A Marquess for Christmas

by Vivienne Westlake

  With such thoughts distracting her, she didn’t realize she’d paused her singing until she heard a low, gravelly voice.

  “Sing.”

  She looked down to see dark eyes watching her.

  “You are awake!”

  “Sing,” he repeated, but he’d barely finished the word when a ragged cough took over his body.

  “A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs, and if these pictures may thee move, come live with me and—”

  “Be my love.” His voice was hoarse, even more than she expected for someone who’d slept for two days. She lifted from the bed to pour water from the pitcher into a cup.

  When she lifted the cup to his lips, he coughed and it dribbled down his chin. “Easy.” They tried again, but still, most of the water ended up down his chest. His tunic absorbed the excess liquid and clung tightly to his body, so she could see every line and curve. His nipples hardened again.

  “Let me try this another way,” she said. This time, she dipped her fingers into the cup and let the water drip into his mouth.

  He opened wide for more. She leaned closer, her bosom near his face, and poured more water from her fingers.

  After the third time, he put her two fingers to his lips and sucked them. A flash of heat shot through her limbs. If she’d been standing, she would have faltered and lost her balance.

  His mouth was hot and she suspected it had little to do with his fever.

  “More,” he whispered. He stared at her and she could not move, could not speak.

  There was a knock behind them and that jolted her out of her frozen state. Miriam stood in the doorway with ice and more water. The man groaned.

  She motioned for the maid to come in. As soon as the girl was close, Violet took a tiny chip of ice and put it in the man’s mouth.

  The ice would help his thirst, but she also was afraid for him to speak. The need in his eyes was too real, too close to the desire that she felt. But he was a stranger. A beautiful, dark, bewitching stranger who had risked his life for her, yet she knew almost nothing about him.

  A fact that she could remedy. No. What was she thinking? He was wounded, disoriented, and who knew if he mistook her for his wife or some mistress? A sharp pang twisted in her gut. Did he have a mistress? She’d already considered that he could be married, but she hadn’t thought about the possibility of a mistress.

  He was a virile, handsome man with a body any sculptor would worship and carve into stone. She’d seen it all, every wicked inch of him. The thought of that body being pleasured by some other woman made her ill.

  “Do you or the gentleman need anything else, my lady?”

  “Perhaps the cook has some broth. But please make sure it is tepid, not hot.”

  Miriam set down the tray of ice and curtsied before exiting the room.

  He rubbed his temples, then when Miriam was gone, he turned back to her. Though he whispered the word, “Water,” his eyes said something else.

  She plopped another ice sliver into his mouth. He sucked on it, watching her still. She felt a flush run down from her ears to her belly. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought his fever was catching.

  A foolish part of her longed to demand if he had a wife or mistress, but she bit her lip. That was not the first question she should ask him. And he was so weak, it was better if he didn’t speak at all.

  She put her hand to his mouth. “Do not try to speak, sir. You are weary and hoarse.”

  He opened his mouth and before he could argue, she fed him another ice chip.

  “You have a fever and you need to rest.”

  His forehead was still warm. It could be a long night if his fever didn’t break. But he was at least alert for now, which was a good sign.

  She stood up, intending to move aside the blankets and leave him with the sheet, but he reached for her arm.

  “Don’t.” Under his stare, she froze again. “Do not. Leave.” Though the words were gravelly and low, it was a command, not a plea.

  “Very well.”

  She pulled aside the blankets, careful not to touch his thighs, and moved a chair close to the bed. The mere foot of space between her seat and the bed seemed much farther. Every little movement made her aware of the hard chair beneath her and the cool air brushing over her skin.

  She missed the heat of his body next to hers. “Shall I sing you the rest of the song?”

  He nodded and she continued singing the last two verses. She fed him a few more ice chips and started a new song, a sad tale about sailors at sea.

  She rubbed the ice over his face and arms, singing softly. His eyes closed and though he tossed a couple of times, he soon fell asleep.

  “My lady,” Miriam whispered from the doorway. “I’ve the broth and a bit of bread here.”

  Violet took the soup from her and set it down as quietly as possible.

  “Bring me the sewing basket and the man’s jacket and trousers.”

  Since she did not want to leave him, she decided she could make herself useful.

  He slept for two hours before he stirred again. This time, he could hardly speak and every movement caused him to groan in pain. She managed to get him to eat some broth and gave him a dose of laudanum, which made him even less intelligible than before. But he slept deeply and she iced him down again before sending Sally to look after him for a while.

  After some consideration, Violet went to her room. At first, she sat down at her secretary to write a letter to her brother, Westley. But the black ink beaded on the page more than once as she paused to think of what to say. Her mind kept returning back to him.

  She would have to tell Westley everything sooner or later, but it could wait. Fingering the fine walnut wood of her desk, she reached down to the drawer where she kept her journal.

  It was the only place where she could allow herself to express what she was really feeling. Her quill danced over the page as she recalled the last two days: the wild events on the way home from the Crofts’ farm and the mysterious gentleman who’d come to her rescue.

