“No,” he said hoarsely.
He shook his head sluggishly as he glanced down to study her hand holding his. Despite the fear holding him hostage, a small part of him welcomed the warmth of her touch. It indicated an affection for him that almost eased his fears, but his terror was stronger. He tugged his hand out of hers with a grimace as the movement affected the rest of his body.
“Who . . .” he rasped and looked away from her. Christ Jesus, he couldn’t even ask the question.
“I did.” Her quiet response made him jerk his head toward her.
“You what?” He knew what she was referring to, but he didn’t want to believe it.
“I undressed you,” she said gently. “There was little choice, we needed to see the extent of your injuries. I knew you wouldn’t want anyone to see you, so I’m the only one who . . . who knows.”
Her words battered their way through him with the same ruthless power as the beating he’d taken last night. Worse, she’d stumbled over her explanation. A strong indicator of her revulsion.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The violent oaths built slowly in his mind until the last instance of the word was a roar of fury resounding in his head. She’d seen him. She knew his secret. Humiliation swept its way through him. Christ Jesus, what was he supposed to do now? If she told someone, he’d be the laughingstock of the Set.
Worse, he’d be an object of pity for others. The sudden urge to run latched onto his limbs, and he glanced around the room for his clothing. Out. He needed to get out of here. He needed to find a quiet place to think.
“Where are my clothes?” The rough edge of his voice made her flinch, but he didn’t care. He had to leave. He couldn’t stay here knowing she knew the truth.
“They’re in the wardrobe, but you’re not well enough to get out of bed, let alone dress.”
“My clothes, Lady Ruth,” he ground out. The flash of pain that flitted across her face was easy to ignore when the panic inside him refused to subside.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “You’re far too weak to go gallivanting about town.”
“I’ll be the judge of how strong I am. Bring me my clothes.”
“Get them yourself.”
The words were sharp with exasperation, and the noisy rustle of her skirts emphasized her outrage as she stood up. Her mouth tight with anger, she took several steps back from the bed and waited for him to move. He glared at her then started to scoot his way to the edge of the bed, taking care to keep the sheet close to his waist. Even though she knew about his defect, the idea of exposing himself to her was unthinkable.
His efforts to reach the side of the bed pulled a hiss of pain from him, and he stopped to take in a breath. Bloody hell. What part of him didn’t hurt? He inched forward again, and the grunt he made pulled a small noise of dismay from Ruth. Damn it, the last thing he wanted was her pity. But he didn’t have much choice about getting out of bed. She was right. He didn’t have the strength to leave.
The realization made him sag back into the feather bedding. He wasn’t used to being so helpless, and he’d never had need of a physician’s care before. He stiffened. We. She’d said “we had no choice.” Christ almighty, she had to have sent for a doctor. She wasn’t the only one who knew the truth. Horrified, he clenched his jaw only to have it shoot pain up into his head, but it didn’t stop him from pushing himself up into a sitting position once more.
“You said we,” he rasped.
“I had Simmons examine you. He served in the army as a medical corpsman.” Her tone was calm and serene, but her irritation remained just below the surface. “He’s quite skilled, and I trusted his judgment that you were in no serious danger.”
A servant. She’d allowed a servant to examine him. His gut twisted violently at this newest revelation. Servants were notorious for gossip. It was like spoon-feeding the Marlborough Set. One servant whispered a juicy piece of information into the ear of a servant from another household and suddenly something private was public fodder.
“You allowed a servant—”
“I was with Simmons the entire time. And even though I trust him implicitly, I know for a fact that his examination did not uncover your secret.” She returned to the bed to straighten the pillows behind him. God help her if she was lying to him.
“Leave me be, Ruth.” His throat hurt, and their conversation only exacerbated his pain.
Each new revelation she offered up added to his misery. And the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was think about how his life would change—had changed, and not for the better. Exhausted, he closed his eyes.
“Oh, so it’s not Lady Ruth anymore,” she muttered. He grimaced as she jabbed a pillow behind him. “I ought to crown you for being so stubborn and trying to get out of bed.”
“Christ Jesus, leave me alone.”
His vicious growl sounded as sharp as his throat felt, and he opened his eyes to see her jerk back from him as if bitten. He half expected her to flee the room, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood there looking down at him for a long moment before she shook her head.
“I’ll do no such thing.” Her firm manner reflected the remnants of her irritation. “You need me, and I understand some of what you must be feeling.”
“How in the hell could you possibly understand?” he snarled, and as her gaze met his, she sighed softly.
“You’re not the first man I’ve seen with only one ballock, Garrick.”
The quiet confession caught him off guard, and he stared at her in stupefaction. He shook his head in denial. She had to be lying. To what end, he had no idea, but she couldn’t be telling him the truth. Violet eyes flashing with anger, she stiffened.
“I am not in the habit of lying, and while I never reveal the secrets of any man I’ve been with, I can assure you that your physical condition is one I’ve seen before.”
