by Grace Elliot
After paying off the driver, Huntley helped Eulogy down. Despite her concerns about the tavern, she had to admit the street seemed respectable enough with a neat row of white-washed doorsteps disappearing into the distance and a freshly swept pavement, clear of ordure and mud.
Huntley made straight for a green door, his knock was answered by a freckle-faced maid.
“Good evening, Jones, is your mistress at home?”
The maid pouted and tipped her head. “Why no, sir, Mrs. Parker is out - due back within the hour.”
“Then may we wait inside?”
For the first time the maid noticed Eulogy behind him, and her bright smile faded. “Yes, Mr. Huntley, sir, of course.”
Huntley stood back, holding out his arm to let Eulogy cross the unassuming threshold into a rich, eruption of color. In the hallway, rich red walls glowed like a fiery sunset in the lamplight. A floor of black and white tiles stretched ahead like a chessboard set with aspidistra and side tablets. Eulogy bit her tongue, wondering if everything in London was so surprising.
“There’s a fire in the parlor, sir,” Jones offered, whilst eyeing Eulogy’s muddy boots disapprovingly.
“Thank you, Jones, we can find our own way.”
“Can I take your things, Miss?”
“Thank you.” Having lost everything, Eulogy would rather have kept her cloak, but shrugged it off for forms sake.
“And yours, sir?”
With a grunt, Huntley swung the heavy opera cloak from his shoulders and winced.
“Oh, sir!” Jones’ voice trailed off. Puzzled, Eulogy followed the maid’s gaze to the stain, blooming on Huntley’s neck cloth. Mystified, he touched a hand to his shoulder and stared at his blood stained fingers.
“That devil cut me! Can you credit it?”
“Oh my giddy aunt!” the maid wailed.
“Control yourself,” Eulogy commanded, feeling useful at last. “Fetch hot water, freshly boiled, mind you, and clean cotton rags. Quickly now!”
“Yes, Miss.” The maid curtseyed automatically.
“Then, run for the doctor. Do you hear?” There was steel in Eulogy’s tone that brooked no argument.
“Yes, Miss. Right away, Miss.” With a terse nod she was gone.
“Please sit, Mr. Huntley,” Miss Foster ordered, “and unbutton your waistcoat.”
Huntley sank to the sofa and loosened his neck cloth.
“And I’d be obliged if you’d remove your shirt.”
His dark brow arched. “Keen, aren’t you?”
“I wish to examine the injury.”
“What on earth…?”
“Do you want the wound to get infected?”
“No…” Resignedly, Huntley slumped against the delicate blue settle. “But it hardly seems proper.”
“My guardian was a doctor and I assisted him.” A mischievous smile played across her lips. “And besides, I didn’t have you marked as the shy type.”
Her challenge did the trick. With a grunt, Huntley shed his waistcoat, pulled the shirt from his breeches and tugged it over his head. His eyes met hers, hypnotic, deep and sensual, and momentarily she faltered.
“Good,” she said brusquely.
From her nursing duties Eulogy was familiar with the male torso, but never a more perfect specimen than Jack Huntley as her insides quaked in a most distracting way. His sculpted chest narrowed to a ridged stomach, flat and tight, and in the firelight his skin glowed like marble. His mouth twitched as her gaze lingered a fraction too long on the sculpted planes of his chest. Their eyes locked again as Huntley’s glittered with devilment.
“The wound?”
Eulogy gritted her teeth against the shivery tingles coursing across her skin. “Try to relax.”
“I’m not tense…you are.”
She frowned. “Lift your chin, please.”
Suddenly uncomfortably hot, she examined the ugly gash on his right shoulder.
“Well?”
With heightened awareness she caught her breath, forcing herself to concentrate, convinced that recent events had disordered her mind.
“The cut is deep but clean.” She leant closer and suddenly the parlor seemed unbearably cramped as Huntley filled her senses. She tried to distract herself by noticing his strong fingers, only to imagine them playing across her skin. She turned away, just as the maid made a nosy entry, bumping the door open with her foot. Her hands occupied with both a bowl and towels.
