Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  But Charlotte didn’t seem the least bit bothered by his scars. She had probably seen all of them—she had been at hos­pital for the entire month he was there, apparently overseeing his care. Perhaps she knew of the ropy scars that spanned the side of his ribs down to the top of his hip, of the ghastly, angry red one that covered his entire left shoulder and made it nearly impossible for him to raise his arm over his head, made lifting anything, especially a saddle onto a horse, a struggle. And if she did know, she didn’t seem to regard his infirmity as a detri­ment to their arranged union. Perhaps …

  He reached the bedchamber door, knocked a couple of times and entered when he heard what sounded like an invita­tion to enter. A chorus of feminine gasps could be heard as he strode into the bedchamber, his attention immediately drawn to the opening to the bathroom and beyond.

  A suddenly nervous maid, eyes wide, curtsied from next to the copper tub, in which stood a very naked Charlotte, her back to him and only her lower limbs hidden by bubble-topped water. Embarrassed, his first thought was to excuse himself and leave, but his eyes were fixed on the image of Charlotte’s back, indeed, of her entire backside. The bright red gash, start­ing at one shoulder blade and then ending just below the other one, was at odds with the perfection of her creamy white skin, her elegant coiffed blonde hair, her long neck that curved into slightly sloped shoulders, the curves that defined her small waist and her perfectly proportioned bottom and the thighs that promised beautiful calves and who knew what else below the water line. The red streak must just be a length of red ribbon stuck to her skin, he thought as he moved toward the tub. But as he moved closer, he remembered how she had winced when she had remounted her horse earlier. The red gash was really a wound! And she didn’t cry out, he thought suddenly.

  “Leave us,” he instructed, his voice louder than he intended, his attention on Charlotte’s maid, Parma, immediately next to the tub. The maid dared a glance at Charlotte before lowering her eyes. Parma curtsied before hurrying around the duke and out of the room. Another maid, one he recognized from his own staff, also exited the bath as Charlotte’s body suddenly went rigid.

  She was about to sit down into the tub, and now found herself wondering, of all things, about protocol.

  What does one do when a duke enters a lady’s rooms and she is nude and standing in knee-deep water?

  Should she face him and then curtsy? Cover herself first and then curtsy? But cover herself with … what?

  One part of her brain reminded her that her dressing gown was draped over a vanity chair well out of her reach. Another part of her brain suddenly realized just what Joshua must be seeing, and all thoughts of proper protocol flew out of her head.

  Joshua reached for a bath linen from a stack on the van­ity, intending to wrap her in it, but as he stepped even closer to the tub, he saw just how deep the cut in her back was, how raw the edges appeared, and how a few drops of fresh blood seeped from several wider areas along the gash. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice so husky he didn’t recognize it as his own. When Charlotte didn’t answer right away, he moved to stand by her side, noting she had at least covered her breasts with her crossed arms. He allowed the linen to unfurl, and he held it up in front of her while keeping his eyes trained on the side of her face. The baser side of himself wanted desperately to see all of her.

  Charlotte’s attention was on something far away, but a tear made a path down her cheek before she was aware of the linen. She gripped the edges and held it against the front of her body, her head shaking from side to side, her lower lip trembling before a tooth finally caught it.

  “Who did this to you?” Joshua repeated in a quiet voice as he reached out and placed an open palm over the shoulder nearest him, intending to take a closer look at the wound.

  Visibly flinching, Charlotte gasped. “My fa … my father,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. His hand was so hot against her shoulder, she thought it might leave a mark, as if he were branding her.

  A stillness settled over Joshua Wainwright, where time seemed to stand still and where he could imagine the events to come in a kind of slow motion preceding rage and reac­tion. “You, there,” he called out as he turned and saw a maid staring from the bedchamber. The woman’s eyes widened and she appeared quite frightened at being discovered watching the two in the bathroom. “Have Gates send for the doctor straight away,” he ordered, his voice so commanding, the maid immediately bobbed and left his sight. He returned his gaze to Charlotte, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “When?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Charlotte finally turned her face a bit in his direction, but her eyes remained downcast. “Five days ago,” she replied, another tear streaming down her face.

  Joshua furrowed his brows, thinking of the pain she must have endured why traveling in a coach from London with a wound so deep, it was still bleeding. Had her father sliced a knife across her back? “What …?”

  “A horse whip,” Charlotte answered before he could com­plete the question. She heard his sudden intake of breath, could see a kind of rage building in him that threatened to explode at any moment.

  “Your father horse whipped you?” he whispered, disbelief evident, or perhaps a desire to believe it must have been some­one else who would dare do such a thing to a woman.

  “He thought me willful,” Charlotte started to explain, her eyes rising to meet his, her body trembling much like it had the night before.

  “Willful?” he repeated, at first in disbelief. He considered her behavior with him in the study the day before and realized that, yes, she could be willful. But enough to warrant a whip­ping? She was the daughter of an earl! “Whatever did you ..?”

