Grumbling, Westfield dragged the counterpane over his head.
She cleared her throat. “My lord, I have an appointment at eleven o’clock, and I wish to examine your leg before I leave.”
From under the bedding came a low disembodied voice. “Miss Camden, you walk a fine line between insolence and outright madness waking me this bloody early.” He lowered the counterpane off his head, clutched his injured thigh, and rolled onto his back.
Even with his hair in disarray, the man looked appealing. What would it be like to wake up next to such a virile man? She tamped down her wicked thought.
He narrowed his already heavy-lidded eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, madam. You may examine me upon your return.”
Evidently, she was destined to struggle through another day of combative behavior. So be it. Without responding, she entered the bathing room, washed her hands, and collected fresh bandages.
She returned to find Westfield had rolled back onto his stomach and appeared fast asleep. Did he believe she’d concurred with his mandate? Well, he was in for a shock. With a swift tug, she sent the heavy counterpane and sheet flying to the foot of the bed.
She sucked in a breath. Westfield’s nightshirt had ridden up and over his hips to reveal his taut bum. Gracious, his gluteus muscles were so developed one could bounce a coin off them.
“Shall I roll over, Miss Camden, so you can ogle my bits as well?” Westfield asked, his deep voice muffled by his thick pillow.
She swallowed. How long had she been staring? She darted to the foot of the bed and flung the sheet upward.
Westfield rolled over and peered at her with a lopsided grin. “Tsk-tsk, Miss Camden. Who would have guessed you’re a naughty girl?”
She set her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “And you are no gentleman. Now please pull your nightshirt down, so I may examine you.”
His grin widened as he adjusted his nightshirt. “Ah, I think you’ve examined me well enough.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Do not flatter yourself. I have a job to do, and you look no different to me than the children I tend to. In fact, from what I could see, you . . . you reminded me of little Edward Shore.”
Westfield’s smug face faltered. “Who the deuce is little Edward Shore?”
“One of Dr. Trimble’s patients. The poor mite took ill last week, and I helped his mother bathe him with cool water to reduce his fever.”
His lordship’s color dimmed a shade causing him to resemble a man suffering with a case of the collywobbles. He’d probably never had such an unflattering comment heaved upon him. No, she bet his lovers practically swooned over that fine bum of his.
“Oh, my lord, you appear disconcerted. I do not wish you to fret over little Edward, for he has fully recovered.”
“How old?”
“What?”
A nerve twitched in his jaw. “How old is little Edward?”
She tapped a finger to her chin. “I believe he is nine. But he’s a wee little thing who looks no more than seven.” Sophia bent down, averted her smiling face, and began to unwrap his bandages.
She expected a pithy retort, but Westfield remained silent, which didn’t bode well.
Dash it all, what’s he thinking? “After I change your bandages, I’ll bring your breakfast tray before I leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“I volunteer at the Whitechapel Mission and Dispensary in the East End. Dr. Trimble and I go there one day a week.”
Westfield’s face twisted. “Whitechapel? It’s the bowels of hell. Will Trimble remain with you while you are there?”
“Sir, are you concerned for my welfare?”
“Will he remain with you?” he repeated, his jaw tense.
“Yes, I expect his carriage at eleven o’clock.” She finished examining his thigh, moved into the bathing room, and set the soiled clothes in an enamel pail before washing her hands. She stepped back into the bedchamber. “I shall return shortly with your breakfast.”
“Miss Camden, what lunatic, besides Dr. Thomas Trimble, considers that paste I’m fed breakfast?”
“My lord, many people start their day with a bowl of hot porridge.”
“And what did you eat for breakfast?” His tone betrayed he thought it something magnificent.
“For the past two mornings, I’ve been served porridge, along with the rest of the staff.”
He frowned. “Do they eat it every day?”
It sounded as if the thought sickened him. “I’m not certain, but it’s possible.”
“Well, I want something substantial.”
