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

by Maggie Robinson

  A mistake. Well, he supposed that was one way to look at it—perhaps the purging was necessary. He made use of the basin several times, having difficulty aiming since poor Louisa’s hands shook so.

  “Let Kathleen do this. You’re not made for this kind of thing,” Charles murmured.

  Louisa passed the bowl to Kathleen, who, as she dashed off to the bathroom, looked just a fraction less affected than Louisa did. “I feel responsible.”

  “Why? Because some kitchen maids picked the wrong mushrooms? It could happen to anyone.”

  Louisa left the bedside and went to the bank of windows. To his one working eye, she was lit up like a Christmas tree, tiny bursts of light flickering all around her like some kind of twentieth-century saint painted by a grand master.

  “I don’t like mushrooms, you know. They taste rubbery.”

  “You are a finicky girl. No sausages. No mushrooms.” His stomach gave a rumbling lurch. Kathleen had better hurry back with the basin.

  “What if the poisoning was deliberate? They know my likes and dislikes in the kitchen.”

  “What? You’re accusing your poor cook? The woman was in a terrible state.”

  “Maybe it was guilt. Or someone else could have mixed the odd mushrooms into our breakfast tray.”

  “This business with Robertson’s pranks has unhinged you. No one’s out to ‘get’ me, Louisa.” Though if they were, Charles would like the job to be finished. He was feeling most unwell. The hallucinations had abated some, but his innards were in an uproar.

  What a waste. Here he was in bed, with a beautiful woman just yards away. The thought of intimacy, while compelling, was down a rather long list of things that took precedence. “I have to get up, Louisa, and I’m not sure I can. Will you get William to help?”

  * * *

  Some hours later, Charles awoke from remarkably pleasant if confusing dreams to a dim, hushed room. Louisa was curled up on a chair in her wrinkled riding habit, a book facedown in her lap. She was watching the fire, her face lit in the ordinary way. She had never looked more beautiful.

  “Hello, Lulu.” His voice sounded like sandpaper had roughed up his vocal cords.

  “Charles! How do you feel?”

  “I see only one of you, which is rather a shame. The more, the merrier. What have I missed?”

  Her cool hand swept across his brow. “Even Aunt Grace came down to check on you. She wants to fire all the kitchen maids.”

  “That seems extreme. I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “Dr. Fentress is spending the night in case you take a turn for the worse. Cook asked me what your favorite foods are to make up a light supper tray, but of course I didn’t know. I hope you like creamed chicken and rice pudding. That seemed suitable for an invalid. Hugh sent up a bottle of his best brandy and says he hopes you recover soon so he can challenge you to a boxing match. I think you broke his nose—it looks like a potato.”

  “Something to look forward to.”

  “The fight or the food?”

  “Both. I think a good sparring match might clear the air here. I hope the rice pudding has raisins.”

  Louisa closed her book and stood. “I can go ask Cook—”

  “Please don’t go. I much prefer your company to the possibility of raisins.”

  She sat back down, tucking a loose tendril behind her ear. “Are you really all right?”

  Charles felt as if he’d been sandblasted from within. “I believe there’s not an ounce of evil left inside me. Thank you for bearing with me. It couldn’t have been an easy job.”

  Louisa’s cheeks turned pink. “I wasn’t especially useful.”

  “Just the fact that you were near helped. You ought to give William a raise.”

  “He tells me he’s seen his brothers in worse condition after Harvest Home.” Louisa smoothed her skirt, and Charles wished she’d decided to smooth his brow again. “Cook tells me she won’t let anyone else touch your tray. She feels terrible.”

  “Really, tell her it’s all right. I’m still kicking.” He wiggled a feeble foot under the covers.

  “You can tell her yourself. She’ll be bringing dinner up—or at least accompanying a footman so no one can make any mischief.”

  Despite his nap, Charles was too tired to argue that it was probably all a harmless mistake. He dragged himself up to a sitting position, sliding easily in his silk pajamas. Silk pajamas. He’d never worn anything like them and wasn’t sure he liked the way they felt against his skin. Despite the masculine forest green color and blocky gold monogram, they seemed more appropriate for Louisa.

  “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you get undressed?” He patted the vacant space next to him. “We can have supper in bed.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  “For Mr. and Mrs. Maximillian Norwich to dine in bed together? Of course it would.” Charles gave her what he hoped was a confident grin.

  “That’s just it.” Louisa looked back into the flames. “I think we should tell the truth. You’ve only been here three days, and each day has brought disaster of one kind or another. Rosemont is not lucky for you. I think—I think you should go. I must have been delusional myself to think all this was a good idea. The make-believe.”

  “Louisa—”

  “I’ll pay your full fee,” she said hurriedly.

  “I don’t care about the money!” And he didn’t, at the moment. “We can make the pretense true if you want to. Why don’t you marry me?”

  “You don’t really mean that.”

  “I don’t? I asked you yesterday. I believe I asked you earlier today when I was off my onion. You need someone, even if you don’t think you do.”

