by Anna Bradley
He’d been right about Lord Sydney’s mouth. It did want to curve into a smile.
A kind aristocrat.
Just last night, he’d sat in this same chair, studying Lord Sydney’s unconscious face, scoffing at the very notion of a kind aristocrat, but now…
Now that face was awake, and Lucas couldn’t deny every line of it, every angle and nuance, bespoke kindness. The hint of a smile in his cheeks, the laugh lines around his eyes—
Well, his right eye, anyway. The left side of Lord Sydney’s face was cut and bruised, and that eye swollen shut. Now the wound was no longer bleeding, Lucas had wrapped the bandage loosely to let the air get to it, but he’d have to dress it properly again soon, and it was going to hurt like the devil when he did.
No doubt his lordship would bear it without a murmur of complaint. For a man in his condition, he was surprisingly cheerful, and he seemed determined Lucas should be so, too. If he didn’t know better, Lucas would think Lord Sydney was trying to amuse him.
Lucas didn’t know what to make of it, but he meant to remain stalwart in the face of Lord Sydney’s onslaught of charm and good humor. There was no sense in getting used to the earl’s engaging company. It would only make the house seem quieter once he was gone.
Lucas fetched the teacup he’d placed on the table beside the bed to distract himself from that depressing thought. “Here. Burke said you wanted something to drink.”
“I asked for whiskey. That doesn’t look like whiskey.” Lord Sydney eyed the teacup with a frown.
“It isn’t. It’s tea.” Lucas drew his chair forward and held the cup out, but his lordship didn’t take it.
“Tea? What good is tea going to do me? For God’s sakes, man, my eye was nearly ripped from its socket, and you offer me tea? Surely English law states any man who’s nearly lost an eye gets a tumbler of whiskey.”
He looked so outraged, Lucas caught himself stifling another smile. “I’ve never heard of a law like that. Maybe that’s only in London.”
“If it isn’t a law, it damn well should be. Well, give it here, then,” Lord Sydney grumbled, taking the teacup. “You know, if Burke were here, he’d give me whiskey.”
“He’s your servant. He has to indulge all your whims.”
Lord Sydney snorted. “Is that so? Well, no one seems to have told Burke that. No, he’d give me whiskey because he’s a Scot, not because he’s my servant. Like most Scots, Burke’s a firm believer in whiskey as a cure for whatever ails a man. Don’t you have even a drop of Scottish blood in you, Dean, with all that red hair?”
Lucas reached up and tugged self-consciously at a lock of his hair. His stomach gave an odd little lurch at Lord Sydney’s having noticed the color. “No, but there is a drop of whiskey in the tea. Don’t look so eager,” Lucas warned, when Lord Sydney’s grin reappeared. “It’s a small drop only. Whiskey will make you drowsy, and I want you to stay awake for a while longer.”
Lord Sydney took a sip of his tea, and his brow wrinkled with disappointment. “Tastes more like half a drop to me. If you want me to remain conscious, then you’d best be prepared to entertain me. Otherwise I won’t make you any promises.”
Entertain him? If Lord Sydney wanted to be entertained, he should have crashed his carriage in front of a different farm. “I’m not the entertaining sort.”
Or the talkative sort, but Lord Sydney didn’t let that get in his way. “Oh, come now. You must have something to say that will keep me distracted. Burke said you know a good deal about medicine. Tell me about that.”
Lucas wasn’t any good at polite chatter, either. “Not that much. Some.”
“How did you learn?”
Lord Sydney had finished his tea in one swallow, and Lucas reached for the teacup and set it aside on the table. “From my mother. After she died, I picked up the rest out of necessity. Farming’s not the easiest way for a man to earn his bread. My father suffered from all the usual injuries farmers do.”
“I see. Your father has since passed away?”
Lucas’s jaw tightened. Maybe he’d bring up a tumbler of whiskey after all. It was easier when Lord Sydney was unconscious. “Five years ago.”
“You’ve lived here alone since then?”
The question was innocent enough, but Lucas stiffened. If he answered it truthfully, it would only lead to more questions, and he didn’t like talking about himself.
