In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL)

by Maggie Robinson

  “Surely not. Death is so final. Perhaps they meant to warn me off. Send me back to the château so they can get their hands on your money.”

  Money. Louisa hoped it wasn’t about that. Human greed knew no boundaries. But somehow she couldn’t picture Aunt Grace whacking Maximillian Norwich in the head before she tried to bribe him tomorrow.

  Today, actually. It was after midnight.

  Aunt Grace didn’t need her money—she had plenty of her own. Hugh would inherit a fortune, so he didn’t need it, either. Besides, Hugh was in London and not wandering around Rosemont in the middle of the night.

  Could one of the servants have done this, perhaps to commit robbery? Louisa looked around the room, but all drawers were shut, and the only mess was the books Charles had knocked over himself in his fevered dream.

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry. I think it’s clean enough now. The wound is deep but I don’t think it needs stitches. Hold still. This may hurt.” His fingers dug into the arms of the chair while Louisa swabbed his scalp with carbolic. It was the only indication that he felt anything at all as he sat in otherwise rigid control. She stuck the plaster on as best she could, hoping it would stick to the short strands of hair. “There. Good as new.”

  “Except for the bloody headache. It never pays to fib. Now I’ve got one in truth.” His accent had roughened, his roots emerging. My goodness, she was alone with an uncouth, half-naked man in a dimly lit bedchamber, and she had no desire to flee.

  “Shut the window, why don’t you. I don’t guess my assailant climbed down the drainpipe?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. We’re awfully high up. And anyway, your bedroom door was open when I came back from the kitchen.” She fiddled with the clasps of the casement and locked it. “You’d better lock the door to the hall from now on, too.”

  “Jesus. This wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?”

  Louisa’s tongue curled into the corner of her mouth. It was horrible to think she had brought Captain Cooper here to be bludgeoned nightly. “We can’t know. I expected to be on my guard against gossip, but not this sort of thing.”

  Charles rose unsteadily from the chair, clutching his sheet. “Thank you for patching me up.”

  “It was the least I could do. I—I don’t think I should leave you alone. People with head injuries are supposed to be monitored.”

  He pretended shock. “Why, Miss Stratton, are you proposing to sleep in my bed? I don’t think we’d fit.”

  “I thought you could come to my room. I can watch you from the chaise.” Despite the long day and even longer night, Louisa did not think she’d be able to fall asleep. Her mind was in turmoil. Someone had attacked the captain. Would they attack her next? Growing up, she’d spent most of her time at Rosemont in her room or the kitchen or the conservatory, under a kind of voluntary house arrest, even before Grace restricted her movements. She didn’t relish the thought of spending the next thirty days in the gray sitting room even if she did have a gorgeous man for company.

  “Your room.” Charles sounded hesitant.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Whoever did this to you could have a key to get in again. You might fall asleep and never know what hit you. That is, if you ever woke up again.”

  “You think they’re coming back to finish me off?”

  “I—I don’t know. This seems much more than a prank.”

  “My head agrees with you. Mrs. Evensong did not say the job was going to be dangerous. But I brought my pistol.”

  Louisa felt her knees buckle. “Your p-pistol?”

  “Years of training. Force of habit. One never knows.” He shuffled over to the bedside table and pulled open the drawer. “Blast. It’s gone. I guess we want to watch for bullets now as well as bricks.”

  Chapter

  13

  Charles spoke lightly, but he was troubled. His army-issue pistol had been with him for a decade. It was an old friend, and he had use for it if he ever worked up his courage. He crouched down on the floor and looked under the bed, remembering that he’d knocked into the table in the night. Perhaps the drawer had opened and the pistol had fallen to the floor, miraculously without firing. If it had, all his indecision would be moot and Louisa Stratton Norwich could have claimed her widowhood.

  There was nothing to see, not even a ball of dust. There wouldn’t be in a house like Rosemont.

