She stripped off her gloves but then could find no clean place to put them.
“Tell me what happened,” she said, although she had no desire to know.
“What happened? I’m ruined, that is what happened.”
Alicia bristled at his accusatory tone. “Dare I say this has something to do with cards, Charles? Perhaps you might have dangled my name—and your connection with me—to establish more credit?”
He looked like a boy caught filching pastries.
Furious, Alicia strode toward him. “Imagine my chagrin when I learned you were using our connection to frank your current lifestyle.”
“Who told you?” he asked, raising his glass with a shaking hand.
“Does it matter?”
He flinched at her tone, but then laughed. “No, I suppose not.” He cut her a look that held all the contempt she’d always suspected he felt for her. “I offered you the honor of my name—a name that goes back to the Conqueror, and you rejected me. You. A nobody from nowhere, a woman who bought her way in to our midst. God only knows what you did to acquire your wealth, although I suspect you did it on your back.”
His words lacked the ability to hurt. When people meant nothing, they lacked the power to cause pain.
“Don’t fool yourself, Charles. What you offered me was the honor of your debts.”
“You led me—”
“I led you to nothing more than your bed. A journey whose destination has been singularly unrewarding, I might add.”
Alicia had foolishly believed he was too foxed to move as fast as he did. The painful sting of his slap took her by surprise.
“You bitch!” he roared, winding up for a second blow, this time with his fist.
She spun around, but he flung himself onto her back before she could take more than a few steps, his body slamming her to the floor.
Agonizing, blinding white spangles filled her head. But that was nothing compared to the sudden failure of her lungs.
Alicia opened her mouth and gasped like a fish, but no air would come. His weight crushed her and she writhed and thrashed to free herself. But he clung like a burr, his hands sliding around her neck.
I’m going to die! Her mind shrieked as she struggled for breath.
Suddenly, the weight of Charles’s body disappeared.
Something large and dark flickered across the room.
Charles’s voice rang out, “Unhand me you brute! Do you know who I am?” A dull thump followed his question and then a whimper.
Alicia felt a strange pop in her chest and noisily sucked in air until it felt like her lungs would explode.
Dark eyes hovered above her as warm, strong hands slid beneath her thighs and back, cradling her against a wall of warm wool.
“Are you hurt, my lady?”
“Wha-what?”
“Are you hurt?” he repeated calmly.
“N-no, I’m not hurt. What about—”
“Take that, you fucking ape!”
“Ufff!” Gormley grunted and staggered forward but didn’t drop her.
Instead, he lowered her gently into the nearest chair.
Something glittered on the shoulder of his coat when he turned but before she could identify it his arm drew back and she heard a sickening crunch and the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor followed by glass breaking.
And then Gormley was there again and powerful arms slid beneath her knees and around her shoulders.
He strode through the open doorway, carrying her toward the stairs in smooth, long strides.
Alicia had no memory of ever being carried and held like this, not even when she was a child. It was beyond comforting.
They were in the foyer before she knew it.
“Can you stand, my lady?”
His voice was a low, impossibly deep rumble against her temple and she raised her head to see his face. Only his eyes showed any emotion, and they were creased with concern.
“Y-yes, of course.”
He lowered her to her feet but continued to hold her upper arm, picking up her cloak with his free hand and draping it over her shoulders. “Are you steady?” he asked.
“Yes, I am fine. Go. Get a hackney.”
“It is already waiting.”
She almost wept: of course it was. She put on her hat with shaking hands and realized she had no gloves; they must have fallen when Charles struck her. She stared at her naked, trembling fingers.
“Here.” He thrust gloves into her hands—his, by the look of it—and his lips twisted into a grimace. “There’s a bite in the air.”
She pulled on the huge gloves without speaking.
Outside a carriage waited at the curb.
“It’s about bloody time, mate!” the driver snapped.
Gormley said nothing, but she felt his big body tense under her hand. He helped her into the carriage and then began to follow, but the driver’s voice stopped him.
“’Ere then! You’re dripping. You’ll get—” Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by a grunt and then, “Alright, alright. Bleedin’ ‘ell! Lemme go!”
Gormley hopped into the carriage and the cab tipped precariously on its springs.
“Are you cold, my lady?”
Alicia was shaking. Badly. She pulled her heavy cloak tighter. “No, I’m not cold.” Her voice was odd, hoarse, and did not sound normal.
He reached out and she flinched back.
“I just want to have a look, my lady,” he said, his eyes on the right side of her face—the side Charles had struck. She remained still and he lifted her chin, tilting her so that he could see her face. He frowned at whatever his saw, his mouth tight, his expression beyond menacing.
“Is it bad?”
His eyes flickered to hers and he dropped his hand. “Bad enough.” He shifted in his seat and she saw him wince.
“Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Then why are you wincing?”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated in a tone no good servant would use.
Alicia overlooked it, more interested in whatever it was he was trying to hide.
“Gormley, you will answer me,” she said using her best Countess Voice.
He pressed his lips together and for a moment she thought he would disobey her, but he grudgingly met her eyes. “I was foolish to turn my back on him. He hit me with a bottle.”
