“She’s certainly headstrong,” Leath said, and Nell noted the affection in his beautiful voice.
“Your sober ways clearly had little influence, James.”
Such remarks only added to Nell’s perplexity. The marchioness, who was no fool, seemed convinced that Leath was a pattern card of behavior. Nell was sick of struggling to fathom the man’s character. He was a complete enigma.
An enigma who kissed like an angel.
“Not for want of trying,” he said cheerfully.
“You must admit she’s settled down since marrying Harry.”
Leath’s laugh was wry. “To my surprise.”
“After a scandalous beginning, they’ve gone on very well.”
“I’m not arguing, Mamma.”
Nell stared at Leath. Could a man so attentive to his invalid mother treat his paramours with such indifference? Last night he could have thrown Nell down and taken her. Yet he’d been gentle, allowing for her fears. Was that just a rake’s stratagem to ensure a willing partner?
“Nor are you agreeing,” the marchioness said drily.
“I’ll agree that my sister’s rash marriage isn’t the disaster I predicted.”
“James, you’re a devil,” his mother said with a laugh. “Just admit that you were wrong.”
Had he forgotten Nell’s presence? She’d never heard him speak so frankly on family matters, although the dramatic events leading to his sister’s marriage were no secret. The newspapers had been full of the elopement of pretty, rich Sophie Fairbrother with impecunious younger son Harry Thorne, the Duchess of Sedgemoor’s dissolute brother.
Leath arched his marked black eyebrows, a smile hovering around his lips. Traitorous heat rippled through Nell. He looked dangerously attractive as he teased her ladyship. “My dear mother, I’m never wrong.”
His mother laughed again and caught his hand. “Of course not, darling.”
“I’ll come and have luncheon with you, shall I?”
He raised his mother’s hand to his lips and kissed it with a respect that set that forbidden corner of Nell’s soul aching with longing. And bafflement. What was true? Dorothy’s accusations? The man Nell came to know? The way she felt when she saw him?
She was only certain of one thing. Right now, the prospect of leaving the marchioness and, God forgive her, the marquess pummeled her heart with misery.
“That would be lovely.” Pleasure rang in Lady Leath’s voice.
He stood. “I’ll see you later.”
Nell braced for him to insist on dismissing the wanton Miss Trim. Surely he wouldn’t leave his mother in a Jezebel’s clutches. Her hands closed in her skirts and she stared at him so hard that he ought to burst into flame.
He nodded in her direction without looking at her. “Miss Trim.”
Then he was gone.
Nell felt as if he left her dangling from a wire high above an abyss. What cruel game was he playing?
After two days, Nell was in such a state that she jumped at every sound. This was like waiting for an ax to fall. Yet still Leath didn’t betray her to his mother.
This morning, she could bear it no longer. Once she’d settled the marchioness, Nell ventured downstairs. After his kisses, she’d lacked the nerve to seek him out. But if he meant to send her away, she had to know.
Her courage went for naught. His lordship had ridden to York with Mr. Crane and wouldn’t be back until nightfall. So she had another day’s respite, except that anticipating the blow was worse than facing her fate.
Once the household retired, apart from the footman assigned to let his lordship and the secretary in, Nell set up vigil at the top of the main staircase. She settled on a padded bench so old and dark with age that she imagined King Alfred must have sat on it.
It was still raining. October on the moors was bleak. Mearsall was only a few hundred miles south, but Kent seemed the work of a kinder, gentler Creator.
The hallway clock had struck eleven before Nell heard the great iron doorknocker. Curled up on the bench, she’d drifted into a doze. When she moved, she bit back a groan. She’d leaned against the wall at an awkward angle, and she was stiff from sitting still. And cold. She drew her cashmere shawl around her. It was finer than anything she’d ever owned, a gift from the marchioness. Yet again she muffled a pang of guilt at plotting trouble for the family. The marchioness was ridiculously generous. The difficulty was restraining the lady from showering her with luxuries.
