Virtue and Vice

by Kimberly Brody

  Upon opening the door, he was immediately assailed with the delicious smell of savory meat roasting and freshly baked bread along with the tangy odor of ale. The eating room was crammed with diners, each table taken by tired and hungry travelers. Still, it would be a cozy enough place to spend the evening.

  Making his way to the bar, he asked after the proprietor and within moments was greeted by a short, balding man with a rounded form. He took Lucien’s measure in one glance.

  “How may I be of help my lord?”

  “I have need of two rooms for the evening.”

  The small man winced. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’ve only one room left to let.”

  It suddenly seemed very warm inside the inn. Lucien pulled at his collar. He could not spend a night alone in a bedchamber with Belinda.

  “Surely you’ve an extra room you keep for emergencies, good sir? If it’s a matter of coin…” his voice trailed off as the innkeeper shook his head.

  “It’s the storm, my lord. We are filled to capacity, and then some. The room I can offer you is my emergency room. It’s my daughter’s chamber, but I’ll have her stay with me and the wife tonight. There will be hardly any space in the stable for your coachman as it is.”

  Lucien groaned in frustration as his plan to deposit Belinda in a room and hunker down in the stables alongside Jake turned to ashes. Could this evening get any worse?

  “I’ll take the room, then.” Lucien slid a few coins across to the man. “Could you arrange to bring a meal for two up within a few moments, and arrange for food and ale for my driver?”

  “Indeed I can, sir.”

  “Many thanks.”

  After the proprietor had shown Lucien which room was to be his torture chamber, he took a deep, fortifying breath and went out into the storm again. He trudged back through the mud to the coach. After instructing the driver to seek the innkeeper for food and ale after seeing to the horses, Lucien turned to Belinda.

  “Come.” He held out his hand. “I’ve secured a warm, dry, room for the evening.”

  For a moment he thought she would ignore his help and leap down by herself, but she seemed to appreciate the dangers of launching herself into the slippery mud, sulk aside. Placing her hand in his, she let him help her to the ground. He couldn’t resist giving her hand a quick squeeze.

  The sky chose that moment to explode open with stunning violence. Rain slashed down on them diagonally, stinging as it met flesh. Belinda had to hold her gown up so she could see where she placed her feet, hampering their progress, and in the short time it took to reach the inn they were both drenched to the bone.

  As he stepped back to allow her to enter before him, he expected to find her dismayed, so when he glanced at her and saw her grinning he was taken aback.

  “What is so amusing?” he grunted as he took her elbow and lead her toward the huge hearth.

  She laughed, uninhibited for the first moment since their heated embrace in the carriage. “I love storms like this, Lucien. There’s nothing better than curling up in a warm bed with a book on a night like this.”

  His mouth ran dry as he instantly pictured her in a huge bed on a rainy night, wearing a silk bed gown, but in his imagination it certainly wasn’t a book she’d curled up with.

  It was going to be a long night.

  He let her stand for a few minutes before the fire and wring out her hair, then ushered her up the stairs to their designated room.

  It was a small space, though neatly kept. A comfortable looking bed covered with clean white sheets sat in the corner, with a wash basin set beside it. A little table with two chairs stood beneath shuttered windows that pinged with the music of raindrops hitting it. Nothing in the room suggested it belonged to the innkeeper’s daughter.

  It was cozy. And very small. Too small. Though Lucien suspected King’s Charles personal bedchamber itself wouldn’t be spacious enough for him right now, with Belinda sharing the same quarters.

  “And where shall you stay, my lord?”

  Her voice snapped him back to their dilemma. He smiled ruefully. “This is the very last chamber in the inn. It appears I’ll have to stay here, with you.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he rushed on. “I’ll sleep on the floor, Belinda. You need not fear I’ll do anything inappropriate.”

  Her face hardened. “No, we can’t have that, can we?”