At the sight of Mr. Huntley state of undress, Jones’ eyes widened and she almost dropped the water.
“Oh my!”
“Set the basin on the table.”
“I’ll run fo’ doctor.” Jones picked up her skirts and fled the room.
“Mr. Huntley, I’m going to bathe the wound. I will be gentle, but it may sting a little.”
“Go ahead.” His eyes were hooded, and his tone a low, insinuating growl. “Things can’t be any more ironic.”
“Meaning?”
“The woman I rescue turns out to be more than just a pretty face.”
With a humph, she soaked a rag in the hot water and, studiously ignoring her leaping pulse, she touched his hot skin to wipe away the dried blood.
“You are lucky.” Eulogy avoided looking into the hypnotic depths of his dark eyes. “The cut has missed vital vessels by an inch. The bleeding has stopped with pressure and the wound should stitch well.”
Such supple skin made for caressing and kissing. Eulogy licked her lips, anticipating the taste of clean sweat, male warmth and musk, as heat ignited in her belly. Desire struck with such unexpectedly force that her hand slipped.
“Have a care!”
“Sorry.”
Stormy eyes met hers. Angry and yet amused. Trapped by their unfathomable depths, her heart raced afresh. What was the matter with her? Doctor Foster said she was impulsive, but she hadn’t believed him until now. It took all her strength not to lean in and kiss Mr. Huntley in a most un-ladylike way. It was as if an invisible hand was forcing her toward those sensuous lips.
“You seem distracted, Miss Foster?”
She felt, rather than heard, his deep, rumbling voice.
“Well if this wasn’t like treating a tame bear, then I wouldn’t feel intimidated and my hand wouldn’t slip.”
Blood thundered in her ears as she met his stare, and then, the corners of his taut mouth twitched into a grin and Eulogy couldn’t stop herself from smiling in return.
“Touché, mademoiselle. Few would be brave enough to call me a bear. But the comparison is not unwarranted.” He grew serious. “Besides, you have had a fright this evening and here’s me acting the child.”
His concern was disarming, sending a fresh wave of heat surging through her blood. Eulogy composed herself; this wasn’t like her to act the dolt.
“That’s quite all right. I’m sure I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Really?” His voice sounded oddly hoarse.
Eulogy froze, as his good arm slid around her waist, his touch burning her skin through her gown as he pulled her close. “I think you do.”
To avoid the wide wavy lips closing in on hers, she started gabbling.
“AsIwassayinganinchclosertoyourneckand…”
“Hush, it’s just a kiss. Call it a thank you. My reward for services rendered.”
Quietly, he placed a finger against her lips. Really, he was hypnotically handsome and one little kiss as a thank you for saving her life, was it so very wrong? Something throbbed deep inside her, rising to an ache as he caressed her jaw. Then his lips grazed her neck, soft as heated velvet. He drew back, waiting for her protest, and yet she did not.
And when his mouth found hers, she parted her lips in welcome.
“One kiss,” he crooned. “I won’t tell. Just one.”
“Just one,” she heard herself repeating his words. It was as if she had become two people: one askance at her brazenness, the other craving this stranger’s touch. She felt his breathing jerk beneath her f
ingers. He nibbled her lower lip, his tongue sliding into her mouth, feeling peculiar and yet exciting. A moan broke the silence, and blushing, she realized the sound issued from her throat.
“Miss Foster, I do believe you like being kissed.”
“Oh my.” In the foggy recesses of her mind, Eulogy recalled these were not the actions of a gentlewoman.
“You should be kissed often.”
Without demureness, her lips parted as his mouth hungrily claimed hers. Her palm traced the flat plain of his chest, his breath jerking and it made her feel powerful.
“Ouch!”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Appalled, she pulled away. How could she forget herself like this? She blushed. “I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was the blow to the head?” she added hopefully.
Huntley grinned. “I like being nursed by you.”
“My guardian would be so disappointed.” Shame flamed her cheeks.
“That’s quite normal. No man likes to think of his ward enjoying herself.”
“You mistake my meaning. The first rule of nursing is to consider the patient’s needs at all time.”
