by Amanda Scott
She heaved a sigh of relief and let him help her into the coach. As soon as she was seated, he pulled a ragged blanket from under the seat and handed it to her.
“Wrap up in that, ma’am. Ye look chilled t’ the bone.”
She was, but she hesitated. “I … I’ll get it wet.”
“Never you mind about that. And put this gimcrackery bauble back on yer pretty finger, too. I don’t doubt I’ll get my blunt.” So saying, he handed her the intricately twisted gold band, and with more tears streaming down her cheeks, she slipped it back on.
“Thank you,” she said simply, then, “Do you think we might hurry? My husband will be …”
He grimaced reprovingly. “If that’s where yer ’usband abides, ma’am—or is it m’lady?” She nodded. “Well, ’e’s going t’ be much as I’d be m’self if’n m’ Suzy came home lookin’ like yer la’ship does. I just ’ope someone else’ll be there t’ gie me what’s owed, is all.” He looked as though he’d like to say more, but he apparently thought better of it and slammed the door shut after adjuring her again to wrap up tight. Then she felt the hack rock with his weight as he swung himself back onto the box.
On the way back to Charles Street she alternately shivered and tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together without thinking about Ravenwood. But his image kept interfering with her thoughts. She had been so frightened when no one would believe her and she had thought she would have to walk home in the dark. How she had longed for his presence then! Big, solid, and reassuring, he would have put an arm around her shoulders, given a lazy snap of his fingers, and everything would have come right.
Not that she hadn’t managed by herself, she thought with a small swelling of pride. She was glad she had thought of her wedding ring, for although the driver had been a good deal kinder than the others, it had been the ring that had got his attention at the outset. Without it he most likely would have turned her down, too. Considering what the others had thought about her, she realized she must cut quite a figure. Bedraggled, muddy, worn out, and looking like almost anything other than a duke’s daughter and a viscount’s wife.
She had flung the wet shawl onto the seat beside her and used the rough blanket to dry her face and arms. But she was wet to the skin, and damp tendrils of hair hung in her face and down her back. Allowing herself one watery sniff, she hoped Wigan would recognize her and agree to pay the driver without calling Ravenwood.
Late as it was, it was too much to hope that the viscount would not yet have returned from White’s, but he would no doubt be in his dressing room with Pavenham in stiff attendance, preparing for the evening ahead. No doubt, if he had even noticed her absence, he had assumed she had stayed overlong at Malmesbury House. Surely she ought to be able to reach her own room and make herself more presentable before having to face him.
She realized she could no longer hope to keep him from discovering where she had been, for she could scarcely give him the address of a chandler in Gray’s Inn Lane and hope he would think it had come to her in a dream. However, since she would have to tell him, it would certainly be far better if she could pick the best time and place to do so.
Finally the hackney coach slowed to a stop outside Ravenwood’s house. Cicely sat where she was for a moment, loath to go inside. But with a lurch of the hack, followed by the dull splat of feet on the pavement, the door opened to reveal the face of the driver. He was not smiling, but there was amusement in his eyes as he regarded her worried expression.
“This the place?” She nodded. “Best go on in, then. Want I should walk up wi’ ye?”
Cicely shook her head. “It will be better if I go alone, I think. I’ll send someone back to pay you.” She looked at him uncertainly. “Do you want to hold my ring until they come?”
He smiled then and held out a hand to help her alight. “No need fer that as I sees it, ma’am.”
She tried to return the smile, but her knees felt weak when she reached the pavement, and it required most of her attention to stand upright. She glanced up at the torchlit door. He was right. Best to get it over, whatever “it” was. One hoped only Wigan or, better yet, Michael would be in the front hall. Since the door was kept locked in the evenings, there was always someone there.
She squared her shoulders, then, with a final glance at the oilskin-bulk beside her, she stepped quickly up to the door and lifted the knocker. Scarcely had the first clank been heard than Wigan himself swung the door wide. He looked vastly relieved to see her, but her gaze went instinctively past him, and what she saw made her stop in her tracks even as she prepared to step into the house.