  Inwardly he groaned. Did she want him to make love to her that evening? It was a good thing she was an inexperienced virgin, he wouldn’t be able to withstand a full-fledged assault from a seductress Belinda.

  They stood, staring at one another in silence. Then she turned her back.

  “Would you help me with my gown? Normally I’d be more than capable of doing it myself, but the rain will have made it an impossible task.”

  He amended his earlier thought. This was going to be the longest night of his life, without a doubt.

  Stepping close, he undid the necessary laces, his fingers overly clumsy for a man used to divesting women of their clothing at record speeds. If Belinda could blame the rain, so then could he. It was true enough the rain had swelled the fabric, making it a more difficult task. Nay, there was nothing wrong with his ability to get a woman out of her garments.

  At the moment he was having a hard time bringing to mind a woman he’d ever wanted to undress more than he did Belinda.

  His eyes focused in on a drop of rain as it slowly made its way down the nape of her neck. He resisted the urge to lick it off of her.

  With what could only be described as a Herculean effort he turned his back as she shimmied out of the gown. The sound of fabric sliding against skin sent blood pounding to his groin. He forced himself to not imagine what she would look like standing behind him in nothing but a damp, transparent chemise.

  Too bloody late for that!

  He heard the sound of her footsteps as she padded to the bed, and prayed she was wrapping herself completely under the blanket. Finally able to take a breath for the first time in minutes, Lucien removed his sodden garments, stripping down to his breeches. When he turned around it was to find his prayers answered. Belinda was bundled up so tightly in the blankets, he couldn’t make out her form. Thank God.

  But then he noticed her gaze locked on his bare chest, an expression of hungry fascination on her face. She was guileless, every emotion reflected in her beautiful blue eyes, unhidden and honest. So unique. Again she brought to mind a kitten, this time fearless and fixed upon her prey. Oh, how he wanted to be that prey, to give himself over to her mercy and let her play with him as she would. Yield to her and tame her at the same time. Give and take. A look of vulnerable longing crossed her face, and he lost the battle raging within himself. He took two steps toward the bed, intent on taking her in his arms.

  A knock at the door drew his attention and he sent up a quick prayer. Saved by the evening meal! He started back toward the table. “Come,” he barked.

  The door opened, but it was not a servant who came bustling in. An older couple stood on the threshold, staring into the room, both with expressions of utter disbelief. A prickle rose on the back of his neck.

  The woman turned to the man. “I told you it was Belinda!”

  “Who the devil are you?” Lucien blurted out, so surprised they knew Belinda’s identity he couldn’t prevent himself.

  “That’s the question I should be asking of you, you lecherous swine!” The man shouted, starting toward him.

  “Wait!” Belinda’s voice was fraught with panic. “Uncle Gerald! I can explain.”

  The noose tightened about Lucien’s neck.

  Chapter 33

  Izzy opened her eyes slowly, looking around the unfamiliar bedchamber. Where am I? It took a moment for it to sink in. She was in the room she had shared with Ram on their wedding night. She was at Chesworth House

  How did I get here?

  Bits and pieces of memory began to return, like leaves dropping off a tree in winter, one a
t a time, crisp but off-color. She remembered confronting Paul, but not all the details. He’d demanded coin in exchange for his silence, that much she recalled, and she’d come to Cornwall to find the money. She remembered feeling ill in the carriage, she thought it was Smallpox…but what happened after that? And what had happened in between?

  She pressed her hands to her face, looking for any sign she’d been stricken with smallpox, but her skin was smooth to the touch.

  Perplexed, she tried to sit up in the big bed. She was so weak, her body so sore, the effort winded her and she collapsed against the pillows, dismayed. Her pitiful attempt at movement roused someone seated in a chair beside the bed, but she closed both eyes, breathing deeply to stop the room spinning.

  How sick am I?

  “Good morn, sleeping beauty.”

  Her eyes snapped open as she turned toward the chair. “Ram?” She blinked, twice, to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Her mouth was dry and fuzzy, like she’d spent an extended period of time sucking on a woolen socking. Not that it truly mattered, for if she’d had any saliva, it would have dried instantly upon seeing Ram seated beside her.

