightened around Daphne’s.
“You had already lost your fiancée, we could not take away Benedict too. He was like a father to you.”
“He ruined my life!” Thomas’ rage vibrated around the room. Daphne pulled away, withdrawing her hand from his. He glanced over, surprised by the sudden loss of her hand. The anger etched into his face melted. Reaching out his arm, his eyes flicked toward his hand. “I did not mean to frighten you,” he spoke softly, his voice barely a whisper.
She nodded, placing her hand in his. His fingers curled, drawing her across the bed, until she leaned against his side. “Aunt Abigail—” Daphne protested.
“Will not mind if I kiss my fiancée,” finished Thomas. He touched his mouth to hers—the gentle pressure sending flames searing across her skin, a shiver rippling down her spine.
“However, she will mind if you seduce her.” Aunt Abigail thumped her cane on the floor. They broke apart although Thomas refused to relinquish her hand. Aunt Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “Daphne, I think it best we replace you as Thomas’ nurse. I fear the worst.”
“I can control myself,” grumbled Thomas.
Aunt Abigail inclined her head, considering his statement. “By the time your mother and I learned of Benedict’s involvement, too much time had passed. Miss Flannery had become Mrs. Dubois, you were rapidly pursuing the moniker which you and your brother share, and Benedict had been buried less than a month prior. It seemed too cruel to burden you with his betrayal as well.”
“That should have been my decision,” Thomas growled, closing his eyes. Exhaling slowly, he opened them, glaring at Aunt Abigail. “I won’t say I forgive you for meddling; however, I will thank you for putting Daphne in my path.” He tugged her gently, pulling her flush against his arm. “She is not to leave my side during my recovery.”
“Thomas!” Aunt Abigail’s eyes popped. “That is unsuitable… unacceptable… un—”
“Unquestionably my decision.” He arched an eyebrow. “For the past eight years of my life, someone has been managing its direction. That stops now.”
A smile flashed across Aunt Abigail’s face and quickly faded into her wrinkles. Rising, she patted Thomas on his head. “There’s the nephew I remember. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” Turning, she shuffled to the door, leaning heavily on her cane. She paused, spinning around. “Thomas, while I cannot keep your mother from your chamber, I will tell her you are resting and would prefer to visit with her in the morning. Consider it a wedding gift.”
With a nod, she opened the door and exited. “Good evening, Mr. Davis,” she said. “Please ensure no one enters or leaves this room for the whole of the evening.”
“As you wish,” replied Mr. Davis, winking as he pulled the door closed.
Thomas turned to Daphne. “What would you like to do with our evening?” Daphne blushed, glancing down. Thomas lifted her chin, his eyes blazing. “Tell me what you want.”
“Would you give me another riding lesson?”
“With pleasure.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
One month later…
“This is your last chance to change your mind, Benjamin.” Thomas uncorked a decanter, pouring the amber liquid into four glasses. “In less than one hour, you will no longer be a free man.”
Benjamin snorted, selecting a glass from the tray. “I have been married over a month.”
Leaning forward, Thomas hissed around his hand, “That is a secret.”
Rolling his eyes, Benjamin took a sip. His gaze flicked to the study door as it burst open. Edward entered, carrying a small box. Turning, he closed the door, locked it behind him, then spun around, his face blank, and crossed the study.
“In a few minutes, you will become my brother-in-law officially. With your recent injury, I have been unable to bestow upon you the gift you deserve for stealing my sister’s hand.”
“Edward!” Thomas set the decanter down, sliding in front of Benjamin, raising his left fist. Even with his arm in a sling, he could best Edward. “Would you truly hit an injured man”—he gestured to Benjamin’s right arm, also wrapped in a sling—“on his wedding day?”
“He has already had his wedding day,” Edward growled, his hands clenched, darkness passing through his eyes. Then a smile cracked Edward’s face, and he laughed, bending at the waist and howling until the tears streamed down his face. Wiping his eyes, he straightened, clapping his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “This recent experience has destroyed your sense of humor, Thomas.”
Turning his gaze back to Benjamin, Edward held out his hand. Benjamin set his glass on the tray, accepting the smal
l box. He flipped it over, inspecting it, then glanced up at Edward. “What is it?”
“It is from both Samantha and me as a thank you for everything you have done for our family.”
Setting the box on the desk, Benjamin lifted the lid, placing it next to the box, peered inside, and gasped. Tipping the box on its side, Benjamin gently tapped the edge. A golden flash raced across the desk, then a watch tumbled out. Plucking it from the desk, Benjamin inspected it, his eyes lifting to Edward, holding out his hand. “I cannot accept this.”
“Please.” Edward stepped around Thomas, clasping Benjamin’s hand and folding his fingers around the watch. “We want you to have it as a wedding gift. As of today, you are family.”
“Does that mean you cannot strike me?” Benjamin grinned, tucking the watch into his vest pocket.
“Today, I will not hit you.” Edward leaned around Benjamin, taking one of the untouched glasses of brandy. He lifted the glass, saluting Benjamin, then took a sip. “Tomorrow, I have a grievance to settle with you.”
“Would you really hit the father of your nephew… or niece?” Benjamin tilted his head.
Edward purpled, choking on the brandy, his fingers tightening around the glass. He coughed, his eyes watering, then grinned, calmly wiping his eyes, and took another sip, smoothing his visage. “You do not have to fear my ire, Benjamin… You have to tell Wilhelmina.”
Thomas wedged himself between Edward and Benjamin, clasping Benjamin to his chest. “I think you should run,” he murmured, his eyes gesturing to the door.
Laughing, Benjamin pulled away from Thomas. “Mrs. Hastings already knows.”
“She does?” Twin faces of shock turned toward Benjamin.
“Of course.” He smiled. “Do you remember when Samantha fell ill shortly after the night of Morris’ death?”
Thomas and Edward nodded. Miss Hastings had been bedridden, violently expelling food and liquid to the point of starvation. The doctor attending Benjamin and Thomas had examined her as well. He pulled Mrs. Hastings aside, murmuring specific instructions in her ear before departing.