“I don’t live alone. I live with Brute,” he said evenly.
Lord Sydney frowned, but he didn’t get a chance to reply. Brute, who’d clearly been lying in wait for a chance to express his devotion to Lord Sydney, sprang to his feet, rested his chin on Lord Sydney’s knee, and gazed up at him with an adoring expression.
“I told you to lie down, Brute.” Lucas eyed his dog with exasperation, but he didn’t have the heart to tear him away from his favorite again. Brute was always friendly, but Lucas had never seen him as smitten with anyone as he was with Lord Sydney.
It bothered him. Brute was a tenderhearted creature. Lucas didn’t want the dog to get attached only to be disappointed when Lord Sydney left.
Because he would leave, and it would be sooner rather than later.
“Dogs like me.” Sydney was scratching Brute’s chin. “Kittens, too. And babies. All children, really.”
A grin hovered on Lord Sydney’s curved lips, and despite himself, Lucas’s own lips gave a traitorous twitch. “Maybe kittens and babies don’t know any better.”
Lord Sydney was still scratching Brute’s chin, and he kept his gaze on the dog’s worshipful face. “Perhaps not, but adults like me, as well. Ladies, and gentlemen.”
Lucas snorted. “Everyone likes you, it seems. Does the sun also break through the clouds every time you go outdoors?”
There was a brief, surprised silence, but then Lord Sydney let out a hearty laugh. “See, Dean? I knew you could be entertaining if you tried. But you’re quite right, you know. The sun does shine through the clouds when I appear, and flowers burst into full bloom in my wake. Birds sing, virgins swoon, and angels weep. It’s all rather tedious, really.”
Lucas shook his head at this, but there was no smothering his smile this time. Lord Sydney’s enthusiastic mirth made the earl wince with pain, but even so his laugh was wholehearted. He had the sort of laugh that made other people laugh in return.
Lucas’s smile felt odd on his lips. Unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, or even smiled. Not since—
Not since Leah’s death.
Shock rolled through him at the realization.
That had been two years ago. Had he really been unhappy for so long as that? Or was it simply that he’d had no one to smile at?
Maybe they were the same thing.
The thought sobered him, and he remained quiet for a long while, listening to the fire hiss and snap. Lord Sydney closed his eyes and drifted in and out of a light sleep. Brute hadn’t abandoned his new beloved but had curled up by the side of Lord Sydney’s bed, and the sound of his gentle snoring drifted into every corner of the room.
After a while Lucas roused himself and straightened in his chair. “You’re not asleep, I hope.”
Lord Sydney let out a long sigh. “Not quite, but it’s a losing battle, I’m afraid. After all, one of my eyes is already closed.”
“Not so much closed as swollen shut. You’ve been awake long enough, but before you fall asleep, I need to check your shoulder and put a new dressing on your head.”
Lord Sydney glanced down at his left hand, lying motionless on the coverlet. “What of my hand?”
“No. It’s best if I leave it alone.” He’d done all he could do for Lord Sydney’s hand. It wouldn’t do any good for him to prod at it. It would only cause Lord Sydney more pain. He rose and retrieved the teacup from the table. “It’s going to hurt, so I’ll bring you just a little nip o
f whiskey before I start.”
Lord Sydney smiled sleepily. “Ah, you’re a good man after all, Dean. Bless you.”
Lucas left the room to fetch the whiskey, a basin of water, and some clean clothes. When he returned, Lord Sydney was breathing deeply, but to Lucas’s surprise, he hadn’t yet fallen asleep. “Still awake?”
That grin that was always perched on the edge of Lord Sydney’s lips curved his mouth. “You told me you were bringing me whiskey. I’m not going to sleep until I get it.”
Lucas chuckled. “Sit up a bit if you can, and I’ll hand you the glass.”
Lord Sydney struggled to a half-sitting position, and Lucas piled the pillows behind his back. He pressed the glass of whiskey into the earl’s good hand, then went around to the other side of the bed, so he could reach his injured shoulder. “I’m going to take the sling off and feel around a bit to make sure the bone hasn’t moved since I set it.”