Sophia looked at his tightly set jaw. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with him, and a return to his normal diet might improve his disposition. Though unlikely. “All right, I will inform your chef you may start eating your regular fare.”
“And tell Mrs. Beecham I wish to speak with her. Feeding the staff porridge every day is unconscionable.”
His disgust over his staff’s breakfast surprised her. She nodded and exited the room.
As she passed a hall mirror, she surveyed her frazzled face. Good grief, what had she been thinking, gawking at Westfield’s bum as if it were some fine antiquity on display at the British Museum? No wonder the scoundrel had looked so pleased with himself. She pressed her fingers against her flushed cheeks. Blast it all, the man looked nothing like little Edward Shore. He was magnificent, and he knew it!
A half hour later, Sophia made her way up the stairs carrying Westfield’s breakfast tray. As she stepped off the landing, she saw his valet closing the master’s bedchamber door.
Mathews, a balding man well into his forties, started upon seeing her, and then turned several shades of red before settling on the color of a ripe tomato. The man looked ready to swoon. She rushed forward. The covered platters on the tray rattled and the Sevres creamer tipped precariously. “Mr. Mathews, are you ill?”
The valet shook his head, pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed it across his shimmering brow. His hands trembled like a man suffering the ravages of palsy.
“Miss,” he said, stuffing his dampened linen back into his pocket. “I must insist you give me the tray and let me bring it into his lordship.”
Sophia eyed him keenly. “Mr. Mathews, I assure you I can handle whatever nonsense his lordship throws at me.” She gave him a smile, hoping to reassure him. “Would you be so kind as to open the door?”
He took a deep breath. “I shall accompany you, Miss Camden.”
Sophia gave a brisk nod, and Mathews slowly swung the door open.
She crossed the threshold. The bed was empty.
What the deuce! Silly, silly man. Reckless to be up and gallivanting about. Her gaze shifted to an open doorway. A private sitting room? Yes, from where she stood, she could see a settee and several chairs done in the same opulent navy damask as the bedroom’s curtains and counterpane. Like the bedchamber, the walls were white with thick moldings and wainscoting.
“Mathews, if that is Miss Camden send her in.”
Something in the lighthearted tone of Westfield’s voice, along with Mr. Mathews’s unease, sent a foreboding sensation skittering up her spine.
What in heaven’s name is Westfield up to? She strode to the doorway, stepped into the room, and nearly tripped over her own two feet.
Westfield lounged on a chaise, wearing nothing but a thin sheet wrapped around his lean waist and a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.
Chapter Four
Sophia’s throat grew dry. Up until this point in her life, she had thought no man’s chest could be as magnificently formed as Michelangelo’s David. She’d seen a cast of it at South Kensington Museum, but looking at Westfield, she realized the young David’s body somehow paled in comparison. Westfield’s shoulders were broader, his pectoral and abdominal muscles more developed, and unlike the statue, his skin was warmly hued, while below his navel a thin band of hair trailed beneath the sheet.
His smile broadened. “A
h, Miss Camden, I’m as hungry as a horse.”
She tried not to leer. “Where is your nightshirt, my lord?”
“I was warm, so I removed it. And since I resemble little Edward Shore, whom you recently attended and bathed, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
She turned to the valet. “Mr. Mathews, would you please be good enough to get his lordship a nightshirt?”
“I’m not putting it on. If you wish to work here, you’ll have to contend with me in the nude. Of course, you could resign.”
As Mathews scurried into the dressing room, Sophia distracted herself by setting the breakfast tray down on a large mahogany desk. She glanced at the numerous landscapes that dotted the walls of the private sitting room. An impressive collection. Her eyes moved past a Canaletto of the Thames to another landscape of the river. It was one of her grandfather’s paintings. Her chest tightened. One of the few she’d regrettably sold. She fought the urge to step up to it. If she had known Westfield owned it, she would have included it as part of her prize for completing the dare.
Mathews rushed back into the room, holding a nightshirt.