“Where the devil have you been?” Ravenwood demanded wrathfully.
16
CICELY STOOD IN THE doorway, feeling quite small and helpless and bedraggled, overwhelmed by both his size and his anger. This was not her father’s sort of explosive fury. This was far, far worse—something well beyond the scope of her experience. Ravenwood stood across the hall, near the stairway, yet he had never looked so large before, never so broad or so muscular, and never had his expression been so black. His dark eyes were unhooded now, and smoldered with fury. She stared back, white-faced, wholly unaware of anyone but him. There was a tension between them so tactile that she felt almost as though she could hold onto it for support, to keep her weakened knees from betraying her altogether.
“I asked you a question, madam,” he grated. “Must I repeat it?” He took a step toward her, then, his hands clenched at his sides, he stopped himself. “For God’s sake, Cicely, where?”
She swallowed, then a noise of clinking harness below reminded her of the hackney coach. She drew a breath, her gaze still locked with her husband’s. “I had no money to pay the driver, my lord. He needn’t have brought me home. He was very kind.”
Ravenwood gestured impatiently to the butler. “See to it, Wigan. Be generous. Where did he find you, madam?”
“In … in G-Gray’s Inn Lane.” The words were barely audible.
“Where?” Clearly he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. He took another step toward her. She could have no doubt that he was restraining himself only by great effort. But at least, she thought, he was restraining himself. She drew herself up, facing him more bravely. The sooner this was behind her, the better.
“I followed a man there,” she said. “He was the same man I saw in Mama’s bedchamber the other night. He—”
“You did what?” No longer did he attempt self-restraint. Two long strides brought them face to face, and his hands clamped painfully upon her shoulders. As he shook her his voice thundered in her ears, but she was too frightened to take in the words. Then, suddenly, he scooped her up into his arms and turned purposefully toward the stairs. Terrified, she clutched at him helplessly. What was he going to do? He looked angry enough to kill her.
“G-Gilbert, please,” she whispered.
He didn’t seem to hear her. Taking the stairs nearly two at a time, however, he seemed to be in a great hurry to do whatever it was he meant to do. Her eyes welled with unshed tears. He meant to beat her. As sure as anything, that was his intent. And it would be far worse than anything her father had ever done to her, for not only was Ravenwood a great deal larger than the duke, but he was younger, stronger, and much, much angrier. She trembled in his arms.
At the top of the stairs he halted, then turned to face the hall below, where Wigan was just shutting the front door. “Her ladyship desires a bath, Wigan,” he snapped. “At once, man! Very hot.” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel again and carried her up to her bedchamber. Once inside, he set her on her feet with enough force to jar her bones, then glowered at her.
“You’re a damned idiot, Cicely,” he growled.
“Oh, please, my lord, I know it was a foolish thing to do, but I had to see where he went, and I could think of no other means by which to accomplish it! I never dreamed I’d get into such a fix.”
“You never thought at all,” he snapped, putting his fac
e down close to hers and giving her another shake. “Following a man like that to a place like that with no one to protect you and no money to get yourself home again. Coming back here looking like something dragged out of an Irish bog. A disgrace to yourself. A disgrace to me.”
Her head snapped up at that, as her own temper managed to submerge some of her fear of him. “I should have known my appearance would distress you, sir,” she said sharply.
“Had I realized you would be waiting on the doorstep, I’d have taken the precaution of stopping elsewhere to put myself to rights, rather than allowing myself to appear before you in all my dirt.”
There was a heavy silence, making her wish she had not spoken. She stared stubbornly at the top button of his waistcoat. Despite his uncharacteristically energetic activities, not a thread was out of place, although she could detect several damp spots where he had held her against him. She bit her lip as she realized what she must look like by comparison.
