The Wicked Husband (Blackhaven Brides Book 4)

by Mary Lancaster

  She laughed. “Well recovered,” she mocked.

  He grinned, unrepentant. “I meant it. Shall we stay longer or retire?”

  Although they had their own bedchambers, her heart immediately lurched in mingled fear and anticipation. But when her gaze flew to his face, she was immediately distracted. His recent dissipation had taken its toll and he was obviously exhausted.

  So was she. She’d slept very little last night, and not at all the night before.

  “I believe I’m tired,” she said, and he rose immediately to hold her chair for her. It was odd, after the rest of her life, to be treated with the ordinary courtesies due to a lady. “My aunt has gone,” she observed, as they left the dining room and crossed the foyer.

  “Good thing, too. Friday-faced set of dullards. How do you come to be related to such people?”

  “Luck,” she said wryly. As they climbed the stairs, she remembered another duty. “I’ll just run up to Clara’s room and make sure she ate the meal I had sent up to her.”

  “Clara,” he repeated. “The girl you and Carson picked up on the road, whom you’re pretending is your maid?”

  “Well, at least until she straightens things out with her family.”

  “Hmm,” he said noncommittally.

  Her errand eliminated the inexplicable awkwardness she felt in reentering their rooms with him. Part of her hoped he would have retired by the time she returned. Another part wanted him to be waiting. And amorous. But somehow, Dax sober was a very different prospect from Dax on the tail end of a drunken spree. And there were so many arguments against intimacy. For one thing, the marriage couldn’t then be annulled due to non-consummation. And for another, she didn’t want to give into temptation until he felt something for her. If he ever did. She wouldn’t hold out for love, but she needed his care…

  Clara was asleep once more, but it seemed to Willa she slept more easily, and at least the plate beside her bed was almost empty. Content, Willa blew out the candle still burning in the room and left again.

  In the wider passage downstairs, she all but ran into her aunt. And this time, Lady Shelby was in no hurry to run away. The passage was empty and she actually waited for Willa to reach her.

  “Lady Daxton,” she sneered. “Don’t think I don’t know how you achieved it. You’re nothing but a common thief.”

  Willa blinked in astonishment. “I imagined you gave me food and clothing freely. What have I ever stolen from you?”

  “Don’t pretend innocence with me, you sly little lightskirt. I know you took it, bought yourself into this marriage with it while Daxton was in his cups. You deserve each other.”

  “Took what?” Willa demanded again, ignoring the rest from sheer curiosity about this one point.

  Her aunt’s lips curled back so far, she was almost snarling. “My purse! The one Ralph gave me the day you ran away.”

  Willa opened her mouth to deny it robustly—until it struck her that technically, she had taken it. It would do her no good to accuse Ralph of ordering her to do so and then losing it all to Daxton at dice. To her aunt, Ralph could do no wrong. Besides which, Willa was fairly sure Ralph had accused her in the first place to cover up his own ill-behavior. And the wretched Haines no doubt backed him up from spite, swearing quite truthfully that she’d seen Willa take if from the room.

  She frowned at her aunt. “It should have been returned to you.”

  “It should never have been taken in the first place!”

  Willa was not about to argue that one. “I’ll look into it,” she said shortly and walked past her aunt.

  She headed immediately downstairs to the reception desk, but when she asked for the purse which she’d left for Lady Shelby’s maid, the clerk had no idea what she was talking about. Although he looked in all the secure cabinets to please her, there was no purse to be found. Of course, it was not the same clerk she’d given the purse to, but if he couldn’t find it and her aunt had never got it back, where on earth was it?

  In deep thought, Willa made her way back up to the rooms she now shared with Dax. The viscount sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the book she’d found that morning.

  He glanced up at her. “Mrs. Radcliffe?” he teased. “Really?”

  “I enjoy her novels immensely,” Willa said with dignity. “And you needn’t look so superior for I found it in your bedchamber.”

  “Did you?” He cast it aside. “I should pack my own valise.”

  “Dax, do you remember giving me back my aunt’s purse that you won from Ralph?”

