He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. Some sign of Clara, or who had helped her. The chances were, she’d have gone home to Black Farm, except he was sure the chaise hadn’t turned off the main road into Blackhaven. He wanted to know what she was up to and how to get her back.
On the stairs, he caught up with a well-dressed lady’s maid, lumbering upwards with a tray of covered dishes in her hands. Since she clearly wasn’t Clara, he’d have gone past her without a word, except his quick eye had glimpsed something peeping out from under her apron. The fabric had been caught up by the tray, revealing a few keys and a fat purse dangling from her belt.
Jem was not one to miss an opportunity. “Let me help you with that tray, Miss. It looks awful heavy for you.”
“I can manage,” the woman protested, flaring her nostrils as though he were the dirt beneath her feet, with less right to address her. That settled it for Jem. While talking and smiling beguilingly, he wrestled the tray from her with one hand while he unhooked the purse from her belt with the other.
At the top of the stairs, he returned the tray to her, tipped his cap, and sauntered off across the foyer and out of the front door. Clara wasn’t forgotten, but he couldn’t wait to count his money.
Chapter Three
Charles Dacre, Viscount Daxton, opened one bleary eye. Groaning seemed too much effort, and in any case, it would do no good. A day of hell was assured and it would be intense, with that particular heavy quality he associated with a spree of several days and nights duration. No single night’s drinking could make a man feel this bad.
Damn it, why did he do these things? Because he’d been enraged, he remembered, after quarrelling with his father and storming away from Dacre Abbey, determined to drive his horses and himself to the devil. Inevitably, he’d taken pity on the horses at least, though he couldn’t quite recall where he’d ended up.
The decoration of the room was unfamiliar, but at least he was in a comfortable bed with its drapes partially opened. Licking his parched lips, he turned carefully over, in search of water or even, if God or whoever owned this bed was kind, coffee.
Sunlight shone through partially opened curtains in a single beam, causing a stab of acute pain through his eyes to his head. But more than that, it illuminated the young woman who sat in the window embrasure, her legs drawn up under her gown, a book open in her lap.
The sun caught burnt golden lights in her simply-pinned, dark red hair and cast a glow almost like a halo around a face of unusual beauty—pale skin, a slightly snub nose, long eyelashes, darker than her hair, fanning out over the soft curve of her cheek. Her lips were shapely, her throat slender and elegant. In all, it was a quiet, refined kind of beauty. Not at all the type he was used to in his inamoratas.
And the gown was hideous. Grey and dull and old. That wasn’t normal in his inamoratas either, although he was generally more interested in the delights inside than in the outer casing.
On the other hand, she did look vaguely, naggingly familiar—especially that rare, striking color of hair—so perhaps this was some kind of game.
“I don’t suppose,” he croaked, and was surprised to see her jump. The book slid from her lap and she sat up straight, her stockinged feet shooting straight to the red-carpeted floor. He blinked and began again more strongly, “I don’t suppose you have a pot of coffee—several pots of coffee—stashed about the premises?”
She jumped to her feet. “I’ll send for some.”
She walked to the door. He liked the way she moved, quick and graceful, without any languid affectations. Natural, almost soothing, despite her obvious nervousness and his own monumental if self-inflicted pain.
She opened the door and spoke to someone in the room beyond.
“I’ll see to it, m’lady,” came a gruff voice he knew much better. Carson, his valet. At least, he called him his valet, but in truth, he had no more training than Daxton’s dogs in the skills of a gentleman’s gentleman. Daxton just liked having him around because he was impervious to his lord’s tantrums and made decent coffee. And never asked stupid questions, whatever outlandish task was required of him.
“Wait, ma’am, you don’t want to go back in there,” Carson warned in alarm.
“Of course I do,” the girl said calmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Belatedly, Daxton’s wits began to catch up. My lady? Who the devil was she? She certainly spoke and walked like a lady.
“Because he’ll be like a bear with a sore tooth,” Carson said quite truthfully, “and he’ll swear worse than any trooper, or anything you might hear in the worst stews in London. Besides, he’ll need to eat and he won’t want to. He’ll throw it and won’t care who it hits.”
“He won’t throw anything at me,” the girl said calmly and walked back into the room before he could yell at Carson.
“Won’t I?” Daxton threatened, easing himself gently into a sitting position. He appeared to be naked, which reminded him he couldn’t yet remember making love to the lady of the house. He hoped it would come back to him, because something about her was very different and very desirable. Even in this state, his body was reacting without permission. And she was still hauntingly familiar.
She blushed rather adorably and averted her gaze from his naked chest. “No,” she said. “Gentlemen don’t throw things at their—”
She broke off, and he grinned wolfishly.
“Lovers?” he suggested, and her blush deepened, intriguing him further. He wasn’t used to mealy-mouthed women in his bed, whatever their class. Of course, in this case, he appeared to be in hers.
Christ, did I seduce a lady of virtue? Surely I’m not that tempting a proposition? Certainly not in my cups after a three-day spree…
At least she had spirit. She didn’t back down before his teasing or her own embarrassment. Instead, she met his gaze, although with a certain conscious courage that he rather admired.
