The Wicked Husband (Blackhaven Brides Book 4)

by Mary Lancaster

  When he entered her body, she stilled, gazing at him in shock. And yet the trust was still there. His fingertips glided over her lips. “It’s a dance of love,” he whispered. “Hold on and follow me.”

  She did, until it no longer hurt but filled her with fierce, new desires that flowed from inside her with his every, sensual stroke.

  “And like the waltz,” she whispered, lost in the pleasure. “I may not lead?”

  “Oh, you may,” he said fervently, which thrilled her even more, only right now it was all she could do to follow where he led, for all the hunger and bliss seemed to be coming together in one rolling, fevered wave that broke over her with stunning, impossible joy.

  She clung to him, reaching for his mouth with astonished gratitude. He gave it, groaning deep in his throat as he thrust hard within her and collapsed on her, his hand fisted in her hair. It seemed the storm had taken them both.

  In time, as the world came back, she realized his lips were smiling against hers.

  “Now you really are my wife,” he said unsteadily.

  “And you are my injured husband. How badly have you hurt your shoulder?” She eased out from under him, rolling him gently onto his back, gasping as he left her body. She felt rather than saw his wicked grin.

  “My shoulder is as happy as the rest of me,” he assured her, but she insisted on lighting the candle and checking the bandage for signs of blood. She could see none, although the magnificence of his naked body quickly distracted her.

  “I never realized men were so beautiful,” she said in wonder. “But perhaps it is just you.”

  “Well, you’re not to go looking to find out,” he said dryly.

  She laughed and, greatly daring, kissed his good shoulder. “Why would I do that?” she wondered. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted, more than I ever imagined, here, in you.”

  His hand cupped her cheek. A smile played around his lips. “I would live up to that.” He pulled her back down into the bed beside him, his good arm holding her close against him.

  “Your skin is so hot,” she said with sleepy contentment.

  “That is your fault,” he replied.

  *

  As became clear in the light of day, it wasn’t entirely Willa’s fault. His skin was still hot and his cheeks somewhat hectically flushed. Worse, there was a strange glitter in his eyes when he woke that caused Willa to send Carson scurrying for Dr. Lampton.

  Dax, apparently annoyed by all the fuss, only tried to entice Willa back into bed with him. “I’ve a few more things to show you before luncheon,” he promised. “And I might even let you lead.”

  She flushed, with both memory and desire, but guilt and good sense were too strong now to give in to that temptation. “Wait until the doctor has been,” she soothed, evading his grasping hands to seize his discarded robe and put it on while she gathered her clothes and hastened back to her own chamber to dress before Dr. Lampton arrived.

  Worry for him put something of a damper on the new wonder of her body and all the things Dax had done to it last night. Beautiful as it had been, it would hardly be worth his illness or, unspeakably, his death.

  Dr. Lampton, however, did not appear unduly anxious, or even terribly surprised. He changed the dressings, applying yet more of the muddy ointment, and gave him a tonic to drink that would help bring down the fever.

  On the way out, he paused and looked closely at Willa. She had the ridiculous notion that he could see in her face what she and Dax had done last night and was about to tell her off.

  “Don’t tie yourself entirely to his sick room,” he advised. “Get some fresh air, occasionally. And don’t worry yourself sick about your husband. He’s strong as an ox, despite the way he mistreats his body, and is most unlikely to die at this point.”

  “At this point?” she repeated in dismay.

  “Well, we must all die at some point,” Dr. Lampton said wryly. “I predict Lord Daxton’s to be well in the future. If he does as he’s told.”

  Accordingly, after breakfast, Willa went out, taking Clara with her, and bought some things at the market—a few lengths of ribbon for herself and a pair of gloves for Dax. It was while buying the latter that she found herself beside Sir Jeremy Leigh.

  “Lady Daxton,” he said in apparent surprise. “How does your husband?”

  “He is confined to bed, which does not agree with his temperament! I was looking for something to entertain him with.”

  “Jackstraws,” Sir Jeremy said at once. “Come with me.”