  Charles was beginning to think that Louisa Stratton should have stayed in France. Something was truly wrong here. It was one thing to think of killing himself, but he discovered he didn’t much care for the idea of someone else putting him out of his misery.

  “All right, let’s go to your room. But you needn’t sleep on the chaise. The bed’s big enough for two or three as I recall. I swear I will not test its limits.”

  Louisa blushed. She probably didn’t know what a ménage à trois was. But if she was his wife, he wouldn’t want to share her with either gender. He guided her out of his arctic room with a hand placed on her lower back. The silk was slippery against his rough fingers, and he wondered how soft her skin was beneath it. Very soft, he decided. White and pure. Though now that her face was scrubbed clean of powder, he noted she had a tiny constellation of freckles across her cheek and nose. Probably from driving that car of hers all around the countryside. Give him a horse any day.

  “Do you ride?”

  Louisa stumbled on the bathroom tile. “I beg your pardon?”

  Ah. He’d mentioned the size of the bed. She thought he was now talking positions in it. The image of Louisa naked over him, her golden hair streaming, stirred his recalcitrant cock. “I thought perhaps after I keep my appointment with your aunt, we could explore the estate on horseback.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course I ride. Or used to. My aunt forbade it the last several years I lived at home. She was sure I’d run to—” She bit off words that were to follow.

  “Sir Richard,” he supplied helpfully. They had traversed the bathing chamber and her dressing room, locking all the doors behind them, and were now in the enormous bedroom. Her fire needed feeding, too, else they were bound to stay cold. “Get under the covers. I’ll see to the coals.”

  He thought she might object but heard her slide into the bed and punch up the pillows. He was conscious that his pajamas were still in a dresser drawer. They had been Mrs. Evensong’s idea—lately Charles had slept in his clothes or in the nude, being far too drunk and uncivilized to care about changing. He should go back into his room and get them.

  And Louisa should put on a nightgown, something that went straight up to her stubborn chin. That dressing gown of hers was not going to stay put as she lay beside him. He’d seen the slice of thigh as she walked, the curve of a breast as she bent. Her white throat was visible and kissable above the robe’s deep V.

  Jesus. His mind was traveling into unfamiliar territory, or at least territory that had not been explored in a good long while. That hit on his head must have dislodged some memories of when he was a normal man. When he could see and touch and taste, his most pressing thought being how to get himself inside soft female flesh quickly and spend.

  Charles realized his eye patch as well as his pajamas were in the other room, but the light was low enough for him to ignore the floating debris that bedeviled him so in the daytime. He’d close his eyes soon enough, will the throbbing at the back of his head to lull. He’d best roll onto his side, back to Miss Stratton. Pretend she wasn’t there.

  Impossible.

  The fire caught. There was no reason to remain huddled in front of it poking, delaying the inevitable. Charles would spend what was left of the night lying next to a beautiful woman. Hopefully he wouldn’t slip into a coma and miss the experience.

  Louisa could throw water at him to wake him up. Whiskey would be more welcome, he thought ruefully.<
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  Feeling a bit like an African native, he tied the sheet firmly to his waist and padded across the thick carpet to the enormous four-poster bed. Louisa had staked claim to the far, far edge. There would be no “accidental” brushing against her plush curves. Charles didn’t think he’d be doing much sleeping anyway—his skin felt stretched too tight for his bones, every inch alive with something not quite painful but present.

  Alive. He felt alive, for the first time in over a year. How ironic when someone had tried to kill him, or at least warn him away. And now his gun was stolen as well as any peace of mind he might have secured pretending to be the hoyden’s husband.

  He could ask Louisa for an increase in pay. He hadn’t signed the contract with Mrs. Evensong to get shot at. Charles had had quite enough of that, thank you very much. If anyone was doing the shooting, it would be him.

  He wasn’t safe here, but then neither was Louisa. Sharp tongues could be superseded by sharp objects. He felt a surge of protective concern for his poor little rich girl.