“Where would you have gone, my dear?” His voice was, calm, but the very calmness sent shivers up her spine. “Would you have gone to a hotel, announcing yourself as the Viscountess Ravenwood, demanding a bath and a change of dress? That would have required money, you know. Or perhaps you would have asked them to send the bill to me. Assuming, of course, that they believed you when you identified yourself.” She shook her head, unable to speak, horrified by the ghastly picture his words conjured up in her vivid imagination. “No? Then perhaps you would have presented yourself to Lynsted and Sally. I don’t doubt Sal would have helped, had she been alone, but I fear that Lynsted, despite his flirtations, would have brought you straight home to me. Perhaps, however,” he went on, his voice taking on an even deadlier calm, “you would have gone to your cousin. No doubt he would have rendered whatever assistance you required.”
“No!” Her fears completely overridden by the suggestion in his words, she clutched at his lapels as though she would shake him. “It was a stupid thing for me to say! You made me angry, and I said the first thing that came into my head, but I would never have gone anywhere else. This is my home, Gilbert! I was frightened—”
“You damned well ought to have been frightened!” he snapped, “for a more cork-brained, idiotic stunt I hope never to imagine. You could have been seriously injured, even killed. That section of London—any section of London—for a gently bred female alone, just doesn’t bear thinking of!” He might have gone on, but the door opened just then to admit several footmen with the porcelain tub and buckets of hot water. “You’re wrinkling my coat, Cicely,” Ravenwood said grimly, watching them fill the tub.
She dropped her hands to her sides but didn’t watch the proceedings. Still certain he meant to beat her and had been waiting only until his orders regarding the drawing of her bath had been carried out, she concentrated her efforts upon remaining calm and not disgracing herself by becoming hysterical. The cutpurse and the difficulty of finding someone willing to help her had brought home the foolhardiness of her actions more than anything else could do. She didn’t need Ravenwood’s fury to tell her she had behaved most unwisely. She knew she well deserved whatever punishment he might decree for her, but that didn’t mean she would welcome it. The door closed, leaving her alone with him again. She shivered.
“Get out of those clothes,” he ordered. “Here, turn around. I’ll get those damned buttons for you.”
Miserably she obeyed him, and although she moved slowly, it seemed no time at all before her clothing lay in a wet heap upon the floor. He said nothing for a moment; neither did he move to touch her. Confused, she glanced up at him from beneath damp lashes.
“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “You’ll catch your death standing there like that. Get into the tub.”
Her eyes widened, and relief spread through her. “You’re not … You don’t mean to punish me?”
A smile tugged suddenly at the corners of his mouth. “Punish you? Did you think I’d beat you for this, Cilly?” She nodded, still wary, finding it hard to realize he would not. “Well, if I put that fear into you, it can only have done you good,” he declared, adding with a thoughtful look, “Not that you don’t deserve a good spanking for this day’s work, my girl, and if you’re not in that tub in five seconds—”
Hastily she turned away and climbed into the steaming tub, but when he picked up the soap and moved toward her, she asserted herself again, holding out her hand to take it from him. “Thank you, sir. I can bathe myself, although I’d appreciate it if you would ring for Betty to help me wash my hair.”
“Betty is a chambermaid, not a lady’s maid.”
“Yes, but she has helped me before, and since Meg is—” Tears welled up again, and she choked off the sentence.
“Meg will be perfectly all right, my dear. You would have heard by now if anything dreadful had happened to her. Rest assured, she is quite safe. However,” he added before she could debate the matter, “in her absence, I shall have to take her place. Shall I scrub your back?”
“Ravenwood! You’ll ruin your coat,” she said desperately.
“A very good point,” he agreed, shrugging it off and tossing it upon the bed.
“But that’s a silk waistcoat, and though it’s got a spot or two already, I’m sure Pavenham can—”
“Say no more, my dear.” He tugged off his neckcloth and then the waistcoat. “No doubt you will notice that my shirt is also silk,” he added, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. The shirt promptly followed the other clothing onto the bed. “Anything else?” he demanded, a wicked gleam in his eye.