  She described his intense gaze, the sumptuous mouth that tempted her every time she looked at it too closely, and the body that made a woman want things that should never be spoken aloud.

  In front of the doctor and the servants she could pretend that she merely sought his welfare, that she wished to repay him for assisting her on the road. But here in her private space, she could be honest. Violet wanted him. She wanted his kiss, his body gliding over hers. Each time he awoke and looked into her eyes, the need grew stronger.

  Chapter Four

  Four Days Later

  The cannon fire between his ears made him want to weep. He held both sides of his head, trying to ease the pressure there. What had happened? Had an anvil been dropped over his head?

  He could hear the distant clatter of what sounded like silverware. The clanging only made the pounding in his head worse. If he’d had a gun, he’d shoot himself, merely to be free of it.

  He closed his eyes and willed the noises to subside. Where was Jeffries? “Jeffries! Jeffries! Stop that incessant noise!” His valet would see to his peace and quiet.

  “Pardon, sir. You called?” A young blonde girl came into the room and curtseyed. She carried a tray that included hot tea and scones.

  He did not recognize her. She must be new. “Where is Jeffries?”

  The girl gave him a blank look. “Let me fetch my lady for you.” She set down the tray. The clanging continued as the cup jostled against the saucer and the teapot rattled. He grimaced and rubbed his head.

  No, no, no. He didn’t want his sister. He wanted Jeffries. But before he could correct her, the girl was gone.

  A few minutes later, an exquisite woman with hazel eyes and full lips entered the room. That was not his sister.

  When she spoke, the sound echoed through his skin, sending tingles all over his body. Who was she?

  The dream. He’d dreamed her before. Leaning over him,
bathing him, singing to him. Was he merely dreaming again?

  “You are awake! I’m glad to see you alert again.” The woman smiled broadly. Her teeth were white and even, her skin clear and smooth. Surely she’d dropped from the heavens.

  “Hello, angel,” he said. The gravel in his voice surprised him. His throat was parched and his fingers felt stiff when he moved them.

  She came and sat on the bed. Yes, she must be a dream. What fine lady would come into his room and sit on his bed in so familiar a fashion?

  He leaned forward to touch her hand. A hammer pounded through his head, but he ignored it. He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. “Is this a good dream?”

  Her pupils widened and he could hear the catch in her breath. When she spoke, it was a breathy caress. “It is no dream, sir. Do you remember anything?”

  She lifted her arm, but then dropped it. When she bit her lip, his gaze was drawn to her lips again. Full, sensual, and perfect. He could bite and kiss them for hours. To have them on his skin would be a treasure. On his cock, would be heavenly.

  She blinked and turned her head from him. But the redness in her cheeks gave it away. She knew what he wanted. And if she did not want it, she would walk away.

  He took hold of her wrists and pulled her toward him. He wanted her. And this was a dream, so he saw no reason to proceed with caution or whisper honeyed words to flatter her into seduction.

  He reached for the fichu tucked into her bodice, wanting to be rid of the fine sheer cloth that hid her décolletage from view.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered in a tone so soft it made him instantly hard.

  “I am unveiling your treasures.” He tore off the thin scarf and feasted his eyes on the enticing fruit of her body. “These are far too lovely to hide away,” he said, sliding his hands under them.

  “You should be resting.”

  He kissed her neck. She smelled of honeysuckle and her warm skin tasted sweet and salty, like baked bread.

  “You should not overexert yourself,” she said, even as she angled her neck to give him access. “It’s been four days since the incident. I think you need a bit more time to recover from your wounds.”

  That stopped him.

  “Wounds?”

  She touched his head. The heat of her hand touching his body made him want to kiss her again. But something was wrong. He put his hands over hers and realized that his head was wrapped in a bandage.

  Earlier, he’d been too pained by the loud sounds to notice that it wasn’t a sleeping cap on his head.

  “You were assaulted by criminals.” She bent her head down. “You came to assist me when I was attacked on the road.”

  He could remember seeing glimpses of her face. Remember her touching him. But he could not remember any criminals or being on the road with her.

  “I-I have no recollection of that.”

  She stroked his cheek. “That is common after an injury such as yours. I’ve seen it in the soldiers we tended after battle. You need rest.” She pushed him gently, urging him to lie down again. “In time, it will all come back to you. It was only yesterday that your fever broke.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Violet Laurens of Welbury Park.”

  Mrs.? He’d nearly made love to another man’s wife? Perhaps he had been thrashed in the head.

  “You are married?” He accused, crossing his arms.

  Violet’s eyes narrowed and she met his stare with one of her own. “Widowed.”

  “Ah.” No harm done. The lady was free. He loosened his arms and placed them at his side.

  “Now, may I ask for your name?”

  His name. What was his name? A moment ago, he remembered his valet, his sister. “Kit—” The words fell off. He could not remember. He rubbed his temples, searching for the name that was at the edge of his mind.

  He tried to think. Kit. Kittleson? Kittridge? Kitson? Christopher? He couldn’t be sure.