  Feeling a little under siege, he stared across the dark room at the door to the sitting room, wondering if that was locked, too. He would get Robertson to drive him to the nearest gunsmith, and not leave his weapon in a drawer this time.

  There was a rustle behind him. A sigh. Another. Resolute, Charles shut his eyes.

  “There is a gun room here. My papa had a collection, as I told you. We can find something to replace your pistol tomorrow.”

  Charles had not expected so practical a discussion, or the fact that she was reading his mind. He rolled over. “Indeed? I wonder why mine was stolen then if there are weapons at hand.”

  “To disarm you, of course. To leave you vulnerable. At their mercy.” There was bitterness in her voice. She was not really speaking of him.

  “I recall you telling me you’re a fair shot.”

  She nodded. Tension emanated from her, despite the fact that she’d drawn the coverlet up to her chin and had angled a pillow so it would prevent him from touching her.

  Charles had promised to be a gentleman, and he kept his promises. Mostly.

  “Well, that’s convenient. I think you should arm yourself as well. And we should stick together. Louisa, do you have any idea who would try to harm me? I assume it’s a way to hurt you—I’m just the collateral damage.”

  Her tongue teased the corner of her mouth. “Do—do you want to resign? I don’t want anything awful to happen to you.”

  “I don’t want anything awful to happen to you, and I’ll stay at Rosemont to make sure of it. You can kill me off later when things are settled. Do you have a will?”

  “Mr. Baxter was after me to make one before I left, but no. I just couldn’t face it. Silly of me, I know. We’re all going to die, aren’t we? I could have cracked us up a hundred times this past year—cars can be so unreliable. And the roads! Nothing but mud and ruts. If anyone deserves my fortune, it’s Kathleen for what she put up with. But as yet, there is no one who will benefit directly from my death.”

  “Except your husband. By law, your fortune would come to me even without a will, would it not? Kill me first, kill you next, and your closest relative—Grace, I presume—inherits.”

  “Oh! Oh, Charles, I am sorry for putting you in this predicament.” She looked at him earnestly, her dark eyes wide.

  She was scared stiff, and so she should be. Her house was a viper’s nest.

  “Let’s not worry ourselves anymore tonight. I’m exhausted.” He made a show of stretching and yawning, then turned away from her shadowed face.

  The room was alive with noise—the fire hissing, the clock spinning, the windows quaking with wind, the water choppy beyond. Charles waited to hear Louisa’s steady breathing, but instead he heard a ragged hiccup and an unladylike sniff.

  Damn. She was crying. Bold, brazen Louisa Stratton was within arm’s reach, and she needed to be comforted even if he’d promised not to touch her. He warred with himself for only a few seconds before he rolled and reached for her, dragging her to the middle of the enormous bed. She buried her damp face on his bare shoulder, heedless of snot and tears, her body jumpy against his. Charles stroked her back as if she were a nervous woodland creature, settling her at his side, kissing the top of her golden head. Her hair was plaited to her waist and he stroked it, too—it was heavy and smooth and needed to be unraveled. She smelled of violet eau de cologne and soap, clean, sweet.

  They should have had their tea and talked companionably in front of a fire before they’d attempted bed, but the pot must be stone cold now. So Charles was left with a weeping woman in his arms, her salty tears and lips against his skin, her body stirring what had long been dormant—no, dead—inside him.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his chest. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m usually not such a watering pot.”

  “Hush. The concept of mortality is enough to drive philosophers and priests mad. I’ll hold you until you can sleep.”

  She blinked up at him, her cheeks wet. Her gilt-tipped lashes were dark, spiky, reminding him of a fawn. But Louisa Stratton was no weak baby deer—she was a madcap heiress who did as she pleased.

  Until she returned to Rosemont. Charles had watched the liveliness drain out of her hour by hour.

  She frowned. “I’m supposed to be watching over you.”

  “We can watch over each other.” Charles cupped her cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb.