“I was going to say wives.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Gentlemen don’t throw things at their wives,” she repeated patiently.
Whatever horror he might have felt at the implications of this was abruptly mitigated by an elusive memory. No wonder she looked familiar to him.
“Willa Blake,” he said with an air of triumph, then scowled. “Damn it. Please tell me I’m not in Shelby’s house. And excuse the language,” he added hurriedly.
“Oh, I’ve heard much worse,” she said vaguely, causing him to hope uneasily that it hadn’t been from him. “And no, you are certainly not in the Shelbys’ house. You are in your own rooms at the Blackhaven Hotel.”
“Blackhaven!” he repeated, clutching his head as memories started to flash back. A gaming party. Ralph Shelby and the sudden desire to pick a fight with him. With anyone really, but Shelby had been conveniently there. Had he achieved his aim?
He flexed his arms and legs, glanced under the covers for signs of injury. He didn’t appear to have been shot, which he supposed to be a good thing, though the knuckles of his right hand were certainly grazed. He’d hit someone or something.
Wickenden had been there at some point, too, hadn’t he? Had he hauled Daxton off before he’d stepped over the mark? Or had Daxton shot Shelby? Killed him?
God knew. But yes, Willa had been there—why, he couldn’t imagine, for it was hardly the sort of party for a lady.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, the devil, this is bad. It isn’t very clear yet, but…please tell me I didn’t abduct you.”
“Not exactly,” she said cautiously. “I decided to go with you.”
His eyes flew open of their own accord. “Why?” he asked blankly.
She smiled with what he took to be deliberate vagueness, but annoyingly Carson chose that moment to come in with a tray bearing a pot of coffee, two large cups, a bowl of sugar, and a jug of cream.
“My lady,” Daxton repeated, glaring at his man. “You called her my lady.”
“Lady Daxton,” Carson said wit
h relish. “You took her to Gretna Green and married her before witnesses, and there ain’t no getting out of it.”
Daxton grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which unfortunately turned out to be a mere pillow, and took aim. But before he could throw, it was suddenly taken from him and placed back on the bed.
Flabbergasted, Daxton watched Willa Blake smooth the coverlet and walk to the table where Carson had just set down the tray. “Coffee, my lord,” she said calmly. “With sugar and cream?”
“Black, m’lady,” Carson supplied, when Daxton said nothing. He felt he was still two conversations behind this one and the tightening knots of guilt and marriage seemed to constrict his throat.
He watched her approach him again, the girl whom he remembered as sweet and funny, a part of his more innocent childhood.
“What have I done?” he uttered, dragging his hand through his tangled hair so hard that it hurt.
She pushed the cup into his hand and he drank it down without pause. Obligingly, she brought the coffee pot and refilled the cup before fetching one for herself, and returning to her original position on the window seat.
Another fragment of memory hit him. Driving his horses with the reins in one hand, while passing the brandy flask to his passenger, Willa. He had the impression they were both laughing, though he suspected that was a trick of his befuddled brain.
Something else bothered him rather more. He remembered a sweet, tender mouth under his, smooth skin against his fingers, a soft, perfect breast… Or at least, he thought he did. It might have been a dream or simple fantasy.
A quick glance assured him that Carson had left.
“One question,” he blurted, because he had to know. “Willa. Did I…hurt you? Force myself upon you?”
Color rose into her cheeks once more, but still she remained outwardly calm. “No, you fell asleep and only woke ten minutes ago.”
She might have been lying, but he couldn’t help the twitch of his lip. “At least you have that to be thankful for. Did you drive the curricle back here?”
“No, you ordered a post chaise to bring us back. Carson carried you up to your room.”
“And how long have I been here? How long have we been…married?”
“We were married yesterday morning,” she replied calmly. “And you’ve been here in this room since we arrived back yesterday evening.”
He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, trying to think. “Then it’s as well we’re married, for I’ve ruined you utterly. You had best get as far away from me as possible while I get what’s left of my mind back.”
She stood at once. “I’ll be in the outer room.”
“Further,” he advised. He wanted to shout and swear and break things.
“I can’t,” she said without emphasis or self-pity. “As it stands, I have nowhere else to go.”
He closed his mouth. Of course. Shelby wouldn’t have her back in his household when she’d apparently quite publicly eloped with Daxton. This was a problem of monumental, gigantic proportions.
“Ruined you or not, I’ve rather messed up your life,” he said harshly.
“Oh no, my lord,” she argued, though with a surprising hint of humor in her eyes as she walked across the room. “You assured me you were improving my life.”
“I hope you didn’t believe me.”
“Of course, I did,” she said, and went out.
*
Willa felt cold inside. She’d known from the outset she was taking a risk, and she wasn’t yet prepared to give up. But she couldn’t help wishing he didn’t look quite so horrified by the marriage. Clearly, he remembered very little about it and nothing at all about his amorous interlude in the carriage—which was the least of her worries, she reminded herself severely.
He didn’t want her anywhere near him.
However, they would need to talk, and very soon. Until they did, she couldn’t even write to her aunt, let alone make any kind of living arrangement.