  “It is alright. Do not strain yourself, Kit. You are safe for now.”

  “Why can I remember the name of my valet, but I cannot for the life of me recall my own?”

  “Perhaps you are oft used to yelling it across the house? Like as not, you say his name far more than your own.” She winked.

  It was as plausible an explanation as any. He looked up to see her smile and then he forgot everything but the desire to touch her.

  “I take it we do not know one another?”

  “No.”

  “Seeing that I am here in your home, I think we should take steps to remedy that situation.” He grinned slowly and looked at her through his lashes.

  “You are persistent.”

  “I can say with confidence that I am.” He may have forgotten some things, but he had not forgotten how to charm a lady. “Now tell me something about you.”

  “I do not know what to say.”

  “How long have you been widowed?”

  “Three years.”

  Though he’d not wished to discomfit her, he needed to know if she was freshly grieving. That would damper any attempt at seduction.

  “I have never been married,” he said.

  She looked incredulous. “How can you know that? You don’t remember your own name.”

  Yet he knew that it was true. “Was I wearing a wedding band when you brought me here?”

  “No.”

  “I am not married,” he repeated. The last thing he wanted was for her to hesitate to get to know him because of some foolish notion that he had a wife. He loved women, but there was no one who meant that much to him.

  “You seem so certain.”

  “I just know that is not the sort of thing I would forget.”

  “What do you remember?”

  He decided to try a different tack. “I remember you,” he said. “I remember you sitting close to me, touching me, as you did a moment ago.”

  “As I said, you have been here for a few days.”

  He memorized the lines of her soft lips. “You sang to me.”

  When her skin turned a lovely shade of rose, he found her even more beautiful.

  “Yes.”

  Holding her hands in his, he whispered, “You bathed me.” He paused, looking from their joined hands to her bosom, rising and falling with each breath, up to her almond shaped eyes. “Everywhere.”

  She swallowed and closed her eyes a moment before meeting his gaze. “You needed care. My maids are too innocent for such a thing and Avery and I have done it so many times before.” Her words sped out of her mouth like a coach racing down the lane.

  “You’ve taken other men into your bed and bathed them?”

  If it was possible, her skin became even redder. “Uh, no. In the war. And, with my husband. I-I helped soldiers in the infirmary.”

  She avoided looking directly at him.

  “Then you really are an angel,” he said softly. He’d seen the horrors of war. The one year he’d spent in the Iberian Peninsula had horrified him. The senseless brutality, the raping of innocent girls, villages being burned down to root out the enemy. The worst was watching soldiers in his regiment at the edge of sanity, firing on their own kind. If he never set foot on Spanish soil again, it would be too soon.

  He’d sold his commission and never looked back.

  Wait. He remembered that. “I remember,” he whispered. He rubbed his thumbs over the back of her hands. “I remember!”

  “What? What do you remember?”

  “Spain. I served in Spain for a year.” He grimaced. “The worst year of my life.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she said. Then she shook her head, her eyes wide. “I meant it is good that you have not lost all of your memory. You know you were a soldier. If you remember that, then surely you will regain the rest.”

  Of all the blasted things for him to remember, that was the thing still in his mind. If he could light a torch and burn it out of his brain, he would.

  “From your mouth to God’
s ears, madam. I should hate to be left with only the bitter and no memory of the sweet.”

  He stroked her hands again. He needed to feel her warmth, to feel her pulse race under his touch. The past could not be undone, but the future was a die that had yet to be cast.

  “Will you sing to me again?”

  “What?” Her dark lashes lowered and he could hear a tremor in her voice.

  “I should like to hear you sing now that I am fully awake to enjoy it.”

  “I cannot think of the words at the moment.”

  He suspected it might be the fact that his hands had travelled up her wrists, massaging the supple skin. He couldn’t get enough of touching her, even if it was as chaste as this.

  “What if I start and you join me?” He continued stroking the soft skin, but slower now. “As I walked forth one summer’s day, to view the meadows green and gay, a pleasant bower I espied…”

  “Standing fast by the river side,” she sang with a clear voice, soft and airy, “And in’t a maiden I heard cry, Alas, Alas, there’s none e’er loved as I.”

  He closed his eyes and let the world disappear apart from her voice.

  “Then round the meadow did she walk, catching each flower by the stalk.”

  When the words died, he looked back at her.

  “You were not singing,” she reproached.

  “Forgive me, madam. Such flow’rs as in the meadow grow…”

  They continued in harmony, their voices twining and merging together, hers lifting them toward heaven and his gliding under hers. Until she faltered and blushed in the last verse.

  “The green things served her for…”

  “—Her bed. The flowers were the pillows for her head,” he continued on, though he couldn’t help but smile. The song was anything but bawdy, yet the lady could not say the word ‘bed’.

  He finished the rest of the sad song, never letting go of her hand.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “Almost as lovely as your face.”

  “Thank you. Though I suspect you are still recovering from the blow to your head. You should hear Miriam sing.”

  “The only voice I wish to hear is yours.” He kissed her wrist and felt her tremble under his mouth.