  “He wanted me to agree to marry an earl instead of fulfill­ing my obligation to this duchy,” she whispered, her lower lip quivering and her teeth nearly chattering. “But I said I would refuse any other agreement. There is already a betrothal in place, one he arranged with your father, and I didn’t wish to renounce it.” Her head shook from side to side as she made her statement, her knees weakening beneath her.

  Joshua realized she was about to collapse and caught her body around the waist, lowering her gently into the water while trying to allow her some modicum of modesty. When she was seated, her knees slightly bent and her hands firmly on the edge of the tub, he let go of her and knelt next to the tub. He left his wet forearms draped on the side of the tub as he regarded her profile for several seconds and considered her words. “He offered you a way out of having to marry me?” he finally countered, wondering why she hadn’t taken the offer. She knew he was badly disfigured, knew the extent of his vis­ible wounds. Why would she insist on fulfilling some betrothal obligation made when she was three years old?

  “I didn’t wish to be relieved of the obligation,” she stated, her chin angled in such a way as to suggest she was stubborn on the topic. She didn’t dare tell him the true reason for the wound—that her father didn’t want his perfect daughter to end up with a scarred man. In his drunken rage, the Earl of Ellsworth had reasoned she needed to be left with a scar as bad

  in some respects as those on the man she intended to marry.

  A scar she would carry for life.

  And judging from Joshua’s reaction and the earlier reac­tion of the house maid who had helped her undress for her bath, the wound was worse than she thought—one that would probably be visible on her back for many years to come. She reached up and wiped tears from her face, determined to stop crying.

  “Be that as it may, you do realize the betrothal was made on behalf of my older brother, who has … died?” he reasoned, wondering if such an arrangement transferred much like the lands and title had to him.

  Charlotte nodded. “I am so sorry for your loss. So sorry for what happened to your entire family,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath, overcoming a sob. Straightening her torso while still holding the linen against the front of her body, she stated, “As I understand the betrothal, I am to mar
ry the Earl of Grinstead, and if he has ascended, then the Duke of Chich­ester, upon my twenty-first birthday.” She wondered for at least the third time if the fire that had destroyed half the house had also destroyed the written agreement between her father and the former duke.

  Joshua regarded Charlotte for several moments, contem­plating whether he should change his mind about extricating himself from the betrothal. Then he wondered how he could extricate himself out of the awkward situation he found him­self in at the moment—in a lady’s bath kneeling on the floor next to the tub in which an injured, naked lady was supposed to be bathing.

  He had heard tales of French women inviting aristocrats to pay attendance on them whilst bathing, but he was quite sure the women were at least wearing their chemises while in the tub. When he considered how sheer a wet chemise would appear, though, he wondered why they bothered wearing them.

  He was saved from having to make an immediate move when the village doctor appeared in the bathroom doorway, a black leather bag in one hand and his other at his waist as he bowed. “Your Grace. Please forgive the delay. I came as soon as I could secure a saddled horse,” the rather tall man said, his eyes darting between the duke and the woman in the tub whose back was to him.

  Charlotte stiffened at the sound of the voice, recognizing it from her time in Kirdford the day after the fire. Its owner was the stubborn village doctor who insisted he could see to Joshua’s wounds even as she arranged to move him to London. On the third day following the fire, the man had relented and allowed his patient to be taken away in a hammock secured in the back of the finest wagon she could hire. Charlotte was sure it was only because the doctor, who had used up every drop of morphine he had in treating Joshua, had decided Joshua wouldn’t make it through the night.

  His death would then be on her.

  But Joshua did make it through that awful day and night, his body suffering fever and chills and all manner of torturous pain. Once at hospital in London, the doctor she arranged to provide his care said it was due to the medical attention he had been provided those first two days that ultimately saved Joshua Wainwright’s life.

  The old village doctor had known what he was doing.

  As she sat at Joshua’s bedside on the fifth day, she wrote a note to Dr. Regan, thanking him for his work and asking that he forgive her stubbornness in insisting Joshua be treated in London.

  If the doctor sent a reply, she didn’t receive it.

  Joshua stood up in a fluid movement that belied the tight­ness in the left side of his body. “Thank you for coming, Doc­tor Regan,” he said with a nod. “My …” Betrothed, he started to say, “… Guest, Lady Charlotte, has a rather nasty wound I believe may require some stitches,” he said, getting right to the point as he indicated the red slash across her back. The wound was quite visible over the top of the water as Charlotte leaned forward in the tub, mortified that not just one man, but now two, were seeing her uncovered back.

  The doctor cocked a shaggy eyebrow as he took a look from where he stood and then, with an encouraging nod from Joshua, stepped forward and looked down on Charlotte’s back. “Lady Charlotte,” he said by way of greeting.

  Charlotte turned her head slightly and nodded. “Doctor Regan. It’s so good of you to come,” she replied lightly, hoping the man didn’t hold a grudge against her.

  Dr. Regan placed his bag on the floor, opened it, and with­drew a magnifying glass. He positioned it a few inches over the gash and began surveying the damage, making an occa­sional ‘tsk’ sound. He shook his head. “How long ago did this … occur?” he finally asked, putting away his glass. Although he didn’t seem overly curious, Joshua could tell from the way the doctor’s eyes looked from the wound to him suggested he was imagining some awful scenario.