  How had he gotten there? Why was he there?

  “Who else would be in your boudoir at such an early hour?” he teased.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His smile slipped. “You’ve been very ill, Izzy. I’ve been tending you.”

  “You have?” she whispered, confused. “But…why?” Mama and Papa hadn’t come after all. How had Ram found her? “I thought you wanted to be rid of me,” She blurted, before she could stop the words.

  She held her breath, cursing her foolish outburst and hoping against hope his response wouldn’t break her heart all over again.

  “We’ll have that discussion when you’re stronger. For now I only want you to rest and concentrate on getting better.”

  Tears clogged her throat, made it impossible to respond. It wasn’t a curt dismissal, but he hadn’t spoken the words she yearned to hear, either. She stared at her hands as they twisted in her lap. When he reached out and took one, she clasped his fingers with all her strength, which to her shock, was not much.

  “I love you so much, Ram.” She whispered. I need you so much.

  His eyes widened just the smallest bit, then his gaze held hers. He maneuvered from the chair into the great bed without breaking eye contact, climbing beneath the blankets to take her into his arms. “I know you do, Sweetheart. I know.”

  Pain stabbed at her; the ache in her chest grew. He hadn’t rejected her love this time but he hadn’t accepted or returned it, either.

  But still, she was in his arms, a place she’d feared she’d never again be allowed. She turned her face into his chest and snuggled closer. His arms tightened.

  “Do you need anything?” he murmured against her hair.

  “Nay,” she whispered. And she didn’t. Everything she could ever want or need was here, in this bed, with her. She shifted onto her side so she could put her arms around him, too, and winced at the lancing of pain that snaked through her, focused mostly on her lower back.

  Everything that happened at White Hall came rushing back in minute and stunning detail, no longer fuzzy. Paul caused this pain. How long was she ill, and how long until Paul came to Cornwall to collect what she’d promised? Could she force herself to be docile and submit, now knowing what he planned to do to her?

  She had to. The reason that forced her to make a devil’s bargain still compelled her. For Ram’s sake, she would endure. She must. There was no other option.

  A little voice in her head begged her to tell Ram all that happened and let him make everything better. But how could she? My God, if he even knew what she agreed to, what she’d already allowed Paul to do…it didn’t bear thinking upon. And besides, she had to get used to taking care of her own messes. There was no one left now to take care of them for her. She was on her own.

  It was all so frighteningly overwhelming.

  As she thought about submitting to Paul, she trembled with dread.

  “What’s wrong, Izzy?” Ram’s voice, sharp with concern, made her jump.

  “You’re shivering.” He placed his hand against her forehead. “Is your fever returning?”

  Oh, God. Ram could never know what happened with Paul. She didn’t know how Ram found her or even why he was there, by her side, but it would disgust him if he ever learned of what she did. And rightfully so. It disgusted her. If Ram ever discovered she whored for Paul, he’d never, ever forgive her, no matter what her reasons. He’d hate her forever.

  She closed her eyes in anguish.

  “Would it help to speak of it?” Ram asked, very quietly.

  Her eyes snapped open. She raised her head. He’d lowered his, so his chin rested on his chest as he looked down. She met his concerned gaze and caught her breath. She could swear she saw compassion in his smoky eyes, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know! She couldn’t bear for him to know.

  But he would, and soon. She knew it with every breath in her body. Paul would make certain of it.

  Izzy fought the urge to weep her heart out. Her time left with Ram could be counted in days, if not hours. She buried her face against his chest and held him.

  ***

  Ram closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Izzy was holding him with such desperation; he could feel it thrumming through the length of her. He’d watched horror, fear, and anguish pass over her face in rapid succession, but didn’t know what to do that might ease her pain.