Westfield scowled at the valet. “Mathews, are you as hard of hearing as Miss Camden? I said I do not wish to wear a nightshirt.” With an impatient wave of his arm, he motioned the man away.
The movement caused the cording in his upper arms to twist and his pectorals to harden. Sophia couldn’t look away. She’d overheard someone on Westfield’s staff say his lordship was a member of the London Rowing Club. Could the repetitive movements of such an activity have developed him to this extent or had God felt generous?
A foreign heat warmed her belly while a contradictory shiver prickled her skin. This will not do! She strode to Mathews, took the garment out of his unsteady hand, and turned back to Westfield. She tried not to act overwhelmed by his nakedness; however, she couldn’t stop her gaze from perusing the thin ribbon of hair that trailed downward until it—
Westfield cleared his throat.
Her gaze snapped back to his face.
The scoundrel smiled at her like some merry Andrew at a carnival. As she tossed the nightshirt onto the chaise, she noticed a set of crutches leaning on the wall. Ah, so that was how he’d maneuvered about. Where had they come from? She looked at Mathews.
The valet’s cheeks turned red and he averted his face.
She gathered up the crutches.
Westfield narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing with them?”
Ignoring his inquiry, she returned to the desk and leaned the crutches against the wall. “You should not be out of bed, my lord.”
There were two silver-domed platters on the breakfast tray. She lifted one of the lids, revealing several thick slices of bacon and three eggs. A savory aroma permeated the air. “I believe your chef has outdone himself. Mr. Mathews, doesn’t this look tasty?”
“Yes, miss,” he responded, once again, mopping his limp handkerchief over his brow.
Sophia began to cut the bacon into bite-sized pieces. She stabbed a piece with the tines of the fork and lifted it into the air. “I’m not giving you this tray of food until you put your nightshirt on. In fact, it looks so tempting, I’m going to start eating it myself, so the longer you take to dress, the less there will be.”
His lordship glared at her, then swung his legs down, and tried to stand. He cringed.
“I wouldn’t do that. You’ll tear your stitches and slow down your recovery.”
He slumped back down. “Miss Camden, if you dare eat even one piece of my—”
She placed the piece of bacon in her mouth and slowly drew it off the tines. “Mmm. I don’t know what you pay Monsieur Laurent, but your chef is worth every pound. This bacon is cooked to perfection.” She turned to the valet. “Mr. Mathews, would you care to join me?”
The red that flooded Mathews’s face drained away. The valet swallowed, and his Adam’s apple visibly bobbed convulsively as the man’s gaze shifted to Westfield’s gaping mouth.
“Mathews, if you eat one jot of my breakfast or even take a whiff, you shall find your scrawny arse on the street. Now, you ruddy well better get my food from that confounded woman and bring it to me!”
The poor valet appeared ready to swoon again. Sophia knew the man couldn’t comprehend why Westfield didn’t sack her as he most likely did anyone who did not cower before him.
Not wishing to place the valet in the middle of the battle, she said, “My lord, this is between you and me, and I shan’t relinquish this tray until you put your nightshirt on.”
“Mathews, get my crutches,” Westfield barked.
She flashed Mathews an apologetic expression. “My lord, what is it you expect Mr. Mathews to do? Wrestle them from me?”
“Yes, by God, if that’s what it takes.”
Mathews’s mouth fell open, and his gaze swung back and forth between them as though he observed two tennis players at Hampton Court. “I-I believe I’m being hailed. I’m coming!” the valet said, and bolted from the room.
“Damn you, Mathews. You spineless rotter. You probably wouldn’t have won a tussle with this termagant, but at least you might have given it a go!” He turned his angry glare back on her.
She smiled and lifted another dome with great fanfare. “Oh, sausages. How divine.”
“You she-devil. Don’t you dare.”
“Did you know Monsieur Laurent has left for market?” She shook her head at him. “No, you poor soul, confined as you are, you would not. But surely you must realize what it means?” Without waiting for a response she continued, “It means there is no one in the kitchen to cook up more of this hearty fare.”