  She rose, the book dropping to the floor, and almost ran to the windows. “I don’t need anyone! I’ve never had anyone, and I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You are a stubborn girl.”

  “I’m not a girl. I’m a woman. And I do not need a man to tell me what I need or don’t need.” Her nervous fingers traced a pattern on the dark glass.

  He was going about this all wrong—no surprise, for proposing to independent heiresses was not his specialty. “What if I told you I loved you?”

  She turned to him, her face scornful. “I wouldn’t believe a word.”

  “Why not? Are you unlovable?”

  “I—you don’t even know me.”

  Charles wondered if he had the strength to walk to the window. Deciding to risk it, he swung a leg out of bed.

  “What are you doing? You’re meant to stay in bed and rest.”

  “I find being with you unrestful, Lulu. Which is a good thing.” The room spun, but he continued his mission. Once he got to the window, he clutched at her hand to steady himself. She didn’t pull away. “Do you know before I met you I wanted to die?”

  Her brown eyes widened. He could look into them all night. “Wh-what?”

  “I’ve told you what happened in Africa. I could not get it out of my mind. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t care about anything. But when I’m with you, I care. I think of nothing but you. You’ve invaded me.”

  “Th-that’s ridiculous.”

  “I suppose it is. My feelings make no sense at all. How can someone like me hope to have a life with someone like you? It’s absurd. We have nothing whatsoever in common. When your aunt finds out about my background, she’ll have an apoplexy.”

  “Class shouldn’t matter.”

  He kissed her fingertips. “Oh, but it does, my naïve darling. Everyone will say I married you for your money.”

  “We are not getting married.” There was no force behind her words, and Charles allowed himself to feel some hope.

  “Give me a week to change your mind. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You could die. And Aunt Grace could have me locked up.
”

  “The princess in the tower. If you were my wife, I’d rescue you. You could live just as you pleased—I wouldn’t interfere with whatever cork-brained scheme you dreamed up.” He took her in his arms. She fit so beautifully against him, it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss her. He had brushed his teeth after his last bout with the basin so had no reservations about limiting their contact to one respectful peck.

  Louisa melted into him, opened her mouth, met him more than halfway. Charles tasted both her yearning and her reluctance. He would prove he loved her if she gave him some time, tell her with his body and his actions. Let her use him physically—he’d use every weapon in his arsenal to convince her, no matter how it injured his male pride.

  “I was so frightened,” she said, her heart beating against his when he ended the kiss. “You were quite mad. How do I know this is not another manifestation of the mushrooms?”

  Charles laughed. “The Manifestation of the Mushrooms. Sounds like a gothic thriller. I can only tell you my head is relatively clear, or as clear as it can be when you are so near to me. You bewitch me.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “Oh, it is. Louisa, I’m not asking you to give up your autonomy. I think you’ll find me an understanding husband—I have no wish to give orders left and right. I did enough of that in the army.”

  She pulled away a little. “I can’t think right now.”

  Good. He hoped he had the same effect on her as she had on him. “You needn’t give me an answer, just seven more days for us to get to know each other better. I will tell you how my older brothers bullied me and you can complain all about that bastard Hugh.”

  “I’ve done that already. And it’s not pleasant to dwell in the past.”

  No, it was not. It was only because of Louisa that he could even think of a future.

  But if she refused him, he was not going to succumb to his previous misery. He’d been weak, drowning himself with drink and self-pity. All that must end. Surely he had something to give, some skill to hone.

  And if she did agree to marry him, he couldn’t live off her income as a kept man—he was no fortune hunter. Charles would have to find some sort of occupation.

  Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cooper would scandalize English society. He didn’t mind for himself, but Louisa might be hurt by wagging tongues. Any children they might have would have difficulty establishing themselves despite the Stratton fortune, too.

  Those problems would be faced head-on when the time came. Together, Charles was sure they could survive anything. Tonight, he just needed to get Louisa into his bed.

  Wait. He was already in hers, or would be if he went back and collapsed into it. What a marvelous idea. He felt a sinking spell coming on.

  Chapter

  31

  Charles had rallied a little at supper, sitting up and consuming a gigantic portion of chicken à la Keene in puff pastry and a cinnamon-topped rice pudding studded with enough raisins to satisfy the most avid raisin aficionado. But he seemed listless afterward, responding to Louisa’s conversation half a tick behind his usual sharp wit. So out of concern, or so she told herself, she had agreed that he should sleep in her bed again.

  Kathleen had suggested he return to his own room, and volunteered Robertson’s services to play watchdog through the night. The chauffeur himself had come up with the idea to atone for his previous bad behavior, but Louisa had rejected it. Charles was her responsibility.

  And besides, lying next to him all night was hardly a hardship. He had bathed after dinner—by himself even though Louisa had offered to help—smelled delicious, and sported a fresh pair of striped silk pajamas. Navy this time, which brought out the deep blue color of his visible eye. She watched as he readied himself for sleep, fiddling with the knot of his eye patch.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  “My fingers feel like sausages tonight. Oops, there’s the dreaded word. I’m afraid I won’t be able to face Cook’s sausages anytime soon.”