  “Just like a real married couple,” she whispered.

  “Almost.” He wasn’t about to frighten her with what he suddenly wanted to do as her pretend husband. She looked up at him with such trust, his heart squeezed. She shouldn’t trust him, didn’t have a clue what he was capable of.

  He would not take advantage of her misery, or any woman’s. He had once, and had hated himself ever since. He had done Marja no kindness in the end, and she had died like all the others, no better off for his touch.

  “Th-thank you.” She stilled, then took a corner of the sheet and wiped the moisture from his shoulder. “I’ve made a mess of you.”

  “I’ve endured worse, believe me.”

  Louisa settled into the crook of his arm, her body close and hot against his. He imagined she was imprinting him with the pattern from her figured silk robe, branding him with vines and leaves. Charles refused to let himself look down at the creamy skin of her décolletage or the innocent hand that was placed across his chest. She had capable hands, he recalled, hands that moved expressively as she chattered on, hands that could light stoves and shoot guns and drive cars.

  And drive a man wild with their light touch upon his skin.

  He had only himself to blame for this torture. It might be better to go back to his room and wait to be clubbed to death.

  “Charles?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is very comfortable, don’t you agree?”

  Not at all.

  He gave a grunt that could be interpreted any which way. He should feign sleep, begin to snore so she would stop trying to talk to him. No such luck.

  “I’ve never slept with a man before. In a bed,” she amended, in case he had doubts about her virginity. “Isn’t that ridiculous? I’m twenty-six years old and ruined anyway, at least according to Aunt Grace. It’s not as though I can get my purity back, is it?”

  Charles had no answer for her. His throat was a desert and his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

  “It’s rather silly, isn’t it—my avoidance of intimacy, I mean. I’m a modern, free woman. Why should I obey society’s stringent rules? What’s good for the goose and all that. Although it really should be ‘what’s good for the gander is good for the goose’ in this case, shouldn’t it? Why should men have all the fun? Of course, in my experience men have been disappointing. Starting with vile Sir Richard. But I haven’t yet been able to convince
myself of the efficacy of sapphism.”

  Charles choked. She was babbling. Well, she’d had a shock, although it should be he who was incoherent after getting whacked on the onion.

  “I don’t suppose you’re in the mood to kiss me again, are you? I really don’t think I’m sleepy at all.”

  “K-kiss you?”

  “As you did at dinner. I’m not asking you to act as a petticoat-pensioner—you needn’t go beyond a kiss. If you don’t want to. Although, if someone is trying to kill us, I suppose carpe diem should figure into our thinking.”

  Was she saying what he thought she was saying? The blow to his head must have scrambled his brain. Charles had had enough. He released her and tumbled backward. “I might not be able to stop myself, brute that I am. I’m as vile as Sir Richard. More so.”

  “I thought you said I was safe from you.” The damn girl gave him a look that said she didn’t want to be safe.

  “I lied.” By God, he had lied. He was as hard as a rock.

  “Well, that’s all right then. But I don’t think I’d mind at all if you—if we—if—you know.”

  “No, I bloody well don’t!”

  “Acted as man and wife. Just for tonight. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? We may be murdered in our sleep.” Louisa gave him a dazzling smile, as if the prospect of future death was quite delightful.

  “You should be locked up.”

  “I was. For years. It didn’t really work. I am as hopeless as ever. If you agree to perform this extra duty, I will of course make it worth your while financially.”

  Charles’s mouth dropped open. “You will pay me to fuck you?”

  “Don’t be so rude. Maximillian would never say fuck.”

  “I am not Maximillian. There is no Maximillian. By God, your aunt was right to try to contain you. You’re mad.”

  Louisa poked a finger into his chest. “Don’t you dare side with her! I am not mad. Just curious. You’re right here, I’m right here, and we both need some comfort. It has been a very trying day, you must admit. You needn’t do anything out of the ordinary—just the basic shag.”