Leaving his lordship to fight with his thick head and nausea, she left his rooms and made her way to Clara’s chamber in the attic. Although Willa had introduced the girl as her maid in order to make sure she had somewhere to lay her drooping, exhausted head, there was clearly no space for her in Lord Daxton’s chambers. Willa had slept on the sitting room sofa wrapped in a blanket before, greatly daring, she’d gone through to Daxton’s room to see if he was awake. She’d imagined, rather too optimistically, that catching him as soon as he woke, they could reach some kind of immediate understanding.
She sighed, then darted ahead to avoid the aristocratic voices she could hear behind her, and ran up the attic stairs.
She discovered Clara sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to put her dried gown back on. The girl looked dreadful—red-eyed and pale, with her nose running like a tap.
“Back into bed,” Willa instructed after feeling her forehead. “You are clearly ill. I’ll have them bring you some gruel and a fortifying tonic, and if you’re no better this afternoon, I’ll send for the doctor.”
“I’m just so tired, m’lady,” the girl said weakly, “but I’ve got to go home. My mother and father will be worried sick.”
“I shall send a message up to the farm that you are safe and unharmed, but prostrated with a cold.”
“Really?” the girl said in amazement. “You would do that for me?”
“Well, I think we have to be each other’s respectability for now,” Willa said ruefully. “So, remember you are my maid.”
“It might wash with your people,” Clara said dubiously. “Mine won’t believe a word of that.”
“It might be best if they pretended to. We’ll make up some story, if you can keep your quarrelling suitors quiet. I suspect they won’t admit to their infamy.”
“Maybe not,” Clara murmured. “To be fair, only Jem behaved infamous to me. Dan probably thought he was rescuing me.”
“Even after he knocked you into the lake?”
“Men,” Clara said bitterly.
Having seen her new “maid” comfortably settled, she sent one of the hotel messengers up to Black Farm. Willa then returned stealthily to the viscount’s rooms, where a war seemed to be going on.
Through the open door between the sitting room and the bedchamber, she could see Carson standing in the center of the room, bearing a tray, while his master berated him with an impressive array of oaths and insults.
“Take this bloody mess of ill-cooked pottage away and bring me the damned brandy!” he thundered. “What I need is a hair of the blasted dog!”
When he paused for breath, Carson pleaded, “Just eat it, sir. You know you won’t be right until you do.”
“Don’t presume,” Daxton snarled. “Damned impertinent waste of—”
Willa took her courage in both hands, praying the viscount was not marching naked about the room on his way to punch his hapless servant. She hurried across to the door, pushed it fully open with the briefest of knocks and walked in.
He was only half out of bed, one naked leg tangled in the sheet, allowing her a glorious glimpse of his powerful thigh and hip, and of course his broad chest and shoulders that she’d already half seen as he awoke. Why on earth hadn’t Carson put him in a night shirt?
Ignoring both her embarrassment and the inexplicable fluttering of her heart, she calmly took the tray from Carson.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll make sure his lordship eats.”
Carson regarded her with understandable doubt. “I’ll just wait here by the door.”
“No, that’s fine, you may go,” Willa said cheerfully, setting the heavy tray on the bed with some relief. “What would you like to eat first, my lord? A little toast? Or straight to this delicious ham?”
Forcing herself, as Carson abandoned her to her fate, she looked up from the plate, straight into Daxton’s turbulent eyes. She tried to ignore the bare flesh between. But even unwashed and unshaven, with his fair hair impossibly tousled, he was still the most impossibly h
andsome man she had ever seen.
Acute annoyance still lingered on his face, but after a tense moment, his lips twitched.
“You’re treating me as if I’m ten years old,” he observed.
“Why would I do such a thing?” she wondered.
“Because I’m behaving as if I’m ten years old,” he said flatly. “In your opinion.”
“And in yours.”
His eyes narrowed, “Are you going to feed me like a baby?”
“I believe ten-year-olds normally feed themselves, but if you believe it will help—”
A crack of reluctant laughter interrupted her. “You really aren’t afraid of me, are you? Very well, bring the muck here and I’ll eat it—on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you share it with me.”
“I broke my fast hours ago. At your lordship’s expense, I’m afraid.”
Daxton lifted the largest plate on the palm of his hand and appeared to be taking aim at the door.
“I know you’ll do it,” she added. “You don’t need to prove it. However, I have every intention of making sure you eat everything.”
At least the challenge glinting in his eyes held a spark of humor. “How are you going to do that?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she admitted. “But I need to talk to you, not to a crapulous shell.”
“Crapulous?” His lips twitched.
“Crapulous.”
He dragged his leg back under the covers “Don’t go in much for flattery, do you, new wife?”
“No,” she agreed, ignoring her heated cheeks as she set the tray on his lap.
He patted the bed next to him. “Sit here. And I’d thank you for a cup of coffee. Have one yourself.”
She felt his gaze on her face as she obligingly poured two cups. Almost without noticing, he picked up a piece of toast and began to eat. She said nothing, merely set the coffee cup on his tray and sat on the side of the bed, facing him, her own cup and saucer balanced in her lap.
The Wicked Husband (Blackhaven Brides Book 4) Page 4