Alicia forgot her own aches. “My God, are you cut?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek, clearly annoyed.
“Are you cut, Gormley?” This time she didn’t bother to keep the anger and fear from her voice.
“Aye, he cut me.”
Alicia rose on shaky legs.
“Here then, my lady, what—”
“Hush,” she ordered, turning awkwardly in the confined space—which was made even smaller with a man his size in it—and dropping gracelessly beside him on the seat, another awkward task since the entire bench was full of him. “Turn and let me look.”
He glared down at her.
“Turn.”
He made a low, animal growl, but he turned.
“Good God!”
The thick wool of his coat and the two layers of cloth beneath had been sliced and the fabric sagged, heavy with blood.
A wave of nausea rose inside her and she had to swallow to force it back down.
“This will need stitching.”
“I’ll take care of it, my lady,” the stubborn man said, beginning to shift away from her.
“One more word, Gormley, and I shall discharge you. One. Word.”
His muscles tightened beneath her hand and anger rolled off him in waves. But her threat had its intended effect and he remained quiet for the remainder of the drive.
She let him help her from the hackney but stopped him when he would have picked her up and carried her to the door.
“I shall walk. Pay the driver.”
His eyes met and held hers for one dangerously long momen
t but he gritted his jaws and complied. Again, it was not the look of a servant, but then he’d seen her tonight in a way most servants would never see their employers. The line between them had shifted.
Once inside the foyer she turned to him. “You will accompany me to my chambers.” His lips parted. She lifted her hand. “One word, Gormley.”
His mouth snapped shut and she preceded him up the stairs.
Even injured he managed to get in front of her and open the door to her sitting room, but when it came to entering her bedchamber he hesitated just long enough that Alicia opened the door.
Maude was sitting beside the fire but sprang to her feet. “What—”
“Mr. Gormley is injured, fetch hot water, clean cloths, and a needle and thread.”
Chapter Seven
An agonizing pain lanced his shoulder, like somebody had struck him across the back with a fiery sword or a whip made of nettles.
Joss wished he’d not been so hasty to refuse the liquor or laudanum.
But then she squeezed his hand and made him glad he’d refrained.
“Would you care for a drink now, Mr. Gormley?”
“No, thank you, my lady,” he forced between gritted teeth. No, indeed. Why would he want to dull his senses when he was lying stripped to the waist in her bed, with her holding his hand, and her lush bottom pressed against his side?
Of course her harpy of a maid was on the other side, jabbing him with a needle and doing so with entirely too much relish.
Still, it was worth the agony to touch her; to smell her and lay on the bed where she slept. The sheets were unbearably soft against his skin—but he’d lain in good sheets before. No, it was the scent—her scent. He couldn’t recall smelling anything so enticing in his entire life. He didn’t have the olfactory experience to define it—peaches? Lavender? Or something like lemons, but not quite. Whatever it was he wanted to inhale her into every pore of his body. He wanted to take her in his mouth and consume her.
Another lash of fire on his shoulder made him bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.
And then a cool, soft hand brushed his damp hair off his brow and he almost howled, but for entirely different reasons. Great. Bloody. Hell.
“Gormley?” Her breath feathered his temple and he squeezed his eyes shut so his lustful thoughts and filthy desires could not leak out. “Are you conscious?” she asked softly the words tickling his ear, her breath sweet and warm, making his rock-hard cock pulse even worse than it had when she helped her maid cut off his clothing.
Joss swallowed, almost delirious from the delicious mix of pain and pleasure. “I’m awake, my lady,” he said, the last word breaking as he endured another jab of the needle.
“Maude!” Lady Selwood’s tone was chastising. “Must you be so savage?”
Joss silently echoed her words, not that it mattered much, the pain in his shoulder was nothing to the painful pleasure of her touch.
Such a poet, some snide part of him observed.
“You can stitch him yourself if you’re so concerned,” the old crone snapped.
And that was another thing; the way her maid spoke to her. Joss had never heard anyone speak to the Countess of Selwood with such a lack of respect. But rather than be angered, Lady Selwood appeared not to notice.
Her hand stroked his forehead again and Joss had to concentrate on not spending in his trousers, crying out in ecstasy, or drooling on the fine white silk of her comforter. Already he’d bloodied more than a little of her bedding.
Another harsh jab in his shoulder made him tense, but he was past feeling pain.
“I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner,” the older woman said, her words jarring Joss out of his blissful stupor.
“Oh, hush. Why should you expect any such thing?” Lady Selwood demanded, thankfully not stopping her stroking of his brow. Joss considered purring.
“Because you drive them half-mad, making them dance on a string, wanting you, wanting your—”
“Maude.” The hand giving him pleasure froze, her fingers tense, the soft voice turning hard and cold.
Joss heard an answering snort on the other side; the woman halted her scolding but was obviously not cowed.
“Are you almost finished?”
Please, God. Never, ever finish. Joss begged silently, wishing the cut went down his back, beneath his trousers, down his—
“Aye.” Miss Finch gave a sharp tug and then a snip. “There, that’s the best I can do.”