  “But that is a children’s game,” she protested, following him across the market to another stall full of toys.

  “Exactly,” Sir Jeremy agreed. “And now he has an excuse to behave like one again.”

  The stall keeper presented him with a box of Jackstraws and Sir Jeremy paid before presenting the box to Willa. “With my compliments to the patient. It’s the least I can do.”

  “You didn’t shoot him,” Willa protested.

  “No. Apparently neither did Shelby, which is rather worrying.”

  “How is my cousin?” she asked. If he died, after all, Dax would be in trouble.

  “The doctor said he would be fine. I confess I haven’t seen him since we took him back to the hotel yesterday.”

  “Why not? I thought you were his friend?”

  “Acquaintance,” Sir Jeremy corrected. “And I’m afraid I find myself suspicious of his involvement in Lord Daxton’s quite dishonorable shooting.”

  “Why, do you have proof?” Willa demanded. “Do you know who it was?”

  “No,” he confessed. “But perhaps we should put our heads together and discuss it.”

  “Come and visit him,” Willa suggested. “Though perhaps not until tomorrow.”

  “I will, but I wouldn’t want to worry him with this business when he’s already injured. I was thinking you and I might see more clearly going over it all together.”

  “Of course. When you come to see Dax we can talk. Lord Tamar and Mr. Grant also have…” She broke off as someone she recognized stepped out of a familiar barouche which had stopped at the edge of the market. Lady Romford.

  “Excuse me,” she said hastily to Sir Jeremy. “Thank you for the gift, and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow…” She was already hurrying away toward Lady Romford who, with another middle-aged lady, was strolling past the stalls at the front.

  Willa didn’t really wish to encounter her mother-in-law, but in this case, it had to be done, so she approached her head-on.

  “Good morning, Lady Romford.”

  Daxton’s mother glanced up from the flowers she was examining. Immediately, her nostrils flared with distaste. She didn’t as much as incline her head in recognition.

  “I know you don’t wish to speak to me,” Willa blurted. “But I do have to tell you something. About Dax.”

  Anger spat from Lady Romford’s eyes. “There is nothing you can tell me about my son!”

  “There is, ma’am. Please.” She stepped back, away from the crowd and after an instant’s indecision, Lady Romford said something to Cousin Harriet, and followed Willa.

  Lady Romford raised one supercilious eyebrow. “Well?”

  “You have to know that Dax fought a duel yesterday and though he is very much alive, he was shot in the shoulder.”

  Lady Romford whitened, swaying slightly so that Willa caught her by the wrist to steady her.

  “Why does he do these things?” Dax’s mother demanded. “You must let me see him.”

  “Of course,” Willa said in surprise. “Come back with me to the hotel now. Or later, if you prefer. He is not desperately ill. I just didn’t want you to hear the rumors that have no doubt spread all through the town before you learned the truth of it.”

  Lady Romford’s eyes focused on her for a long moment. “You were never an ill-natured girl,” she recalled.

  “I hope not,” Willa said humbly.

  “Who did he fight, and why?” the countess demanded.
/>
  “My cousin Ralph. Over some card game when Ralph accused him of cheating. Or at least that’s the reason he gave. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was more to it.”

  “There is bad blood between him and Ralph Shelby.”

  Willa said nothing. His mother had probably heard the tale anyhow from other sources than her son.

  Lady Romford raised her voice. “Harriet! Let’s walk to the hotel.”

  Unfortunately, the first person Willa saw in the hotel foyer was her aunt, who stormed across to her without appearing to see her companions.

  “It’s your fault, you viper!” Lady Shelby accused. “Your fault that my son lies dying in his bed. Our sole support! I know they were fighting over you, you nasty, vindictive hussy!”

  “One moment, madam,” Lady Romford interrupted icily. “I make allowances for a mother’s natural anxiety, but you will not speak so to my daughter. Your son and mine made their own beds and must lie in them. I gather they will both survive the ordeal. We may talk later when you are calmer. Good morning, Lady Shelby.”