Lord Sydney grimaced, but then raised his whiskey glass in a wry toast. “Do your worst. Wait, no—on second thought, do whatever you must to see I don’t vomit from the pain. I’d rather not cast up my accounts in front of you and Brute. It’s humiliating.”
“I’ll do my best. Lean forward.” Lucas braced his forearm against Lord Sydney’s back and eased him forward as gently as he could. He slid the sling carefully off his shoulder and lifted it over his head.
Just as Lucas expected, Lord Sydney bore it all without a murmur, only letting out a soft hiss of pain when Lucas explored his injured shoulder. “Christ.”
“Nearly done.” Lucas ran firm hands down one side of Lord Sydney’s neck and across his shoulder and back, checking to make sure no bones were jutting out of places they shouldn’t be. Everything was still in its proper position. The sling was doing its job. “It feels fine.”
Lord Sydney let out a little moan as Lucas eased his shoulder back into the sling. “It feels fine, does it? I’m glad one of us thinks so.”
“Drink your whiskey,” Lucas ordered. “It’ll help dull the pain.”
“Right.” Lord Sydney brought the glass obediently to his lips and took a healthy draught while Lucas moved closer to get a better look at his head wound.
“Everything still intact up there? My eye hasn’t fallen out, has it?”
“No, it’s still there. At least, I think it is. It’s hard to tell with all the swelling and blood and hair in the way. It must be fashionable in London for gentlemen to wear their hair long.” Lucas brushed Lord Sydney’s hair aside. He didn’t allow himself to linger, and he tried not to notice how soft and thick it was.
Lord Sydney chuckled, but he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. “No, I’m simply too lazy to cut it as often as I ought to.”
Lucas cursed his own weakness, but he couldn’t quite resist giving the dark waves another surreptitious stroke before wetting the cloth and dabbing it gently against Lord Sydney’s temple. “It’s a shame about the scar.” He dragged the damp cloth down the side of Lord Sydney’s battered face. “It’s just as well you wear your hair long.”
“How noticeable is it? The entire left side of my face feels like it’s on fire, so I assume it’ll be conspicuous enough. I never cared much for sideburns, but perhaps I’ll grow great, bushy ones now.”
Lord Sydney didn’t seem to be overly concerned about the scar, but Lucas hesitated before answering. The truth was the scar was going to be long and jagged, and certainly noticeable. It would be understandable if Lord Sydney was upset about it.
“It’s all right, Dean,” Lord Sydney said, when Lucas didn’t answer. “Show me where it is.” He titled his head toward Lucas’s hands.
Lucas sighed, but there was no point in making a fuss over it. Lord Sydney would see it himself soon enough. “It starts here.” He touched his fingertip to Lord Sydney’s temple, right above his ear. “And it ends here.” He dragged his finger lightly down the side of Lord Sydney’s face, coming to a stop just beneath his earlobe.
“Noticeable, then.” Lord Sydney let out an unsteady breath, but then he surprised Lucas with a soft laugh. “Well good. If a man’s going to be thrown from a carriage into a ditch, assaulted by the carriage wheels, nearly lose his eye, come close to drowning in a shallow creek, and then get attacked by a bear, he may as well have something to show for it. Don’t you think so, Dean?”
“It’s one way to look at it. And he’s not a bear.”
Lord Sydney snorted. “No, but he will be when I repeat the story to my friends. Brute the Bear. A terrifying creature, who nearly ate me alive.”
Lucas glanced down at Brute, who was lying on his back with all four of his legs up in the air and his long, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. Another of those unfamiliar grins rose to his lips. “Oh, he’s frightening, all right.”
But his grin faded again as he returned his gaze to Lord Sydney’s wound. It was a pity such a young, handsome face should be marred by a scar, but then Lord Sydney seemed like the sort of gentleman who could turn what would be a flaw on another man into an asset.
“Do you have any scars, Dean?”
None that anyone can see. “No.”