  Every instinct told him it could only help if she spoke of what happened to her instead of leaving it to fester inside. But he didn’t trust his instincts; they’d failed him terribly in recent days. When it came to Izzy, he made all the wrong decisions. Anger, love, concern, and lust had all mixed together to wreak havoc on his usually sound judgment. He wanted to tell her he knew what happened between her and Huntley, that she could talk to him if she felt comfortable enough to do so, that she was safe, now and forever. But how did one broach such a sensitive subject?

  An idea struck him.

  He lifted her chin so she had to look him in the eye. “Do you think you can take a little broth, sweetheart? You need sustenance to regain your strength.”

  The anguish retreated from her eyes as he diverted her attention and she nodded. He put

  his lips to her forehead for a prolonged moment, then withdrew from her side and went to the door where he asked Hawthorne to fetch fresh food and drink. While Ram waited he stoked the fire in the hearth, then rummaged through her valise for another clean night rail, which he placed at hand near the bed.

  When the food arrived he settled at her side, then propped her against his chest as he’d done so often in the last few days, and brought spoonfuls of broth to her lips, which she dutifully swallowed. He maintained a running commentary while she ate.

  “If you feel sick to your stomach at all, you must tell me right away,” he blew on a spoonful of broth to cool it before offering it to her. “I must say, it’s far easier to feed you when you’re awake,” he teased as she swallowed. “I’ve gotten used to routine over the past few days. After feeding you, I usually bathe you. Would a cool sponge bath make you feel better?” He held a goblet of water to her lips and waited while she drank thirstily. When she finished, she nodded shyly.

  He put the empty bowl and goblet aside, then fetched a fresh washcloth and refilled the basin with clean water. After wringing the excess water from the cloth, he drew it down her legs, from knee to foot, then back again, front and back, shin and calf. She sighed and relaxed against the pillow.

  He drew the cloth back to her foot, to her toes, then the underside. Her foot flexed in his hand and she giggled. “That tickles,” she murmured.

  “I must find my amusement some way,” he teased, waggling his brows and then stroking his fingertips along the bottom of her foot. He watched her face as he did so, pleased when she watched him through half-s
litted eyes, a soft smile upon her lips. He lifted her leg and kissed the sole of her foot. She made a surprised little noise, then sighed with contentment.

  He returned to her side at the head of the bed, rinsed the washcloth, wrung it out once more, then bathed her neck and décolletage. He drew the cloth over a shoulder, then down her slim arm and back again, over her elbow, then once more down to her hand. Just as he’d done with her toes, he bathed each finger, then placed a kiss in her palm and closed her fingers around it.

  Her eyes glistened as she watched.

  Drawing a deep breath, he lifted her hand and gently placed his lips against her wrist and followed the abrasion there, turning her arm so he could reach every spot. Then he took the salve from the tray, and although the scrapes were healing well, rubbed it gently on her wrist without speaking a word. He repeated the ritual on her other arm.

  When he was done, he chanced a look at her face. Her smile had died and she’d caught her lower lip between her teeth, but she continued to watch.

  Undeterred, he turned her onto her side, then drew the straps of her night rail off her shoulder, peeling the entire garment down, almost to her waist. He trailed the damp cloth down her neck and across the unmarred flesh of her back, dropping a kiss on her spine. Then he drew the night rail over her hips, exposing the mass of welts on her skin. For the most part they were healing well, except in a few places where the switch had done more than superficial damage. She stiffened when he bathed those spots with care, but he was fair sure it wasn’t because he hurt her. Neither of them spoke as he applied the salve with his fingertips. He pulled the night rail back into place, then shifted her to her back again and met her gaze. Her color was high, her cheeks flushed.

  “I don’t think you’ll scar overly much, sweetheart. Perhaps only in one or two places,” he murmured.

  He bathed her face with the cool water until she relaxed again.

  When her eyes drifted close he took a deep breath to steady himself, then pushed the night rail to her waist. He bathed the soft skin of her inner thighs, then applied the ointment to the deeper scratches.