She shook her head weakly, trying to slide farther down in the tub, unable to keep her eyes off the muscles of his bare chest and arms as he moved purposefully toward her, armed with French soap.
“Good,” he said, looking her over speculatively. “I’ve never done this before, but I daresay I can do the thing as well as that Betty-wench. We begin with the hair, I expect.” So saying, he picked up a pitcher that had been left beside the tub and emptied it over her head.
She screeched, gasping for breath, doused with cold water that was meant to be used to adjust the initial bath temperature if necessary. Glaring at him, she shivered, but he had realized his error and dipped the pitcher quickly into the tub, emptying the warmer contents over her head at once.
“Ravenwood!” she protested, when she could speak. “You’ll drown me!”
“Nonsense,” he retorted, beginning to enjoy himself as he applied soap to her long hair. “But don’t we need clean water to get the soap out again?”
“Yes, and be careful you don’t pour boiling water over me next,” she answered tartly. He grinned at her, then got to his feet and tugged the bell cord. Meeting Betty at the door, he told her to order up more hot water and to see it was brought just to the door.
He was not nearly so efficient as Meg, and by the time he had finished washing her hair the tub was near to overflowing, and he was nearly as wet as she was. Cicely was not sure whether she was nearer to tears or laughter, but at last he rocked back on his heels and declared the job finished.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a sigh of deep relief. “Now, if you will very kindly hand me one of those towels, I can wrap my head in it whilst I finish my bath.”
Obediently he handed her the towel and helped her twist her hair up inside it, but when she held out her hand for the soap, he shook his head with a teasing little smile. “Oh, no, my lady. I have earned this pleasure as a reward for my hard work. I mean to see you well scrubbed from head to toe.”
Though she protested, it did her no good. And if his hands chanced to wander now and again, making her gasp and squirm, he still made good his promise, and when he had finished with her, she glowed rosily clean from tip to toe. The glow was not due merely to the scrubbing, however, and when she saw his eyes gleam again with intent, she tilted her face willingly and gave a little moan of delight as his lips came down upon hers. She felt his hands upon her again, this time gently, caressingly.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she leaned toward him, urging him on, letting her own hands explore the contours of his bare chest, then moving them upward, sliding her fingers lightly along the corded muscles of his neck, up behind his ears to toy with the thick, dark curls they encountered there. But despite her rising passions, there were other elements to be considered, and reluctantly she pushed him away.
“This water is cooling rapidly, sir,” she said with real regret. “I think it would be unwise for me to become chilled again.”
“Unwise indeed,” he agreed in a low voice, reaching for one of the larger towels stacked on a low table near the tub.
“Moreover, I wish to tell you what I discovered,” she went on.
His jaw tightened. “I think the less said about your adventure this afternoon, the better,” he said grimly.
She swallowed, sorry to have aroused his temper again. “But I saw where he went,” she protested.
“Much use that will do anyone. He’s long gone by now and anyone still there will deny having seen him,” Ravenwood growled.
“But he may come back!”
“Very well!” he snapped. “Since you will. Where did he go?”
“Well, I followed him from—”
“Spare me the details,” he interrupted harshly. “Just tell me the street and house number.”
“It was not a house,” she said, wishing he would not look so grim. “Though, to be sure, there is a residence of some sort above it, I think. It is a chandler’s shop in Gray’s Inn Lane. I saw—”
“That will do. Whereabouts in Gray’s Inn Lane?”
But that she couldn’t tell him. “It was dark and … and raining. I couldn’t—”
“Enough!” Practically yanking her from the tub, Ravenwood flung the towel around her and began rubbing briskly enough that she feared he would take the very skin from her bones, but she dared not protest. He stopped suddenly, as though he realized he was being a trifle rough, but when his eyes met hers, he still looked angry enough to send a little chill racing up her spine. “Have you any notion how foolhardy your behavior was?” he demanded.