Taffeta & Hotspur

by Claudy Conn

This quite naturally did little to inspire trust, and yet his friendly grin seemed to suggest he meant no harm. “Hush there, sweetings … I don’t mean to take any more than you are willing to give,” said the handsome man above her.

  Outrage surged through Myriah, and she managed to work the skin between his thumb and forefinger into her dainty mouth, whereupon she latched her teeth onto her target and bit down hard. This produced the required result: he jumped away. With an oath, he was out of the bed and standing in all his glory—and that glory was still at full mast.

  Myriah could not help but stare. It was the first time she had ever actually seen a man’s cock. She and her friends had often discussed and giggled about sex and the naked stone statues they had secretly glanced at, but this … this, she found momentarily diverting.

  His lordship was not diverted or self-conscious about his state of undress. As he sucked his wounded finger, he stared hard at her, noting that she seemed transfixed on his privates.

  The gasp that had been stuck in her throat finally escaped. The words of outrage got mingled with fear, and she jumped up to a sitting position. Pulling the covers around herself, she pointed towards the door as she blubbered, “How dare you! Get out of my room!”

  His voice was low, husky, and full with a sensually lined amusement. “Well, little bird, for one thing … this is my room. And for another, although I should be throwing you out, I think I’ll keep you in spite of your offense to my person.”

  “Keep me? Keep me!” Myriah couldn’t understand what was happening and who this could possibly be.

  “Aye then, my brother no doubt brought you home with him, but since he has set you up in my bed, I suppose he means to share.”

  “Your brother … share …?” Myriah put up her chin. “For your information, I brought your brother home, and he was in a very bad way—wounded, in fact—and my groom, your Fletcher, and I have been tending to him!”

  All at once, the muscular and tall gentleman frowned darkly. He crossed the room and retrieved a long black brocade dressing gown, threw it on, and demanded of her, “Now … explain yourself!”

  “Explain myself?”

  “My brother, you say …” he returned impatiently.

  Myriah could not help but note the size and breadth of the man and the fact that he was extraordinarily gorgeous, with his dark blonde hair and glittering gray eyes.

  “Yes, we found him by the side of the road. He had been shot … we brought him here …”

  He was out of the room like a charging bull, taking long, hard strides. Myriah shot out of bed and dug in her portmanteau for the sky-blue velvet robe she had packed. She quickly slid into it and tied it at her small waist before barefoot she padded after him.

  * * *

  Lord Wimborne stood for a moment over his brother’s still form. William looked absurdly youthful, dangerously pale, and helpless. His lordship decided not to wake him but instead brushed a stray lock of hair from his brother’s forehead. Billy’s eyes flashed open.

  “Kit!” whispered young Wimborne as though he were viewing a god.

  “Young fool—they tell me you caught a bullet,” Lord Wimborne said gravely.

  “Devil is in it that I did—but there was nothing for it, Kit … had to go out … for I got word…”

  “Never mind that now. We’ll talk about it later. I would like to know something about the chit in my bed … if you feel up to talking.”

  “Ah, you’ve seen the she-devil, have you?”

  Lord Wimborne laughed. “I have.”

  * * *

  “She-devil?” Myriah almost snorted as she came to stand beside Billy’s bed and touch his forehead. “Now that is a fine introduction to your brother.”

  “She makes me eat gruel,” Billy Wimborne explained to his older brother.

  “For your own good.” Myriah smiled sweetly. “And besides, I put a touch of honey in it, didn’t I?”

  “Still not palatable, and I tell you what, I want eggs and ham tomorrow morning.”

  “Eggs and ham.” Myriah shook her head and touched his arm. “Well, we shall see … I will leave you to your brother.”

  Billy reached out and grabbed her hand. “No need for you to leave.”

  “And still, I think, you need some moments with your brother.” She turned to his lordship and eyed him darkly as though silently berating him for their earlier encounter. “Do not tire him.”

  * * *

  His lordship watched the young woman’s retreating form. She was an exquisite beauty, and her fiery hair against the blue velvet caught and riveted the imagination.