At a loss for words, he looked away from her. Was it really possible one of her other lovers had the same physical flaw as him? Was she telling the truth? He could think of no reason not to believe her. And he wanted to believe—trust her to keep his secret as she’d kept the secrets of other men. She sank down on the mattress beside him, and he breathed in the scent of her. It soothed him, despite the horror still holding him rigid. Her fingers lightly touched the back of his hand, but he refused to look at her.
“Whatever your uncle told you about your condition, he was wrong.” She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed his hand.
“I believe you are an exception in this particular matter,” he muttered with a grimace.
“I highly doubt that,” she said with conviction. “I cannot believe that any woman would find you repulsive.”
“Then you would be wrong.” He turned his head and eyed her coldly. “I was seventeen when I learned just how revolting I was to women.”
“All women or just one?” The soothing quiet of her voice made him close his eyes. The woman was far too skilled at convincing a man to open up his soul.
“It wasn’t necessary to expose myself more than once.” He shook his head. “The event persuaded me that every woman would have the same reaction Bertha did.”
“Please do not put me in the category of ‘every woman.’ ” She was clearly annoyed, and a small smile tugged at his lips as he studied her peeved expression.
“You’re an exceptional woman, Ruth. I would be hard-pressed to categorize you.”
“Then I forgive you,” she said with a smile. Her hand reached out to stroke his brow. “What role did your uncle play in this woman’s rejection?”
The memory of Beresford slamming into his bedroom that terrible night made his mouth tighten with humiliation and anger. He clenched his jaw, and the pain that followed the action made him draw in a sharp hiss of air between his lips.
“My uncle knew I was enamored with Bertha. When she invited me to her rooms one night, she did so with my uncle’s knowledge. It was obvious they staged the entire event merely to have s
port with me.” His fingers curled inward until his nails dug into the palms of his hands.
“It was a cruel thing to do.”
“My uncle is a cruel man. Poking fun of my infatuation with Bertha as well as my inexperience is something that would appeal to his sadistic nature.”
“Then your uncle knew nothing of your condition.”
“No,” he rasped as the humiliation of that specific moment rolled over him again. “If Beresford had known about my . . . my condition, I have no doubt he would have tormented me with the fact long before that night. I’m certain he didn’t know until he charged into my room at the sound of Bertha’s laughter.”
The moment the bastard had discovered Garrick only had one ballock the man had zealously made use of the knowledge to torture him. Beresford had taken great pleasure in tormenting him with the threat of revealing his secrets. Even worse, he had relentlessly taken every opportunity to remind Garrick he wasn’t really a man.
Over and over again, his uncle had reiterated how Garrick’s physical flaw guaranteed that no woman would want him. He supposed he should be grateful the man hadn’t shared his secret with anyone, at least not until recently. Even now he couldn’t be sure his uncle had kept his end of the bargain they’d struck when he’d tossed the bastard out of Chiddingstone Manor.
“It explains a great deal.”
“What does?” He stiffened. He would have none of her pity.
“The fact that you never wanted me to see you—touch you.” Her quiet response held no pity, only sadness, and relief inched its way through him.
“That’s not entirely true. I did want you to touch me.”
It was a bare statement that left him more vulnerable than he’d ever been since the night his uncle and Bertha had played their vicious game. He met her gaze for a fleeting moment before he looked away. The woman had the ability to turn him inside out. Even when he’d been fighting so hard to survive, his only thought had been to return to her. He released a sigh as a sudden weariness gripped him hard.
“Sweet heavens, what was I thinking? You’re fatigued. And you’ve not eaten anything.”
She sprang to her feet and hurried toward the fireside table where she retrieved a large bowl off the tray. Steam still drifted off the contents, and he shook his head as she approached. Attempting to eat when his jaw and throat hurt so badly was the last thing he wanted to do.
“No,” he rasped.
“Surely you can eat a spoonful or two. Dolores made it especially for you, and she’ll be disappointed if you don’t try and eat even a little bit.” She sat down on the bed close to his shoulder and gently stirred the soup. He tried to smile at her wheedling tone.
“Guilt?”
“Absolutely, if it means you’ll eat something. Just a few spoonfuls, then you can sleep some more.”
The smile she offered him would have been more than enough to secure his obedience. With a slight nod, he opened his mouth and sipped from the spoon she held up. The broth smelled wonderful, and to his surprise it tasted even better. He managed to eat almost half the bowl before he gingerly held up his hand to silently signal he was done.
She set the bowl aside then wet a small towel in the basin resting on the nightstand. When she’d wrung it dry, she tenderly cleaned his face with the moist cloth. With that task complete, she quickly checked his bandages then helped ease him down lower in the bed. Bent over him, she cupped the uninjured side of his face.
“There,” she said softly. “Try to get some rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”
A deep weariness settled into his bones as she made him comfortable. It made his limbs heavy as lead and barely able to move as she covered him with the sheet and light blanket. The sweet smell of her filled his senses and it was the last thing he remembered as he drifted off to sleep.
14
Sunlight warmed Garrick’s face as he reclined in Ruth’s conservatory with his eyes closed. The indoor garden was sunny and warm, despite the slight nip in the air outside. It had been four days since the attack, and he was already feeling like himself again.