  And Lady Romford sailed rather magnificently onwards, just as if she knew the way, leaving Willa and Cousin Harriet to hurry after her. Willa remembered to bow politely to her aunt on the way past.

  “Insufferable woman,” Lady Romford remarked as they caught up. “I’m sorry for it, since she’s your aunt, Willa, but I’m afraid I have always found her so.”

  Willa, still stunned that Lady Romford had referred to her as her daughter, could only smile understandingly and lead the way up to the rooms she shared with Dax.

  Clara was discovered in the sitting room, telling off Carson and Daniel Doone. Clara lapsed into silence the moment they walked in, and Carson and Dan attempted to efface themselves.

  Willa said calmly, “Carson, is his lordship fit to be seen?”

  “Yes, m’lady. He’s washed and shaved and mostly dressed.”

  “Tell him Lady Romford will be in to see him in a moment,” Willa instructed. “Clara, perhaps you’d arrange tea.”

  “Of course, m’lady.”

  “I don’t know why Charles insists on employing that man.” Lady Romford scowled after Carson’s retreating back.

  “I know he’s unconventional for a valet,” Willa excused, “but actually, he looks after him very well. And he is utterly loyal.”

  Lady Romford snorted and swung on the hapless Dan, edging toward the door after Clara. “And who is this?”

  “Daniel Doone,” Willa said. “He’s been… er… helping us out with extra work.”

  “In return for my mistake,” Dan blurted. “I’m the one who shot him. The first time.”

  “It was an accident, a misunderstanding and not remotely serious,” Willa said hastily. “The merest graze. Go away, Dan. Or help Clara or something.”

  To her surprise, Lady Romford was regarding her with something close to amusement. “You are very accepting of the madhouse that follows my son.”

  “I like it,” Willa confessed. She couldn’t quite read her mother-in-law’s expression.

  Carson came out of Daxton’s bedchamber, throwing the door wide. “His lordship is receiving,” he said cheerfully.

  *

  Lady Romford wasn’t a woman who admitted easily to making mistakes. But like her son, she acted very much on impulse and feelings. On first hearing of Daxton’s marriage, she had been furious that he did not make one of the brilliant matches she had so hoped for and worked for. Not that she’d ever disliked Willa as a child. Quite the contrary, in fact, she had always found her to be a natural and well-mannered girl, her innate sense of fun tempered by good sense as well as by good nature. But never in a million years could mere Willa Blake be considered a suitable bride for the future Earl of Romford. His birth, his heritage—and the fact that his mother loved him ferociously—all demanded he have the very best of everything. In the matter of marriage more than anything else.

  And so, she’d allowed nothing to get in the way of her determination to end that hasty mésalliance.

  But then, despite her unkind treatment, Willa had forced herself to do the right thing, to tell her about Dax’s injury before she heard rumors from other sources that might have worried her even more. And the countess had remembered the kind child she had been rather than the malicious, designing temptress of more recent imagination. Her worry for her injured son had made her less careful than usual, and when Augusta Shelby had attacked Willa, she had defended her, more from instinct than anything else. And as usual, she’d gone too far. Words like “my daughter” couldn’t easily be taken back.

  But there had been a certain look in Willa’s face, behind the natural diffidence of accosting a hostile parent-in-law. A care and concern, overlaying a new happiness that she saw reflected in Charles. Willa’s birth and fortune might have been all wrong, but in every other way, she seemed to suit Charles very well. She’d clearly handled him, his untamed servant and his chaotic lifestyle with natural skill.

  The countess left their rooms very thoughtful. Her anxiety eased by her son’s bright manner and confidence in his own speedy recovery, she felt guilt and shame rise up from her toes. She got as far as the hotel front door before she turned and walked back to the desk.

  Presenting the clerk with a card, she said, “Please have this taken up to Mrs. Holt.”

  A few minutes later, she was following a maid back up the staircase, beyond Daxton’s floor and to another set of rooms.

  Helena Holt was alone. She sat at an escritoire, busily writing, although she stopped and rose as soon as Lady Romford entered.