  “Now tell me … who the devil is she?”

  Billy suddenly realized he had not yet asked Myriah her name. He had been teasing her all day, and they had bantered back and forth, but all he knew was that her groom, Tabby, called her Miss Myriah. He told his brother this with a heavy sigh, beginning to feel fatigued once more.

  “And that is it? You didn’t ask her where she was from, or what she was doing on the Pike Road at that hour, or what her family name is and how she can stay on here without sending word to someone?”

  “No … very ill mannered of me, I know … but … wasn’t feeling quite the thing …”

  Kit realized at once that he had over-taxed his young brother. He touched Billy’s arm, saying, “There … go to sleep. We will get this all sorted out in the morning.”

  “Aye, but Kit … Fletcher gave her your room.” Billy grinned mischievously.

  “I have already discovered that fact!”

  Dawning lit in Billy’s gray eyes so much like his brother’s. “Oh! So that is it!” He laughed, coughed, and laughed some more.

  “Good night, scamp,” Kit threw over his shoulder as he made his way to his bedroom.

  He encountered the lady in question in the long hallway. She had her bag and had made her way down the hall to open a door and sniff. She turned to him and said stiffly, “It smells dusty, but I’ll deal with that in the morning.” A nod of her head and she was in the room, closing the door, which he then heard bolted.

  An involuntary smile crept over his face.

  * * *

  “You look different, you do,” Billy offered as Myriah tried feeding him some gruel, only to have it pushed away.

  “I look different because, my odious friend, I have changed my clothing and brushed my hair.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” said her patient.

  Her blue-green eyes glared. “Oooh, but I think you deserve this gruel!” She made another attempt to put the spoon of the warm meal to his lips.

  “Damnation, girl!” the young man said with as much authority as he could muster under the circumstances. “’Tis food I need—not gruel.”

  “And food is what you shall get once you have shown me you can hold the gruel down.”

  “I am in Hell, and you are a she-devil!”

  “Really, Mr. Wimborne, earlier this morning you declared me an angel!”

  “I was delirious, for you ain’t an angel but a wicked she-devil bent on having her own way. Knew it the moment I laid eyes on your flaming hair!” retorted Mr. Wimborne.

  “Aha! Not only are you an adventurer, you are an ingrate as well!” Myriah teased, pleased to see him in such spirits.

  He smiled feebly, but fatigue prevented him from further repartee, and he settled back against his pillows.

  Myriah observed this and refrained from teasing him. Instead, she said softly, “Come then … have a spoonful.”

  He groaned but did in fact allow himself to be fed, making an awful face as he swallowed the food.

  Tabson appeared with a tray and set it on a nearby table before eyeing his mistress.

  “Thank you, Tabby.” She knew what he wanted—he wanted to leave and hurry to her grandfather’s and avoid any further trouble. He had already lectured her earlier that morning. She, however, had other ideas.

  She tried to ply her patient with another spoon, but he waved a hand at her. �
�Go away!”

  She put the bowl down on the nightstand and propped up his pillows. He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you doing now?”

  “Making you more comfortable so you will finish your gruel.”

  “No,” said her patient.

  “No?” She eyed him warningly. She brought another spoon to his mouth and was surprised when he took it without a fight. “That’s it, Mr. Wimborne … that’s the ticket.”

  “Billy to you … after all, you cannot be shoving that slovenly mush into m’mouth and calling me, Mr. Wimborne!” He smiled broadly. “’Tis ridiculous, and I’ll not call you anything but she-devil.”

  She wedged another spoonful into the poor man’s mouth and grinned. “My name, sir, is Myriah—Myriah White.” She felt a twinge of guilt; she didn’t want to fib to him, but she had to keep up the pretense.

  “Myriah, you know, suits you. You look like a Myriah.”

  She smiled, thinking he was giving her a compliment, and then he threw in, “’Tis but another name for she-devil after all!”