Incapacitation wasn’t something he was accustomed to, and he certainly hadn’t enjoyed it. Particularly when he hadn’t been able to move quickly enough to box his brother’s ears. Ruth had sent word to his siblings the morning after the attack, and Vincent had come to see him as soon as the message arrived at Chiddingstone House.
His brother’s comments about the impropriety of his confinement in Ruth’s house had infuriated him. He knew his brother meant well, but Vincent’s observations about the age difference between him and Ruth enraged him. He’d liked even less his brother’s concern about chatter amongst the Set because it had reminded him of the last piece of gossip concerning Ruth and him.
Fortunately, thanks to Worthington, the Set was convinced he was at death’s door, and at the moment, it was the only thing the Society pages were fixated upon. Soon though, the gossips would begin questioning his recovery time. It was one thing to be seen in public together, but to openly reside in Ruth’s home would simply make her a target for the gossips and their vicious tongues. That was something he wished to avoid at all costs, and was the reason he’d decided to return home tomorrow.
He frowned. No, that wasn’t the real reason, and he knew it. When she’d agreed to be his mistress at the orphanage, he’d thought their relationship would remain essentially as it had been with a few minor adjustments. He should have known better. Planned better. He might even have avoided being attacked if he’d been thinking more clearly. He should have known he was inviting trouble by walking home the other night. He snorted with anger.
That hadn’t been the problem. He could have easily defended himself if he’d been paying attention. By the time he’d realized his attacker wasn’t just another bumbling drunk, it had been too late. It was one thing to box with an opponent in the ring under the Marquess of Queensbury rules. A street fight was completely different.
If one wasn’t prepared for an encounter like he’d had . . . the truth was, he was damned lucky to be alive. He looked down and glared at his bare hand. The bastards had beaten and robbed him, even taking the ring that bore the Stratfield family crest. It was the one thing of his father’s that Beresford hadn’t touched.
The crest would make it impossible for the thieves to sell the jewelry in one piece, but they would have no trouble prying the stones out of the ring. The minute he got home, he’d send for Blackstone for a report on what the man had found out about his two attackers and his missing ring.
Another grimace tugged at his mouth. Thanks to his assailants, Ruth had discovered his secret. Now everything had changed between them, and he had no idea which way to turn. Especially when the idea of parting with Ruth was unthinkable. Even when he’d barely been conscious he’d known when she was near.
Between the laudanum and the pain, it had taken him almost a day to realize Ruth had been sleeping in one of the fireside chairs. He’d immediately insisted she share the bed with him. Although she’d protested, he’d finally gotten his way, and for the past two mornings, he’d woken up to the sweet sensation of Ruth curled up into his chest. It was a physical sensation that hovered between pleasure and torment.
Even the occasional twinge of sore muscles when her body bumped his in the middle of the night had been bearable just to have her in his arms. Unlike the past few days, when he’d awoken to find her gone from the bed, he’d been the first to awaken this morning. His physical reaction to her had been immediate. That hadn’t been a surprise, but the revelation that followed had stunned him.
He loved her.
It was a simple, straightforward insight that had taken him by surprise. And it complicated matters between them that much more. Despite her words of understanding, he was still uncomfortable with the idea of exposing himself to her. Now it would be even more difficult. He was certain she was very fond of him, but love?
The idea of her rejecting him was far more painful than he car
ed to consider. He had no desire to experience the humiliation he’d experienced at the hand of Bertha. Not that he believed Ruth could ever be that cruel, but losing her would be unbearable. The question he really wanted an answer to was whether she had feelings for him.
But how to broach the subject? She was already sensitive about the age difference between them. When she discovered it was an even greater gap than she believed, the likelihood of her casting him aside was far greater than he wanted to think about. He needed to come up with a plan that would allow him to break the news to her gently before someone in the Set did it for him. He just wasn’t sure how to do that without jeopardizing their relationship.
All of these thoughts had pounded their way into him when he’d awakened with her sweet body curled up against his. It was why he’d left her sleeping and rose to dress. His thoughts were too chaotic to keep her from thinking something was wrong, and the last thing he wanted to do was confess his feelings for her until he knew exactly how to address the situation to ensure a favorable outcome.
His jaw was still sore, but the swelling had almost disappeared, yet the bruising looked like he’d forgotten his morning shave. His sides were still bruised, but the only part of him that really hurt was his leg.
Simmons had stated Garrick had been lucky the leg wasn’t broken considering the size of the bruise he bore. Walking was still painful, but he didn’t let it keep him from making his way downstairs. The minute Dolores had seen him in the foyer she’d fussed over him like a mother hen, ordering him into the conservatory where she’d brought him breakfast and the London Times.
The paper had failed to hold his interest as thoughts of Ruth had relentlessly pushed their way into his head. She’d not been shocked by his condition and had discounted the thought that other women would find him repulsive because of his birth defect. It made him love her all the more, but it didn’t ease his fears.
Despite her reassurances, to his recollection, she’d not expressed whether or not she would want to lie with him again. Perhaps she’d simply been waiting for him to recover before she welcomed him back into her bed. And he wanted that very much. Even with his injuries, his body was more than ready to experience her again.
Pleasure Me Page 25