If possible, Westfield’s visage took on an even more lethal edge.
“Oh, don’t fret. I’m sure there is some porridge left in the kitchen.” She scrunched up her nose. “Though it does have a terrible propensity to crust and thicken when it sits about.”
Westfield reached out and grabbed his nightshirt. He looked like a man barely contained. He drew the garment over his head and onto his body. “You, my dear girl, are lucky I cannot walk, because if I could, I would throttle your slender little neck.”
A frisson ran down her spine. Westfield’s hands were massive. They looked capable of snapping not only her neck, but grinding stone to dust or bending steel. She battled down such unsettling thoughts and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the pressed linen napkin from the tray. “I’ll ring for a clean fork and napkin.”
“Never mind, just give me my food,” he said, buttoning his nightshirt.
Sophia felt a pang of regret when he fastened the last button.
“Be warned, madam, I shall remove my nightshirt as soon as I’m done eating.”
“Hayden!” a female voice gasped from the doorway. “Surely, you cannot be serious.”
Westfield slumped against the pillows cushioning the chaise and rubbed the back of his neck. The sharp look in his eyes was gone, replaced by an unmistakable affection for the woman who entered his private sitting room.
“Tell me, Edith, have I been such a terrible brother you felt it befitting to shackle me with this accursed woman?”
Lady Prescott sighed. “Hayden, should not the question be what lunacy persuaded me to retain such a sweet and gently bred woman to tend to you? I should have hired a charwoman from one of the East End infirmaries with ham-sized hands and a vocabulary befitting a sailor.”
Westfield’s sister plucked the kid gloves off her fingers. They were a deep green, like her fashionable walking dress with its bustled back and layered swags. The woman patted her brown hair, swept up into a chignon. “I’m appalled by your behavior. It is beyond the pale, even for you.” She turned to Sophia. “Do forgive my brother’s immodesty, Miss Camden. I pray it shan’t happen again, but I did forewarn you that your charge would not be easy. Yet, I never imagined . . .” Her ladyship steepled her hands and tilted her face heavenward before looking back at Sophia. “My dear, I hope you are not about to resign.”
With a hand on her bosom, Lady Prescott heaved a sigh. “Good, my dear. I knew I could count on you.” She waggled a finger at her brother. “We must thank the good Lord that Miss Camden has a great deal of Christian charity in her, Hayden. You should feel ashamed.”
“Presently, dear, all I feel is hungry.” He motioned to the tray. “My breakfast, Miss Camden.”
Sophia placed the bed tray upon his lap and turned back to Lady Prescott. “May I inquire how you are faring, my lady?”
“Quite well. My cold is all but gone.”
Sophia smiled. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
Westfield raised a fork laden with bacon. His hand stilled. “Edith, I’d offer you some breakfast, but Chef is at market. Would you care for some hot chocolate, tea, or some toast?” He slipped the fork into his mouth.
Sophia gently cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t mean to be impertinent by correcting you, but Monsieur Laurent hasn’t left yet.”
Westfield nearly choked on his bacon. “What?” he asked, coughing down the meat as though it had grown a cloven hoof. “I thought you said Laurent was at market.”
She pressed her fingers to her cheek. “I do beg your forgiveness if I was somehow unclear. Mr. Laurent is not due to leave for another hour.”
Sophia thought Westfield would throw one of his dishes at her, but instead he grinned.
“You are a worthy opponent, Miss Camden. Very worthy.”
Lady Prescott stared at her brother. “Opponent? What in heaven’s name are you prattling about, Hayden? Is he feverish, Miss Camden? Should Dr. Trimble be summoned?”
“Edith, I’m fine. I have no fever, and I do not wish to see Trimble. Now, dear, do you wish for some breakfast?”
Lady Prescott took an exaggerated breath. “No, I’m fine.” She settled into the upholstered chair by the chaise.
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 3