  She laughed and shoved another spoonful into his open mouth. However, that was the last he would take, and he pointed to her tray of food. “What do you have?”

  She sighed and went to her own platter of sirloin and roast potatoes. He watched her pick at her meal and muttered something incoherent. Myriah laughed and brought her platter to the bed, whereupon the two shared the single meal. Each seemed quite pleased with the other, and Myriah left him resting peacefully, promising to return with tea and biscuits later in the day.

  Below stairs, curiosity drew her to an open door just off the central hall, and she entered cautiously to find a well-stocked library. However, what captured her attention was the far wall, which was covered with portraits. They appeared to be family portraits. She lit a candle since the room was shrouded in the darkness of the day. It was drizzling outside, and although the library housed a wonderful panoramic window, there wasn’t much light to be had.

  With the candle sconce in hand she went to the portraits and held it high to have a good look at one in particular of a young lad and a man. Here was William Wimborne and his lordship, and the painting must have been commissioned quite a few years ago.

  Billy looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen in the portrait, and his lordship looked fascinating and happier than when she had met him. She put a finger to her lips as she studied the painting. His lordship’s honey-colored hair had been very accurately captured … as had been the strong line of his jaw.

  She heard someone behind her and spun around to stare up at Lord Kit Wimborne. The air she had been breathing suddenly burned in her throat. He was devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she felt like an awkward schoolgirl. He wore a riding jacket of dark blue, cream-colored breeches, and high black boots polished to a fine sheen. His honey-colored hair hung to his shoulders in waves of thick silk, and his gray eyes glittered and reminded her that she had been naked under his touch.

  Her cheeks felt warm as she managed to say, “Oh … my lord.”

  He smiled, and as though he had never treated her like a piece of fluff, had never touched her naked skin, he said, “I trust you slept well in your … er … dusty room?”

  “I did … and it is dusty no longer. Spent a bit of time this morning and set it to rights.”

  “Good. Now if you will, Miss …”

  “White, Myriah White,” she offered hastily.

  “Miss White … I have some questions.” He waved her to a brown leather winged chair and took one up opposite after she deposited the candleholder on a nearby table and sat. “I would like to know what you and your groom were doing on the Pike Road at such an hour.”

  “We were on the way to my aunt’s in Dover. We lost our way … rested the horses and ourselves, and again became hopelessly lost. We hadn’t meant to travel so late, you see, and then I noticed a horse near the ditch and after investigating, found your brother, bleeding to death in the ditch.” There, she thought, that should silence him.

  “I see. Then we have imposed on you long enough. Should you need help finding the correct road to Dover, I will be happy to take you there in the morning.”

  “No.” Myriah frowned. She had quite convinced herself that she needed to stay for at least a week, thinking she was already in so much trouble, what was another week? In fact, perhaps her father would be so worried he would no longer be furious, only concerned and happy to have her back safe and sound.

  “No?”

  “What I mean to say … what I have to tell you … well, I suppose only the truth will do. My father wishes me to marry a man I do not love …”

  “I see, and you … cannot like the match?”

  “I do not wish to marry at all, but unfortunately my father discovered us … kissing … and believes that my honor is at stake, which of course it is not. For goodness sake, why should I be forced to marry someone over a kiss? ’Tis nonsense.”

  “And you think to hide from him here? Eventually, you will need to go home.”

  “Yes, but time … often fixes things … don’t you think?”

  “Time can also work against you, my dear.”

  “Please, my lord, just another week?” Myriah pleaded.

  He frowned and then sighed. “I can’t very well throw you out. You have saved my brother’s life and have played nursemaid to him … right then, one week, Miss White.”

  “Thank you,” Myriah said, feeling wicked about keeping her true identity from him while she remained in his home.

  He got up. “I think I’ll visit that scamp brother of mine.” He inclined his head. “Till later then.”

  She watched him go and sighed. It was time to go to the kitchen to visit with Cook and pick up some more information about Lord Wimborne!