Lucas finished cleaning the wound, then wrapped it in a fresh dressing as Lord Sydney tossed back the rest of his whiskey. Lucas took the glass, then pulled a few of the pillows down so Lord Sydney could rest on his back again. By the time his lordship’s head hit the pillow he was already nodding off, but before his eyes closed he murmured, “Thank you, Dean.”
Lucas shook his head. More gratitude. “You’re welcome, my lord.”
He didn’t expect a reply. He thought his patient had drifted off to sleep, but Lord Sydney spoke again, surprising him. “For God’s sake, Dean,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “You saved my life last night. Under the circumstances, don’t you think you could call me Sydney?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He seemed to consider the question settled, because he fell asleep before Lucas could reply.
Lucas sat by the bed and watched the fire dance across that handsome face.
Henry Northrup, the sixth Earl of Sydney, was nothing like he’d expected.
Chapter Eight
Hugh Courtney had all of London fooled.
The ton might admire his handsome face and sigh over his elegant manners, but now that Isla had spent nearly two days alone in his company, she knew the truth about him.
Hugh Courtney was a wicked, shameless rogue.
She threw herself into one of the library’s deep leather chairs and tossed the book she’d chosen onto the table at her elbow. She’d woken early this morning, eager for a quick return to Huntington Lodge, but the second her toes touched the icy floorboards of her bedchamber, her heart sank.
One glance out the window confirmed her worst fears.
It was still bitterly cold outside, and the world was still buried under sheets of hard, glittering ice. Huntington Lodge might as well be on the moon for all the chance she had of reaching it today. She’d woken to another long day of being trapped at Hazelwood with Hugh Courtney, and he…
Well, he was a wicked, shameless rogue, wasn’t he?
A game of chess. It had seemed like such a harmless idea, but somehow it had become something else—something more—and though Isla wasn’t sure what it had become, it had been dangerous, indeed.
Dangerous to her head, and dangerous to her heart.
She’d been at a loss to understand what had brought about Hugh’s abrupt need for her company yesterday, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been a sudden, burning desire for a game of chess. It had been foolish of her not to question it at the time, but the truth was, she hadn’t been able to resist seizing the chance to beat him at a game. She’d hoped he’d turn out to be a sore loser, just as Ciaran was. Oh, it would have been the most wonderful luck to discover he pouted when he lost. It would put everything back in its
proper place.
Heroes, after all, didn’t sulk. Neither did flawless marquesses.
But as it turned out, Hugh wasn’t a sore loser. She doubted he was even a sore winner.
She couldn’t accuse him of poor gamesmanship, but at the same time, his reasons for demanding her company hadn’t been entirely honorable, either. He hadn’t simply been seeking a way to pass the time. He could pass it alone in his study, after all, just as he’d meant to do when he’d left the breakfast room that morning.
No, he’d been after something else. A flirtation, perhaps.
Or perhaps it had been something a good deal more sinister than that.
A seduction.
She never would have taken him for a shameless seducer, but she’d been shaken enough by him last night to flee his company, without a word of explanation. She’d flown down the hall and up the stairs to her bedchamber, darting glances over her shoulder the entire way to make certain he wasn’t following her.
He hadn’t, and yet she hadn’t slowed her steps until she’d reached the safety of her bedchamber and closed the door behind her. All she’d known was she had to get away—away from that look in his eyes and the confusing scene that had played out between them.
Still, in the cold light of early morning, she couldn’t quite convince herself Hugh would do something as low as attempt a seduction. It seemed wildly out of character for him, but that had been no ordinary chess game they’d played last night.
Any man who attempted an indiscretion with a lady who was under his protection was a wicked, shameless rogue. A scoundrel and a villain, as well.
To be fair, Hugh hadn’t behaved like a rogue, precisely. He hadn’t taken any liberties last night. He hadn’t touched her, or said anything suggestive or inappropriate. That is, he had looked at her in a way that made her heart thrash about like a wild thing in her chest, but she wasn’t certain he’d been aware he was doing it. Could a lady still call a man a rogue if he’d been seducing her by accident?