  Dax scratched his head. “Sort of. You gave it to the boy on reception duty.”

  “For my aunt’s maid.”

  “That’s what you said.”

  “I thought so. But the thing is, my aunt doesn’t have it. She thinks I stole it. And she won’t keep quiet about it. I know her. Your wife will be branded a thief in the eyes of anyone who matters.”

  “Who is it who matters so damned much?” Dax asked.

  “People…Your friends… Your father!”

  Dax shrugged. “My friends aren’t stupid enough to listen to spiteful gossip from that quarter. And my father has yet to listen to anyone at all, so we’re in the clear. Ignore her. Ralph will have stolen it back.” He rose to his feet yawning. “I could sleep for a week. Do you need anything before I fall upon my bed and snore?”

  It might have been an offer to act as lady’s maid. Either way, she turned it down with a smile. “No, I too shall retire. Goodnight, my lord.”

  His lips quirked and he bowed exaggeratedly. “My lady.” He took her hand and kissed it with a flourish. “Sleep well.”

  His smile, the brief touch of his lips, made her heart race, but he only strolled away to his own bedchamber, where apparently Carson waited for him. She felt rather lonely as she walked to her own room and closed the door.

  However, struggling out of her new gown and stays without assistance involved so many contortions that she soon found herself laughing and remembering the fun of the day. And tomorrow, she would still be his wife.

  *

  In the morning, Clara was much improved. Willa found her out of bed and getting dressed. She even obliged Willa by fastening her new day gown for her.

  “If you wish, there is a small chamber in our suite of rooms where you can sleep,” Willa suggested.

  “Oh, I don’t know, m’lady. Is there no word from home, yet?”

  “None, I’m afraid. The messenger returned from the farm with no reply.”

  “I should go home,” she said drearily. “But Mrs. Frame won’t have me help her now I’ve lost my good name, and I’ll be bringing in no money.”

  “I think you need to talk to your parents in person,” Willa said. “I’ll come with you if you like and explain that you’ve been with me nearly all of the time. Really, it’s this Jem who should be in trouble over the incident, not you. Won’t your new suitor—Dan?—have told them this?”

  Clara scowled. “He’s angry at me, too.”

  “Well, you must be my maid for now, and of course you shall be paid for it. Come down when you’re ready.”

  Her sitting room was empty when she returned, with no sign of Carson or Dax. She went to her own bedchamber and began tidying away her night things. A few moments later, a robust knock sounded at the outer door. Thinking it must be Clara already, she went and opened it.

  A young man in a floppy wool jacket stood before her—pointing a large, old-fashioned pistol at her heart.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Willa stared at the pistol. “Where is who?”

  “Back inside,” he snapped, with a nervous glance up and down the passage.

  Willa obeyed, desperately trying to grasp what was happening. “Please put the pistol down and I’ll try—”

  The pistol jerked menacingly in his hand. “Clara. Clara James.” His gaze darted about the room. “Call her. Bring her here, now.”

  “She isn’t here,” Willa said, “and if yo
u imagine waving that at her is going to get her back—”

  “I’m not waving it at her, I’m waving it at you! Who are you anyway? His procuress?”

  Willa frowned. “I don’t know what that means, precisely, but I expect it’s insulting.” Worse, she began to suspect the young man was mad. This must be Jem, the rejected suitor who’d abducted Clara. No wonder she’d thrown him over.

  “I won’t have her with that man another instant!” he said desperately. “Bring her to me now!”

  “What man?” Willa demanded, losing patience, despite the alarming way he jerked the pistol around.

  “Daxton!” the man said with loathing. “Lord Daxton. I know she’s in his clutches, so bring her to me now!”

  “Oh, you completely misunderstand,” Willa began with premature relief.

  “Enough!” the man roared, and actually seized her by the arm, dragging her toward the nearest door, which happened to be Daxton’s bedchamber. Willa pulled back instinctively, terrified now for Dax. But the man’s grip tightened, and they struggled, sliding one pace forward and another back until, wild-eyed, he brandished the pistol in her face.

