He’d always felt nothing with her. With every woman he’d paid for, he’d always felt nothing beyond the physical. He’d always though the was incapable of feeling more, that something inside him was broken and held his emotions imprisoned at a distance. But suddenly what she could give him was not enough.
“Jack?”
He touched her cheek with regret. “Sorry, Pru. It seems I’m not in the mood after all.”
He handed her the pouch. “That’s for the trouble.”
“Jack, I can’t take yer money for not doin’ nothin’.”
“You came to me. That was enough.”
“Is everythin’ all right? Ye don’t seem yerself.”
“Couldn’t be better. Go see to your customers.”
She gave a hapless shrug. “All right.”
She wasn’t devastated because he’d turned her away. Just as Prudence was business for Jack, so Jack was business for her. Nothing more.
His entire life had never involved anything more.
Chapter 12
Olivia rolled over in bed and shielded her eyes from the sunlight creeping in through a part in the draperies. She remembered how unhappy her brother would be when he finally tumbled out of bed after a night at Dodger’s. Was this the curse of brandy? To leave her with an agonizing headache, a raw throat, and thoughts that swirled through her mind with the wispiness of fog?
With great effort, she turned her head to the side and looked at the clock ticking on her bedside table. The little cherubs decorating it greeted her as they always did each morning, causing her to smile. It was almost nine. She’d overslept. She was surprised Jack hadn’t come knocking on her door seeking company during breakfast. Perhaps he’d not yet returned from his nightly prowling.
Jack. The memories of his mouth having its way with hers assailed her. How would she face him? But face him she would. Last night was an aberration, the brandy loosening her morals. She’d avoid spirits in the future, and she’d make it perfectly clear that she’d avoid his bed. He was owed nothing. He’d accepted the dare of receiving only a kiss, and he would just have to live with it. She was certain he’d have no trouble whatsoever finding solace elsewhere. Why did that thought cause an ache near her heart?
Would he go to Frannie? Would she welcome him with open arms, give to him what Olivia was afraid to offer? Would Frannie know the delight of greeting the morning nestled within his arms?
With a lethargic sigh at her stupidity for tormenting herself, Olivia eased out of bed. The floor felt cool against the soles of her feet. Perhaps today she wouldn’t bother with shoes. She giggled at the thought of a duchess without shoes. Or she thought she giggled. She hadn’t heard any sound. What was wrong with her?
She staggered toward the door that led to the dressing room. Someone had moved the blasted thing. It seemed so far away of a sudden. Halfway there, she realized she’d forgotten to pull the bell for her maid. How could she get ready for the day without Maggie? Perhaps she’d go back to bed, sleep a bit more, and start the day over.
Instead, she opened the door to the dressing room. Steamy warmth greeted and comforted her, even though she was hot.
And growing hotter with embarrassment, shame, and awareness.
Standing in front of the mirror, lather on a portion of his face and a razor in his hand, was a man. Images darted in and out of her mind: slender back, broad shoulders. His buttocks—pale and rounded and firm. Long legs. Solid thighs. She was fascinated, watching his muscles ripple with his movements just before he stilled. She’d never seen anything quite so exquisite before.
He was naked—completely naked. Droplets had gathered on his back as though he’d toweled off but been unable to reach those few. She had an insane urge to pick up a towel and glide it over his skin, absorb the remnants of his bath.
“You bathed yesterday,” she rasped, the words sounding as though they came from a great distance.
Holding her gaze in the mirror, he said, “I bathe every morning.”
Apparently the man had no shame. Why was she not surprised? With a challenge in those dark eyes and a come-hither grin, he turned to face her. She was familiar with the shape of a man’s anatomy even though her husband had bedded her with propriety. He’d always worn a nightshirt. She’d felt, but never seen…and even if she’d seen, she didn’t think her husband had been quite that…enticing. It was the only word she could think of to describe what Jack Dodger so proudly displayed. Every facet of his being was little more than an invitation to indulge in wickedness.
“Oh, my word,” escaped from her mouth on a shaky breath.
Suddenly the room was spinning, black edges rushing toward the center of her vision, until she saw nothing at all.
“Damnation!”
His razor clattering in the bowl as he released it, Jack lunged for Olivia, somehow managing to grab her before she hit the floor. How was it that a woman once married could be so squeamish at the sight of a naked man?
But as he shifted her into his arms and her head lolled against his bare shoulder, he realized something else entirely might have been responsible for her swooning. “Good God, you’re burning up.”
Not weighted down by anything except her cotton nightgown, she was lighter than she’d been the first time he’d carried her.
He laid her on her bed. Reaching for the bellpull, he hesitated. How was he going to explain his lack of clothing if her maid responded quickly to the summons?
Grabbing a towel as he went through the dressing room and wiping the lather from his face, he hurried to his room. Jerking on his trousers and slipping into a shirt, he wondered if she’d been fighting an illness from the beginning. He didn’t like thinking he might have made a sick woman’s life miserable—or that he might even have been responsible for bringing on the illness. Last night she’d seemed fevered only by passion; surely he’d have noticed if she was ill.
Buttoned and tucked, he decided the rest could wait. He could explain being partially dressed much more easily than he could explain nakedness.
In long strides, he returned to her bedchamber and yanked on the bellpull. She was still dead to the world, but not dead. He patted her cheek. “Livy? Come on now, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “So sorry.”
“As well you should be, barging in on me like that.” For one glorious moment he’d thought she’d made the decision to come to his bed. His body, damn its weakness, had immediately responded.