“And that’s just what you were doing.” With a contented sigh, Huntley rested his head against the settle. “When did you learn how to care for wounds so? Most women grow faint at the sight of blood.”
“I told you. My guardian was a doctor.” Calmer now, she reached for a swab, placed it over the wound and set about bandaging it in place. The activity soothing and reassuring, order restored to her shaken world.
“And he approved of a young lady attending men?”
“Well of course I was chaperoned, but Doctor Foster said I had a gift for healing.”
“You speak of a guardian, what happened to your real parents?”
The wave of raw grief almost caught her off guard. “It’s complicated. My real mother died in childbirth.”
“Why did your father not raise you?”
It was a simple enough question, but one that almost reduced her to tears. “My father took mother’s death hard and blamed me. Doctor Foster and his wife were childless, and so offered to care for me as their own.”
“I cannot believe a father would reject his own child.” Huntley’s face darkened. “So why come to London?”
Eulogy took a deep breath. “When my guardians died recently, I came to track down my last living relation.”
A soft look crossed his face, but before Huntley could answer, the parlor door flew open and an exuberant woman with flaming red hair strode in.
“My dear Mr. Huntley! Whatever have you been doing?” She paused, hands on hips, to run an appreciative eye over Huntley’s physique. “My, my. I see why poor Anna was so flustered.”
Jack made to stand.
“No, darling, don’t you dare move a muscle.”
“Dear Mrs. Parker, I am assured by my nurse, this is a flesh wound and nothing to fret over.”
The woman swung her imperious attention on Eulogy. “And you are?”
“Miss Eulogy Foster.” Eulogy held her ground under fearsome scrutiny.
Mrs. Parker stood back, hands on skinny hips to promenade around Eulogy. A trifle rudely to Eulogy’s mind, Mrs. Parker studied her from head to toe, as one would a museum exhibit.
“What an extraordinary looking girl. My, my Mr. Huntley, you must have great plans for this one.”
With a jolt of alarm Eulogy recoiled. “Whatever do you mean?” Suddenly, the folly of accepting help from a stranger struck home. She knew nothing about these people, what was this talk of plans? Her eyes widened in alarm.
Mr. Huntley laughed good-naturedly. “Mrs. Parker, you are worrying the poor girl. She’s had a terrible fright tonight. Assaulted and robbed…”
The woman gasped. “Then why didn’t you say so? You poor soul. How ghastly!”
“… and now she thinks me a monster! Miss Foster, let me assure you that Mrs. Parker refers merely to my business interests. In the past, I have launched a number of notable actresses onto the stage, entirely honorable careers—nothing untoward.”
Somewhat mollified, Eulogy stared from one to the other, wondering who to trust.
“Truly I meant nothing, it’s just my way.” Mrs. Parker seemed genuinely penitent. “What must you think of me? I forget not everyone is a forthright as I. Now then my dear, is there someone I can send for? A relative? A chaperone?”
Suddenly the events of the past few days threatened to overwhelm her. “There is no one.” Eulogy sniffed.
Mr. Huntley and Mrs. Parker exchanged glances.
“My poor dear. Then tonight you must stay here tonight, and tomorrow tell me how Huntley came to your rescue.”
It wasn’t, Eulogy reflected, as if she any choice and at least Mrs. Parker’s breezy manner eased her mind.
“Now dear, if you don’t mind my saying you do look a trifle pale. When did you last eat?”
Breakfast at Easterhope was but a dim memory. “This morning.”
“And not enough by the look of you. Thin as a post. Let’s see what we can rustle up.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble.”
“Nonsense my dear, no trouble, you are my guest.”
Remembering the hostile, greasy streets Eulogy shuddered. Bone weary, penniless and alone, she lacked the energy to argue. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, she’d seek her brother’s help, but for now Eulogy shut her eyelids on unshed tears and nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Parker, “and Jack, best cover yourself before poor Anna has another apoplexy.”