  He sat still as she untied the black silk string. She smoothed the faint red lines the patch had left on his skin with a fingertip. “It was just as well you were a glutton. Nature relieved you of some of the poison to your system.”

  “And the seawater did the rest. I may never go swimming again, either.” He turned down the lamp wick on the bedside table, plunging the room into darkness save for the firelight.

  Louisa would like to see him swim next summer, his sleek body cutting through the waves. “Next summer” would mean he’d successfully convinced her to consider his suit. They might be married, living at Rosemont, sharing this bed every night.

  Captain Charles Cooper would have his work cut out for him—Louisa had sworn off men for close to a decade. It would be enjoyable to watch him try to seduce her, not that she’d resist him with much determination. He had proven to be very adept at stimulating her senses, had awakened desire within her that she’d thought long dormant.

  But marriage was forever. Unless you believed in divorce, which was still expensive and difficult and scandalous despite all the dissolution of American society unions across the pond. Better not to marry at all and live in sin if there was some doubt of fidelity.

  Why couldn’t she and Charles have an affair? She could run up to London once a month. Stay at Claridge’s or the Savoy. Indulge themselves in a few nights of pleasure. No strings. No obligations.

  Charles would never do it. He’d think she was using him, and he’d be right.

  Marriage. Louisa peeled back the covers on her side of the bed as though she’d done it for years. There was familiarity and comfort with Charles, which on its face was absurd. She’d known her plants longer.

  They had been through quite a bit together over the past few days, however. Louisa had seen him at his worst and at his best. His best was certainly very, very good.

  “This is cozy, isn’t it? I can see stars twinkling right from the bed.”

  Charles was still at least a foot away from her, and his voice was low. Louisa wiggled down so she could see the night sky. It was breathtaking, whether one knew one’s constellations or not.

  “It’s a clear night. We’ve been very lucky with the weather for December.”

  “Louisa Stratton. You have a man in your bed and you are talking about the weather?”

  She heard the sly smile behind the words. “You are recuperating from a terrible ordeal.”

  “I know a way I could feel better much faster.”

  “Really? What do you have in mind?”

  She expected him to turn toward her and sweep her into an embrace. But Charles Cooper was a man of surprises. “Sing to me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My mother used to sing me to sleep when I was a boy. Until my brothers teased me about it. Called me a baby. I asked my mother to stop and I think I broke her heart.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Four or five.”

  “You were a baby!” Louisa was four when her parents died. She’d still sucked her thumb and slept with a ratty old stuffed bear. Grace had called the toy disgusting and had thrown it away, and coated her fingers with something vile-tasting so she couldn’t stick her thumb in her mouth anymore without gagging. Louisa had Grace to thank for her straight teeth, but it had been a cruel loss of self-comfort.

  “In my world, I was almost old enough to go to work, Louisa. George Alexander wouldn’t have hired me, but others would have.”

  “Unconscionable. I thought there were laws against such things.”

  “Perhaps in the textile industry. But families have to eat, and many children are put on factory floors at an early age. I started at eight. And didn’t have it easy since my father was the foreman. He never wanted anyone to accuse him of favoritism, you see.”

  “Poor Charles.”

 
“I got clouted like clockwork for no reason, from my dad and my brothers. So you see, I deserve a song.”

  “I suppose you do. I don’t know the words to many nursery songs.” She couldn’t remember her nurse singing to her often—probably that was one more thing that Grace had forbidden.

  “Here’s a hint—look out the window.” He hummed a few rough bars.

  “Of course.” She took a breath, and her gentle alto broke the silence.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  How I wonder what you are.

  Up above the world so high,

  Like a diamond in the sky.

  When the blazing sun is gone,

  When he nothing shines upon,

  Then you show your little light,

  Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.”

  There were more verses, but she couldn’t remember the words. So she just repeated herself several times until she felt a bit foolish. Charles was a grown man, not a four-year-old, but she sensed his body relax beside her.

  “Thank you—that was lovely. Sweet dreams, Louisa.” He made no move toward her.

  After a few minutes, she cleared her throat. “Don’t you want a kiss good-night?”

  “I couldn’t stop at one kiss.”

  “Who says you have to?” she asked boldly.

  “Remember, I’m meant to be wooing you. Taking things slow. Getting to know you. I don’t want to pounce on you—and anyway, I may not be quite up to it.” He rolled to the side, putting his lips out of bounds.

  Louisa could do all the work—in fact, that would suit her to the ground. Charles could lie flat on his back and she’d ride him to the finish line. But she didn’t want to impugn Charles’s sense of honor and restraint. She’d kind of forgotten where he stood on their physical relationship. When he’d been out of his mind, there was no question that he wanted to—well, he’d used that blunt Anglo-Saxon word, hadn’t he? She’d shivered when he’d said something about fucking her into next week. That sounded very, very naughty, even if next week was just tomorrow.