The knocker sounded again before the footman pulled back the bolts with a crash and grind of metal. Alloway Chase had been built to keep out medieval marauders.
“Good evening, my…” The footman’s voice faded to nothing.
Nell tottered forward. The wind was so strong it whistled through the great hall and up the stairs to press her heavy woolen skirts against her legs. Below, John the footman reeled back.
“Help me, man,” the marquess snapped, stumbling inside. “Don’t stand there like a dead fish.”
Her heart racing with fear, Nell descended a few steps before she realized that Leath wasn’t hurt. Over one shoulder, he carried Mr. Crane.
“Yes, sir,” John stammered, reaching forward. Mr. Crane’s groan bounced off the stone walls.
“Not like that, you fool. Take his legs.”
Nell rushed down. “My lord, what’s happened?”
At her question, he looked up and she caught relief in his face. He was pale and streaked with mud. Water dripped off his greatcoat and he’d lost his hat. “Eleanor, you’re here. Good. You can help. Crane’s horse took fright at a stray dog and bolted.”
Nell collected a lamp from a table and raised it high. “John, be careful. If he’s hurt his back, you’ll do more harm than good.”
She spoke clearly and slowly and the young man immediately settled. The marquess’s temper was understandable, but unlikely to get the best out of the nervous junior footman. Inevitably she was reminded of the night she’d met Leath. He’d been in a temper then too.
Thank goodness, the library wasn’t far away. She carried the lamp ahead as Leath and John juggled the injured secretary. Despite their care, Mr. Crane moaned. He did, however, come back to himself enough to protest when they placed him on the sofa. “My lord, I’m not fit for indoors.”
“Damn it, Paul, as if I care.” Leath straightened the young man’s limbs with brisk, gentle efficiency.
John stood back and stared helplessly at the injured man. Nell sighed. “John, light the fire. It’s a cold night.”
“Yes, miss,” he said, although Nell had no real authority. Within moments, flames licked at the kindling.
“I’ll wake Mr. Wells and have him send for the doctor.” She took a spill and moved around the room lighting candles.
“No need. I sent a groom.” Leath set a cushion behind Mr. Crane’s head. “But it’s a devil of a night. I don’t envy him the ride there and back.”
“Did Mr. Crane hit his head?”
“Yes.” Leath brushed wet black hair back from his forehead.
“And lose consciousness?”
“Briefly.”
“It’s my arm,” Crane said unsteadily. His face was drawn with pain and he clutched his right arm across his chest. “I think I’ve broken it.”
“You took a hell of a tumble.” When Leath helped him to sit, Nell saw that movement was agonizing. She jammed more cushions behind Mr. Crane to support him.
“Get blankets and pillows. And towels,” she said to John, who still hovered. The young man snapped to attention and rushed out.
“I’d rather go to my room,” Mr. Crane said faintly.
“Better not to move, old fellow. Miss Trim is right. You may have spinal injuries. God knows what damage I’ve done hauling you across the moors.”
“It would have been easier to leave me there.”
“No, the cold would have got you.” Leath pressed a brandy glass to the secretary’s lips. After a couple of sips, Mr. Crane choked. “But I curse myself for
making you ride through that gale. We could easily have stayed in York.”
Nell paused on her way to the kitchen and cast a searching glance at the marquess. His willingness to take the blame for this accident impressed her. Again, he defied her preconceptions. Could this be the man who had left Dorothy to bear his child in disgrace?
“You weren’t to know the damned—dashed—nag would bolt.” Mr. Crane cast Nell an apologetic look, polite even in his suffering. She liked Mr. Crane. When she’d imagined a husband, the man had been someone like the young secretary. Now, compared to the marquess, he seemed a nonentity.
Nell had developed a taste for the dark and dangerous since arriving at Alloway Chase. Heaven help her.
Alarmed at the admission, she headed for the kitchens. She poured warm water into a bowl, refilled the kettle, then set it to heat on the hob.
When she returned to the library, she heard Mr. Crane saying, “I don’t want to cause any fuss.”