-oO0Oo-
At precisely ten-thirty the following morning, a liveried barouche drew up outside Huntley’s exclusive Bond Street gallery. With practiced precision, The Gallery’s doorman took two steps forward and opened the carriage door. Huntley sprang out and with a cursory nod of thanks, made for his office. Behind his receding back, the doorman let out his breath and settled to the less fraught duty of welcoming the ton.
Within the confines of his office a contented sigh escaped Huntley’s lips. He settled behind his desk. Here he was master of a world where everything had its place. He turned to a pile of correspondence, picked up a letter bearing a ducal crest and tapped it against his chin.
“Ah, His Grace, the Duke of Gafford. Dare I hope for a decision at long last?” As he read, Huntley gave a low guffaw. “The cheek of the man! An early Vincenzo is worth two thousand guineas and as well he knows! Well we can both play that game.”
Huntley penned a swift reply confirming the price, and not a penny less, and rang a silver hand bell. Instantaneously, a smart, young man appeared and stood stiffly to attention.
“Yes, Mr. Huntley, how can I be of service?”
“Ah, Williams, by hand to the Duke of Gafford...”
“Yes, sir, right away. Will there be anything else?”
But Huntley made no reply, already engrossed by the next document.
Two hours later, the French ormolu clock chimed the half hour, and seeing it was past midday, Huntley realized how hungry he was. Leaning back, he flexed his neck and stretched to shake the stiffness from his arms. A jab of pain stopped him mid-yawn.
“Damn it.”
Jack wormed his hand beneath his neck cloth. There was no blood, just the stinging ache of pulled stitches to remind him of last night’s events.
His mouth tightened. He had avoided thinking of Miss Foster for a whole two hours and now he was reminded. Last night he’d been so angry with her, he had practically run all the way to Farm Way, and yet she hadn’t complained, leaving him feeling like a cad. And then there was that kiss! Damn, it wasn’t his habit to press gentle women for kisses. There was something about her, how her touch had made his bones melt, the way she stared as if she wanted to eat him and eyes that a man could drown in.
Huntley drummed his fingers on the desk top. Miss Foster, gently reared but bold as a lioness, had unwittingly become his responsibility and it left him feeling uncomf
ortable. At one o’clock he had a luncheon appointment with Sir Henry, but afterwards, he’d divert via Mrs. Parker’s and discharge his obligation at the earliest opportunity.
Chapter Three
To Huntley’s surprise, Mrs. Parker, rather than the maid, answered the door.
“Mr. Huntley! How lovely.” She greeted him with a bohemian kiss to either cheek. “Come in, my dear, why don’t you.”
Bemused, Jack followed her into the Pompeii red hall. “No Jones this afternoon?”
“She’s running errands…the fresh air will do her good. She was quite over wrought by last night’s events.”
“You are too soft on the girl, Mrs. Parker. Make sure she doesn’t take advantage.”
“Nonsense, Anna is a perfectly sweet girl, just not used to seeing naked men in the parlor.”
Jack threw her a long suffering look. “I wasn’t entirely undressed.”
“Anyhow, calling twice in twenty-four hours? Tongues will wag.” Flouncing ahead, she glanced over her shoulder and winked. “Come along now. What are you waiting for? Your ward is in the kitchen.”
“She’s not my ward.” Huntley bristled.
“Well, who or whatever Miss Foster is or isn’t, the girl is a veritable angel.”
“Really?” A prickle of discomfort played over his skin.
“Judge for yourself.” Her thumb rested on the kitchen latch. “Ready?”
“Of course.” He scowled, “Why would I not be?”
“No reason.” Mrs. Parker smiled mischievously. “No reason at all.”
The door swung open on a cozy kitchen. Jack knew the scene well; the dresser laden with crockery and painted jugs, coppers glinting on the mantle shelf and a vase of hyacinths on the table. Assured as he was, Jack Huntley was woefully unprepared as a shaft of spring sunlight fell across Miss Foster’s flawless complexion. Her hair, which the previous night had been concealed beneath an ugly bonnet, lay plaited over her shoulder in a glossy chestnut rope. But most staggering of all was her eyes, wide eyes of deep velvet brown that were at that precise moment regarding him warily. It was as if he’d been punched in the chest. Merciful heavens, what was wrong with him?