“That looks very nice, Maude.”
Again the other woman snorted, and then touched him with a cool cloth.
Joss sucked in his breath and bit his lip. Hard. But his brain screamed, FIRE!FIRE!FIRE!
“Did that sting, Gormley?” The hand returned to his brow, her tone solicitous, like a nurse with a patient.
Joss could do little more than grunt, his eyes tearing, his shoulder a raging inferno, and his cock throbbing.
“That stinging sensation is from brandy, which Maude believes will cleanse your wound.”
“We’d best get him up and out of here, my lady.”
The hand stroking his forehead stopped.
No, no, no, no, no—
Lady Selwood sighed softly beside him and Joss began to move before she had to ask him. Her hands slid from his person and he ignored the ludicrous feeling of abandonment that swept over him.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, her slender, cool fingers landing on his upper arm, as if she could somehow lift him.
“I can stand, my lady.” The words were harsher than he’d intended, but he needed to get away from her. Now.
He did feel rather woozy when he stood, gripping the post at the end of her bed for balance and blinking until his vision cleared. And then wishing it hadn’t.
“Oh, my lady, your gown—” Joss could only stare in horror.
She glanced down at the front of her dress, which was now streaked red and wrinkled. She looked up at him and shook her head.
“This is hardly your fault, Gormley. Besides,” a slight shudder wracked her elegant frame. “It would have been far worse if you had not come for me.”
Joss’s face heated and he looked away, grateful his shirt was still tucked into his trousers, hanging down in bloody tatters, but at least they were covering the disgraceful erection he could not seem to suppress.
“My coat—” he began.
“Right here.” The maid stood behind him, holding the coat up for him to put on. Joss slid his arms into the sleeves and then shrugged into the coat before recalling his injury. His vision blackened from pain and when it cleared, he found his mistress standing in front of him, her smooth brow furrowed with concern.
“Do you require assistance to get to your—”
“I’ll be better on my own, my lady.” Joss gave her a quick bow and turned. The maid already held open the door.
“You must stay in bed tomorrow, Gormley. That is an order.” Her voice floated behind him, but Joss didn’t stop or turn. He heard the click of a latch when he was half-way down the hall and sighed with relief, slowing his pace and buttoning his overcoat all the way. It was a short journey to the mews, but it would be a cold one.
When Joss opened the door to the stairs that led to his quarters he collided with a body.
“Oof!” He staggered back and reached out to take hold of the door jam, his vision again going black with pain.
“Are you ill, Mr. Gormley?”
Joss grimaced at the sound of Annie’s voice. Wasn’t this just perfect?
“Are you foxed?” she asked, her eyes wide with fascination.
Joss seized the convenient idea and let his features go slack. He grinned. “Annie!”
“You are foxed!”
He chuckled. “Nah I’m not.” He slewed to one side and came up on the step above her.
“Do you want me to help you to your quarters?” The hopefulness in her voice made him curse his stupidity for at least the hundredth time.
&n
bsp; He gave an exaggerated shake of his head, unwilling to turn around and expose the torn coat. “Nah, goin’ to bed. G’night, Annie.” He stood grinning, his swaying posture not entirely feigned. He was bloody tired and sore and needed sleep. He was also as stiff as a plank, but this time he would have the sense to take care of his condition himself.
Annie’s lips turned down in a mulish expression that told Joss she’d not be giving up on him any time soon.
∞∞∞
Alicia had thought she was so tired she’d fall asleep immediately.
But even after the delay of Maude fussing around with her bedding, taking a much-needed soak in her big copper tub, and drinking one of Maude’s disgusting potions, she still could not sleep.
Instead, she ran through the events of the evening. Over and over she replayed her argument with Charles, as if she might see where she’d gone wrong, how she’d managed to misinterpret him, underestimate him, and lose control of the situation.
She cursed herself for being too unaware to have noticed Gormley’s arrival, but she saw, in her mind’s eye, the fluid motion of his torso as he delivered the felling blow to Byerly.
Every time she relived that moment her body tightened with some emotion she couldn’t identify, something so . . . primitive. . . that it left her skintight and prickly
And then there was the way he’d carried her, expending as much effort as if he were carrying a child.
Best of all was the memory of him in her bedroom—in her bed, exactly where she was lying right now.
Maude had stripped the bed to its ticking so Alicia knew the smell that was teasing her nostrils—the masculine scent of sweat, the metallic tang of blood, and the underlying odor of soap—could not really exist. But her memory of his body, yes, that existed, and in blinding clarity.
He’d been even bigger than she’d imagined—something she’d been doing far too often lately.
He was brawnier, rawer; slab upon slab of hard muscle, the striations beneath his smooth white skin as taut as wire. He was massive.
When he’d given her his gloves, she’d felt like a child trying on her mother’s shoes.
As upset as she’d been at that moment, slipping her hands inside the warm leather—curved by use and shaped to his body—had been uncomfortably intimate yet deliciously sensual.
Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2) Page 7