  “Five days ago,” Charlotte answered, swallowing hard in order to stifle a sob. “I thought it no worse than a scratch and that it would heal on its own,” she explained, wanting the doc­tor to know it happened long before she arrived at Wisbor­ough Oaks. “I got too close to a groom who was working with one of our horses, you see,” she explained, her voice so con­vincing she could almost believe the story herself.

  “Oh, dear,” Dr. Regan replied, a bit of horror in his voice. “Well, it might have healed had you been able to stay still for several days,” he said with a hint of admonishment. “But I do believe I can close up the wound. Stitches are in order, I should warn you.”

  Charlotte nodded her head, wondering if the duke intended to remain in the room while the doctor performed the work. Would the procedure be so painful she would cry out with each stitch? Or would they be no more painful than the pin pricks she felt when doing needlework?

  “If you could, my lady, it would be best if you were out of the tub and sitting down on that chair over there,” he said as he pointed to the low-backed seat in front of the vanity. “I will, of course, need a chair in which I can be seated behind and a bit higher than Lady Charlotte,” he added, his eyes darting to the duke.

  “Of course, Doctor Regan,” Charlotte replied with a nod, wondering if they expected her to simply get out of the tub and make her way to the vanity as they stood and watched. When Joshua made no move to leave the room, she glanced nervously at the stack of linens. “Might I have a dry linen?” she whispered.

  The unmasked side of his facing turning a bright red, Joshua looked at the doctor and then reached over to grab several linens from the stack, unrolling them one by one. The doctor, busying himself with preparing a needle and sutures, didn’t seem to notice his patient’s discomfort. Joshua leaned over the tub. “If my lady will allow me, I will cover you and assist you out of the tub and carry you to the vanity,” he whis­pered, hoping he didn’t sound like the libertine he was sud­denly wishing he could be. It had been months, no, over a year since he had seen the naked body of a woman, and never before in light this bright.

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “I assure you, I am quite capable of getting myself to the vanity, Your Grace,” she whispered back, her cheeks taking on a deep pink blush Joshua found quite fetching.

  Thinning his lips, Joshua nodded. Wainwright, he remem­bered. She’s supposed to call me ‘Wainwright’. He held a linen open slightly behind the tub and turned his head away. “Lady Charlotte, I assure you I am not peeking,” he said in a low voice.

  Turning slightly, Charlotte realized he was attempting to keep her from being seen by the doctor, and presumedly by his own eyes. She stood in the tub, let go the wet linen cover­ing her front, and took the linen from Joshua, quickly wrap­ping it about her torso. “Might I have another, please?” she whispered.

  Joshua remained with his attention turned in the opposite direction and passed another opened linen back to her. Char­lotte wrapped it about her hips and was about to step out of the tub when Joshua’s arm was suddenly there to assist her. “Please allow me,” he insisted, picking her up much as he had done the night before but making sure his right arm was across her back and as low as he could position it so as to not touch her wound. His left arm, still lacking in strength, merely sup­ported the back of her knees. As her hands clutched the ends of the linens together, Charlotte’s breath caught when she was carried the three steps to the vanity seat and lowered into it.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, watching him as he straightened, noticing his eyes were looking down at her bare calves and ankles and feet. Her first reaction was to tuck them under the seat, but she fought the urge and left them in plain sight. Does he find a well-turned ankle pleasant to look upon? she wondered. And then she chided herself, remember­ing he had already seen quite enough of her bare body already.

  “Wainwright,” he managed to get out without his voice cracking too much. “Let me get you another linen for your ..,” he stammered, not sure what to say as he shook out another linen and draped it over her knees. “Limbs,” he finally said, his voice a bit husky as he glanced toward the looking glass on the back of the vanity.

  Nod
ding, Charlotte said, “Thank you, Wainwright,” sud­denly aware of her own reflection in the looking glass. Despite the embarrassment she was feeling over the events of the last half hour, she decided the morning ride had done her a world of good. Her hair was still in reasonable shape, her color was good (embarrassment no doubt helping in that regard), and her lips seemed a bit plumper, pinker, perhaps due to the kiss she had experienced with the duke. She caught him watching her in the mirror and gave him a wan smile.

  Joshua acknowledged the smile with one of his own. He caught a maid hovering nearby, nervously watching the proceedings and not sure what to do. “Could you bring tea, please?” he wondered, noting how she smiled at the opportu­nity to be excused from the room.

  “Right away, Your Grace,” the maid replied as she bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.

  The doctor placed his bag on the vanity and asked where he might wash up. Parma took him to a wash basin and gave him a linen when he had completed his ablutions while another maid moved a desk chair behind Charlotte’s vanity seat. Taking the seat behind Charlotte, Dr. Regan positioned himself and then said, “First, I will clean the wound and then you will feel a series of pricks …”

  “Be sure to make the stitches as small as possible,” Joshua interrupted. He moved to stand in front of Charlotte so he was looking down on the doctor and Charlotte’s back.