  “Are you come to check up on my progress?” she inquired with a hint of sardonic humor.

  The countess could see what had drawn Charles to her—beyond her beauty, of course. She could also see that she didn’t hold a candle to Willa in any sense.

  “No,” Lady Romford said with a sigh. “I have come to apologize for my insolent request and to ask you to disregard it.”

  Surprise widened Helena’s beautiful eyes. “May I know why?”

  “I have just met my son. He is quite…content. And therefore, so am I.”

  “I see.”

  “So you will give up whatever schemes you’ve made at my foolish request?”

  A spurt of anger flashed across the younger woman’s face. “Hardly. You should know I was never doing it for you in the first place. You only put the idea in my head. Dax and his milksop bride may be content—for now—but I am not.”

  “But he will not give her up. What can you hope to achieve?”

  “Oh, he will. She may have given him temporary contentment, but I can give him much more. As to what I hope to achieve, you know that perfectly well. Holt will not live forever, and I have no intention of ending up like poor Kate Crowmore, tied to some nobody like her country vicar. I have a fancy to be a countess.”

  “Then find another earl’s son—or another earl, it is immaterial to me,” Lady Romford said tartly. “Have a duke if it will make you happy. But please, do not interfere any further with my son’s life. I have withdrawn my permission.”

  “Madam,” Helena said insolently, “I never needed your permission before and I certainly don’t now. I have no wish to quarrel with my future mama, but you should know where we stand.”

  “I do. And I won’t have it,” Lady Romford said with dignity. “More to the point, neither will my son.” She bowed and left the room.

  Helena Holt’s voice followed her, confident, amused, and unperturbed. “We shall see.”

  *

  When Willa quietly entered her husband’s sick room, he was fast asleep. Part of her was relieved, for she was no longer sure of the meaning of last night’s dalliance. Had he made love to her because he was fevered and not in his right mind? Or had their lovemaking caused the fever? Or, at least, made it worse. The rest of her was worried that his mother’s visit had exhausted him, that he was worse now than when Dr. Lampton had come this morning.

  Thrusting aside her o
wn pettier concerns, she went to him immediately, touching his forehead with the palm of her hand, and then feeling just inside his shirt. She didn’t think he was worse. If anything, surely, the hot tightness had receded a little.

  Without warning, his hand closed over hers on his chest, and her gaze flew up to his face. His eyes were open and fixed on hers. They still looked slightly fevered, although that might have been the laudanum.

  “Your hand is cool,” he said. “I like that. Although I liked it when it was hot last night, too,”

  She flushed, drawing her hand free. “Then you remember last night?” When she was too innocent, or too lost in her own desires to be able to tell that his own heat came from fever.

  A wicked smile parted his lips and glinted in his eyes. “Every delicious detail. Come back to bed with me, Wife.”

  “Not until you’re well,” she said firmly. “I’m afraid our… your…the…what we did made you ill. Too much exertion—”

  “Sweet exertion,” he said, and despite her best intentions, desire surged with the memory. “Besides, if I can support an unexpected visit from my mother, I can support an hour of delight with my wife. Or two hours, or three…”

  “Drink this,” she said, with a hint of desperation, thrusting the glass of the doctor’s tonic into his hand. He dipped his head and kissed her wrist before she could take her hand away, but at least he drank it.

  “What did you do with my mother, by the way? She asked me if I wanted to annul our marriage. I said no, and she changed the subject.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “No, I think it’s good. Only why the devil did she come up here—and at the same time as Helena Holt, too—if she didn’t mean to upset the marriage?”

  “Perhaps she changed her mind,” Willa suggested.

  Dax scowled. “Or she’s biding her time.”

  “I’m sure she was genuinely worried about you. Her manner changed immediately when I told her what had happened. And do you know, she defended me and called me her daughter when my aunt accused me of causing your duel.”

  Dax looked thoughtful as he drank the rest of the tonic. He wrinkled his nose. “Why are doctor’s potions always so nasty?”