  Worst of all, Daxton’s bedchamber door flew open and the viscount himself strode out in pantaloons and shirt sleeves. “What the deuce is—”

  His eyes widened at the violent scene before him. The pistol jerked around to point directly at him. But with a roar, he flew at Willa’s assailant, who instinctively released her to deal with the larger threat.

  In that instant, Dax looked terrifying. Sheer murder glinted in his hard, furious eyes.

  Then the pistol fired.

  Chapter Six

  Daxton felt the burning in his arm and knew he’d been hit, but such was his fear for Willa and his rage against the man who threatened her, he kept going. The gunman could no longer shoot her, but Dax wouldn’t let him touch so much as a hair on her head again.

  A look of appalled terror crossed the man’s face, quickly followed by panic, and then Dax struck him hard in the jaw. The empty pistol clattered to the floor.

  “Dax!” Willa cried. “You’re bleeding!”

  Dax didn’t care. He drew back his arm once more, but she caught it and clung on. “Dax, wait,” she pleaded. “It’s a mix-up. He thinks you abducted Clara and debauched her, or some such—”

  The gunman let out a cry of distress.

  Dax scowled. “Who the devil’s Clara?”

  “The girl we met on the road, remember? We’re pretending she’s my maid?”

  “Well, what the devil is it to him?” Dax demanded, clenching his fist once more. Willa clasped it in both of hers, distracting him, because even in this fraught situation, her touch was sweet.

  “I think he must be Jem,” she said, as if he should know who in hell that was. “Clara’s original suitor.”

  “I certainly am not!” the erstwhile gunman exclaimed, affronted. “My name is Daniel Doone.”

  “Dan!” Willa exclaimed. “Really? Oh well, either way, he seems to believe you are the villain of the piece and are holding poor Clara against her will.”

  “Holding her against…” Dax stared at Daniel Doone. “Even for me, that’s a trifle rum, especially with my wife in the next room!”

  “Wife?” Daniel repeated in an appalled kind of voice. “Oh God.”

  “He thought I was your procuress,” Willa explained. “Whatever that is.”

  Daxton’s jaw dropped. “How many procuresses do you know? Be careful,” he added dangerously.

  “None,” Daniel admitted.

  “Well, for future reference, none of them look anything like my wife!”

  “Dax, sit down,” Willa pleaded. “Your arm is bleeding. He shot you!”

  “So he did.” Dax glanced at his sleeve where a dark red stain was spreading against the pristine white of his shirt. Impatiently, he ripped the beautiful linen with his teeth and exposed the wound. “It’s as well he—or his antiquated firearm—shoots like a cow, because he’s only winged me. Pretty sure the ball isn’t even in there.”

  Willa took him by the good arm, all but forcing him onto the sofa. She looked rather white and her hand on his shoulder trembled as she held him down. “You,” she said severely to Daniel Doone. “Go and fetch a doctor. Now.”

  Daniel, as white-faced as Willa, muttered, “Yes, m’lady,” and fled, abandoning his pistol without apparent thought.

  “Last we’ll see of him,” Dax opined.

  “I won’t mind that,” Willa said shakily, “providing he sends the doctor before he flees to the hills.”

  Dax scowled. “What do we want with a damned quack? The ball barely grazed me.”

  “But didn’t you see he had a pistol?”

  Dax opened his mouth to say something flippant, but at the last moment, he caught Willa’s gaze and realized the truth. Her fear, her trembling, were for him. Her talk of doctors wasn’t mere feminine fussing. She was afraid he would die.

  He was her husband, her provider, her protector. He’d brought on himself all those responsibilities he’d never wanted. But it came to him now that it wasn’t the provider she was so terrified of losing. It was him. Her friend.

  Well, no one would have taken him on if they hadn’t cared a little. And he liked that she cared. He found himself smiling at her, which at least brought the color back to her cheeks. Without warning, she whisked herself away into her own bedchamber and emerged a moment later with her washing bowl.

  He tried to stand. “Good grief, Willa, let Carson do that! Where is the scoundrel?”

  “Sit,” she commanded. “And I have no idea where Carson is.” She set the large bowl down at his feet and knelt beside it, frowning as she concentrated on his arm.