“My good fellow—” Leath’s impatience melted into a smile when he saw Nell. “Oh, bless you.”
He stepped back to allow her to place the bowl on a table. He’d undressed down to shirtsleeves. Despite the fraught circumstances, she couldn’t help inhaling his scent. Clean male and rain and horses. After their encounter in his bedroom, the scent was perilously familiar. And as heady as wine.
Nell struggled to concentrate on poor Mr. Crane as she kneeled at his side. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
The gallantry in Mr. Crane’s smile touched her and he bore her ministrations without complaining, although the lines bracketing his mouth indicated discomfort.
John returned, his arms piled high with bedding and towels that he placed at her side. Nell passed a towel to the marquess, who watched her with a level gaze that set her nerves prickling. “We need to get him out of his wet clothes.”
“I tried to get his coat off, but it seemed cruel rather than helpful.” He rubbed at his hair, although it no longer dripped water onto his wide shoulders.
“I’m all right, sir.” Mr. Crane’s strangled tone indicated that he lied.
“Perhaps we could cut off the coat,” Nell suggested. She tried not to look at the marquess. He was dangerously approachable—and appealing—with his damp black hair ruffled and tumbling over his brow.
“Good idea,” the marquess said. “John, will you fetch a knife from the kitchen?”
John scurried off. Nell turned her attention to drying Mr. Crane as best she could and tending his scrapes and bruises. The water in the bowl was soon cloudy with blood and dirt. She dropped the cloth into the water and started to rise, but to her astonishment, the marquess’s elegant hand landed on her shoulder.
The contact shuddered through her. And strangely bolstered her strength. “I’ll go. Your presence calms him.”
Whether that was true or not, Mr. Crane breathed more easily.
“My lord, you shouldn’t wait on me,” the injured man objected.
“Stow it, Paul,” Leath said.
“Thank you,” Nell said quietly. “The kettle’s on the hearth. The handle is likely to be hot, so you’ll need a cloth to lift it. Or perhaps John can help.”
The marquess sent her a mocking glance. “I’ll have you know I can fend for myself.”
She blushed, too conscious of that strong hand resting on her shoulder. She was glad she hadn’t given him directions to the kitchens. She nearly had. But it was a stretch to imagine the magnificent Marquess of Leath in that workaday setting.
He lifted his hand, which offered her racing heart a reprieve, and collected the bowl. “Try and get some more brandy into him, Miss Trim.”
When they were alone, Mr. Crane regarded her with rueful amusement that made her commend his courage. “His lordship is too kind.”
“He values you.” She rose to fill the brandy glass.
The liquor added a trace of color to his cheeks. She prayed that the broken arm was all that was wrong. He seemed cogent, but she needed to be sure. She set the glass on the table and collected a candle.
“Any other man would have left me on the moor and fetched help, instead of putting me on his own horse. The rain was coming down in sheets.”
Nell wasn’t sure what to say. The more she saw of James Fairbrother, the less she believed that he was Dorothy’s treacherous lover.
She was passing a candle before Mr. Crane’s eyes when the marquess returned bearing fresh water and a clean cloth. “I don’t think he’s done his head any lasting damage.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing.” She heard the question in Leath’s voice.
“I nursed my mother and my sister. And helped the village doctor when he needed an assistant. Apart from his arm, I doubt if Mr. Crane’s seriously injured.”
“That’s a relief,” her patient said as Leath placed the bowl on the table.
John came in and Nell bit back the urge to say “at last.” Then she saw that he’d brought a large pair of scissors as well as a knife. “Well done, John.”
Leath seized the scissors. “John, wait in the hall for the doctor.”
“Very good, my lord.” The young man bowed and left.
“I’ll hold him.” Leath passed her the scissors. “You cut.”
“My lord…” Mr. Crane bleated.
Nell struggled not to jar her patient, but before she’d finished both she and Mr. Crane were sweating and shaking. After she’d splinted the broken arm, Nell felt ready to collapse. Mr. Crane was barely conscious and shivering under the blankets. Only Leath appeared in a good state as he stoked the fire to a roaring blaze. Nell admired his stamina. After all, he’d transported his secretary through a storm before assuming sickroom duties.