  * * *

  The cook greeted her warmly and asked how the young master was. Myriah smiled. “I am sure he will be calling for a man’s dinner this evening. In the meantime, I thought I would fix some tea and biscuits and take it up to him in a bit.”

  “How kind of you, Miss,” Cook said, beaming.

  “Oh … and I have taken a guestroom and polished it up, but I need some fresh linens and another blanket for the bed. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find them.”

  “Lord love ye,” clucked Cook, “that was a job for m’lads, that was. I’ll have them take up what ye need.”

  “Thank you,” Myriah said over her shoulder as she put a kettle on the fire.

  “Wasn’t expecting his lordship back so soon,” Cook said, obvious looking to gossip. She put a stack of sweet tarts on the tray Myriah had set on the table.

  “Yes, Mr. Wimborne was surprised as well—oh, and those look good.”

  “They be young Wimborne’s favorite.”

  “Have you been with them at Wimborne long?” asked Myriah.

  “M’mother was cook at Wimborne before me … ’tis a shame what hard times will do to a place.”

  “And they have fallen onto hard times?” asked Myriah.

  “That they ’ave … we used to have quite a staff running about … then something went wrong jest this past year—just after his lordship come home from fighting the Frenchies in Spain. All but me and my boys were let go.”

  “How dreadful! Those poor people—did they find work?”

  The cook cast her eyes away from Myriah’s face and suddenly busied herself again. “Oh, as to that … they make out all right.”

  Odd, thought Myriah. Why had the woman become suddenly secretive? She took up the tray, marveling to herself at its weight, and made her way to young Wimborne’s room.

  Without knocking at the open door, she sauntered in, placed the heavily laden tray on a stained wood table, and pulled it to the bed. Exclaiming disapprovingly, she made her way to the long window-hangings and opened them. “There, that’s better!” she said, hands on hips. There wasn’t much light from the dismal day, but it was better than total darkness.

  “Oh God, she’s back
!” groaned young Wimborne. Myriah said nothing to this but went to his water pitcher, poured some of the cool water into the basin, and brought it to the bed. Dipping a washcloth in the water she moved it over her patient’s face and neck, then left it in his free hand while she brought him a towel.

  “There,” she exclaimed with approval. “Now don’t you feel better?”

  “She-devil, move aside and let me eat!” retorted her patient.

  She laughed, drew up a chair for herself, and placed a tray of delectables on his knees. “Eat, puppy. I am told the strawberry tart is your favorite.”

  “Aye, so it is.” He smiled widely.

  “Sip your tea first,” she said, placing them out of his reach.

  “Fiend!” He snorted but took up the cup and did in fact sip with a sound of pleasure.

  She sipped her own tea and slid his tart to him. Watching him eat with relish, she thought he was well on the mend. When he had finished, she poured him another cup and handed it over, spilling a bit as she did so.

  “Careful, chit!” admonished Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

  “Ungrateful scamp! Be satisfied it was not dropped on your head!”

  “And is that how you treat your benefactor, Billy my lad?” said a male voice from the doorway.

  “Back, Kit? Have some tea and one of those tarts, and aye, ’tis only what she deserves. She is a fiend.”

  “Would you like some tea, my lord? I’ve brought an extra cup,” Myriah said, feeling for no apparent reason a sensation very much like shyness.

  “Thank you, Miss White,” his lordship replied quite formally. Myriah peered at him, wondering if this tall, honey-haired man was indeed the same one who had leaned over her last evening. He seemed so distant and … cold.

  His imposing figure loomed above them as he came over for the teacup. He took up a chair and sat across from her with the small table between them, and Myriah decided to ignore him by sipping her tea.

  “Drink up,” Myriah ordered, returning her attention to Billy, who was staring out the window, his cup in mid-air.

  “Fire-breather … no need for you to order me about—I was just about to,” returned Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

  Lord Wimborne laughed, sat back, and relaxed as he watched the lively exchange between the two. He wondered about Miss White, as she called herself. She looked and behaved every bit the spoiled lady—certainly her clothes had come from none other than Madame Bertin’s Salon.