  His impatient words died in his throat. His arm stung and throbbed, and as she cleaned the wound he couldn’t deny her ministrations hurt more. But the acknowledgement of those things seemed to be only at the back of his mind. The front was focused on her face, on her bottom lip clamped between her teeth as she worked, on the gentle yet sure touch of her hands.

  “I should be shot more often,” he said stupidly, because he tended to speak—and act—before he thought.

  Her eyes flew to his face. But at that moment, the door crashed open and Daniel Doone strode back in with a saturnine, plainly dressed gentleman somewhere between thirty and forty years old.

  “Good God,” Daxton said. “Never tell me you’re the doctor.”

  “There would be no point since you’ve guessed it, My name’s Lampton.”

  “Daxton.” He was disappointed that Willa made way for the doctor, who examined his arm without shock or disapproval.

  “This young man says he shot you.”

  “He did.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  A tentative knock on the half open door heralded the arrival of a young woman in a plain dress and cap. No one but Dax seemed to see her.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t even mean to fire it!” Daniel Doone exclaimed. “And I realize I’ve misunderstood everything, but if you could only tell me where Clara is—”

  “I’m right here,” the young woman at the door said wrathfully. “And you’d better stay away from me, Daniel Doone.”

  Far from staying away from her, Doone charged toward her. “Clara! Thank God!”

  Clara fended him off with both hands. “Thank her ladyship, rather, but keep your distance!”

  Dan, his expression somewhat ludicrously mixed between dismay and relief, stopped dead.

  “This him, is it?” Carson said, laconically, wandering into the room. “Want me to knock him down for you.”

  Daniel bridled. “Who’s this?” he demanded.

  “I’m his lordship’s valet and—” He broke off, his attention distracted by his master’s bleeding arm. “What happened to you?”

  “I shot him,” Doone said, miserably.

  Carson strode forward, his arm swinging back with unmistakable intent.

  “Carson!” Willa snapped. “It wa
s a mistake. He brought the doctor.”

  Surprisingly, if grudgingly, Carson dropped his arm. “Suppose it explains why all the hotel staff and several nobby guests are flapping about and calling for the Watch. Should have known the gunshot was in here.” Carson came closer, peering at Dax uneasily. “You ain’t going to peg it, are you?”

  “Of course I’m not,” Daxton scoffed.

  “Is he?” Carson demanded of Dr. Lampton, who was delving into his bag.

  “No. Not if he does as he’s told.” The doctor emerged from his bag with a large jar of vile looking ointment which he hefted admiringly in one hand. “It’s a lucky day for both of us,” he told Dax. “You are the first patient I’ve had the chance to use this on, but I’m told the results are miraculous.”

  “Told by whom?” Willa demanded.

  “Another physician of my acquaintance. Don’t look so worried, my lady. I know exactly what’s in it. It should prevent corruption and speed the healing.”

  Willa still looked doubtful, but Dax was already bored with the whole process.

  “Slap it on,” he invited cheerfully. “Why are you all standing around gawping? Carson, I’ll need my coat. You, Clara, is it? If you’re going to be my lady’s maid, go and find her bonnet.”

  “What do I want with my bonnet?” Willa asked, bewildered.

  “It’s customary when one goes out.”

  “Why am I going out?” she inquired.

  “To buy dancing slippers. And whatever other fripperies one needs for a ball.”

  Alarm crossed her face as she understood. “You can’t accompany me! You’re shot!”

  “Grazed,” he corrected. “I’ve had worse during a night in—” He broke off in the nick of time. “In lots of places,” he finished hurriedly.

  “Doctor Lampton, please tell him he can’t do such a thing,” Willa pleaded.

  To Daxton’s surprise, the doctor shrugged and, having applied the evil ointment, rummaged in his bag for a bandage. “That is between you and his lordship, ma’am. He hasn’t lost a lot of blood, so I see no reason to confine him to his bed. On the other hand, sir, use the arm as little as possible to give it the chance to heal. No riding, driving your own carriage, boxing, or other sports. No long, bumpy journeys.”