Mr. Crane looked tired, but more comfortable, by the time the doctor arrived. Nell stood wearily and collected the bowl, intending to fetch more hot water. And to save Mr. Crane’s blushes when his breeches came off.
She was in the kitchen filling the kettle when some change in the air alerted her. She raised her head to see Leath in the doorway, studying her with a brooding expression.
Dear heaven, he was a gorgeous man. In his loose white shirt and with his hair untidy after the night’s exertions, he made her heart turn over. Her hand began to shake and the kettle sloshed water over her dress. She hadn’t been alone with the marquess since he’d kissed her. The memory was painfully vivid.
The memory. The shame. The confusion. The… desire.
He strode forward with his purposeful step and grabbed the kettle from her precarious grip. “Pass that over before you flood the place.”
The brush of his hand made her wayward heart lurch with a dizzying mixture of fear and excitement. “I don’t—”
“You’re safe.” He placed the kettle on the hob, giving her a chance to catch her breath. When they’d worked together to help Mr. Crane, they’d been a team. Now all the bristling, difficult awareness revived.
“I know.” She wished that she didn’t sound like she regretted the fact.
Chapter Ten
Leath leaned his hips against the draining board, studying Miss Trim. Nell. Eleanor.
She looked tired and jumpy. And beautiful. Her dress was damp and stained after helping Crane and a streak of dirt marked her lovely face. A strand of silvery blond hair escaped her daunting coiffure and dangled onto her breast. His hands curled against the cold stone bench behind him as he fought the urge to tug the pins away and see her hair tumbling around her like moonlight.
Two nights ago, she’d given him too much.
She hadn’t given him enough.
“Thank you for your help.”
“I told you—I’ve done a lot of nursing.”
Lit to spellbinding shadow in the turned-down lamps, she stood on the flagstones. Her stance betrayed uncertainty and her eyes were suspicious. She was always suspicious. He was devilish tired of it.
He glanced down at his filthy boots. Selsby would haul him over the coals for the state of his clothes once h
e finally made it upstairs. “So you really are an orphan.”
She stiffened, hostility replacing uncertainty. “Why would I lie?”
He fixed his gaze on her. “I don’t know.”
Pink tinged her cheeks and she avoided his eyes. Was that because she was a liar, or because she was a respectable woman alone with the man who had taken liberties? As always with Miss Trim, he wasn’t sure of anything.
“My mother was ill for months before she passed away.” She sent him a look which felt significant. He had no idea why. “And my sister Dorothy died in May.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” She seemed to expect a stronger reaction. Again, he sensed that there were levels of meaning here that he missed.
“Your father was a soldier?”
“I’m surprised you remember that.” She didn’t sound pleased.
“Of course I remember.” He recalled every encounter with this woman and every word she’d said. Perhaps because she was so damned elusive. There was nothing like mystery to whet a man’s interest. “You intrigue me, Miss Trim.”
To his surprise, she didn’t take up the challenge. Instead she straightened with that innate pride so incongruous in a housemaid. “My father was a sergeant major in one of Rowland Hill’s brigades. He was killed at Vimeiro in ’08. I was only five, but my mother talked about him all the time until I’m not sure whether the memories are mine or hers.”
“What was his name?”
“Robert.”
So much loss in Eleanor’s life. He’d wondered if she’d used the orphan story to gain his mother’s sympathy, but looking at her now, he saw that whatever other lies she’d told, she hadn’t lied about losing her parents. Compassion pierced him, softened his voice. “I’m sure he was a brave man.”
“I believe he was. He was decorated and mentioned in dispatches.”
The sorrow in her face made him long to draw her into his arms. Purely for comfort, he told himself. And didn’t believe it.
She went on. “I’ve always been sad that his service record was lost. Along with his medals and his effects.”
Leath stepped toward her. “That’s a blasted shame.”
A Scoundrel by Moonlight Page 9