His gentle pats weren’t stirring Olivia. Was that a rattle in her chest? Lowering his ear to her bosom, he heard a rasping sound, but it didn’t sound ominous. More disturbing was that through the thin material he was suddenly very much aware of the softness of her breasts against his cheek. The intimacy made his mouth go dry. Her breasts were smaller than Pru’s, but damn if they didn’t incite his desire into rebellion, nearly shattering his control.
The door opened, and Jack sprung back guiltily, shaping his features into a wall of uncaring.
The maid gasped. “What are you doing, Mr. Dodger?”
“She fainted. I’ve been trying to revive her. We need to send for my physician.”
“She has her own.” The maid rushed over and began tapping her fingers against Olivia’s cheeks.
“I’ve tried that already,” he told her.
“She’s on fire.” She looked up at him, and he realized until that moment she’d believed he’d done something to make her mistress faint. Or perhaps she was holding him responsible for her fever. He was blamed for so many things, what did one more matter?
“Stay with her.” He began striding from the room. “I’ll fetch a physician.”
She might have her own, but he wouldn’t send for him. Jack wanted someone he trusted. He didn’t care to explore the sudden terror ripping through him at the thought of her possibly dying.
Olivia awoke to the sight of an angel hovering over her bed. His blond curling hair formed a halo around his face. In some distant part of her min
d, she realized she should be frightened that a stranger was in her bedchamber, and yet his smile was so kind, so reassuring, that all she could do was offer a weak smile in return.
“Hello,” he said softly.
“Who—”
“I’m Dr. Graves. Mr. Dodger sent for me. How do you feel?”
She remembered now, remembered what she’d seen. “He was naked.”
“Was he?”
She heard a harsh sound—someone clearing his throat?
“I suspect you were probably dreaming,” the doctor said.
She fought to shake her head. “No. I’d never dream him looking as magnificent as that.”
She thought he looked as though struggling not to laugh.
“Yes, well, we have more pressing concerns. Do you hurt anywhere?”
“Everywhere. So tired.”
“I suspect you are. How long have you been feeling unwell?”
“Forever. But not so hot.”
“So mayhaps the fever just came upon you.”
She nodded, or thought she nodded.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep now?” he said.
Sighing, she closed her eyes. “Henry—”
“He’s fine.”
The man was wonderful. He knew the answers to the questions before she asked them. And his hands were incredibly gentle as he prodded here and there. So gentle.
Lovingdon had never really been tender. Bedding her had always been more about getting down to business. He’d spoken no sweet words before and whispered none in the dark afterward. Sometimes she’d had the impression that he was apologizing for inflicting himself on her. He’d always come into her room, slipped into bed, slipped into her, and then slipped out, leaving her with an aching loneliness. Always so lonely…
“Well,” Jack snapped as soon as Graves finished his prodding.
“I suspect something akin to influenza.”
Jack felt his stomach drop as the maid gasped. She was sitting in a nearby chair for the sake of propriety to provide witness that nothing untoward was happening. Originally, she’d objected to Jack’s presence, but it had only taken reminding her that he now paid her salary to silence her. Ah, yes, with the dispensing of coins came power and a tendency for people to look the other way.
“Will she die?” Jack asked.
Graves looked at him. “She’s young. I can’t attest to her strength because she’s so thin. Aristocratic women tend to eat little. They have the means to buy food and they don’t take advantage of it. They think an appetite is vulgar.”
“So we need to feed her?”
“I doubt she’ll feel like eating, but yes, she does need nourishment when she awakens. I’ve given her some laudanum so she’ll sleep for a while in comfort. I’ll leave a poultice to help draw out the fever. Cool baths might also help, but then you have to take care that she doesn’t get chilled.”
“How can she not get chilled in a cool bath?”
“You see the dilemma. The best thing is probably just to let it run its course.”
Jack felt the anger and frustration building. “I called for you because you’re supposed to be so damned good at administering to the sick—and the best you can offer is, Let’s see how it goes?”
“As much as I wish it were otherwise, no remedies exist for what we’re dealing with here. I’m sorry.”
“It’s summer, for God’s sake. I thought people got ill in winter.”
“More people are usually sick in winter, but illness doesn’t take a holiday. When conditions are ripe, people get ill. She’s in mourning. Probably not eating, not sleeping. Grief takes a toll.”
Only if love was involved. Did that mean she’d loved her husband, her husband who’d left her a mere two thousand pounds a year? Her husband who’d never properly kissed her? What caused people to love? How did that emotion come about? Jack had loved his mother, but he’d be hard-pressed to think of anyone he’d loved since. He had a tender regard for Frannie, but it was not love.
“I’ll see to her needs,” her maid said.
“You can’t do it twenty-four hours a day,” Jack snapped. “We’ll hire a nurse.”
“The good news is that it should pass rather quickly. The fever should break in two or three days,” Graves said.
If it’s going to break at all was left unsaid.
“I’ll return to check on her tomorrow.” Graves picked up his ominous black bag.
“Come back tonight,” Jack ordered.
“I have a lot of patients—”
“I’m going to build you a damned hospital.”
“Because you lost a wager. It doesn’t make me owe you.”
The hell of it was that Jack knew if Luke asked, Graves would not only come back, he’d never leave. Every one of Feagan’s children was more loyal to Luke than to Jack. They’d been jealous of Jack’s relationship with Feagan. He was the son Feagan had never had, the one he confided in if something needed confiding. They all worried that Jack knew their deepest, darkest secrets.
Unfortunately for them, he did. But he’d never lorded it over them, never threatened them with exposing what they wished to remain hidden. As much as he was tempted, he wouldn’t use what he knew now, either. For the sake of the boy who had already lost his father, Jack swallowed his pride. “Please.”
“I’ll try. That’s the best I can promise. But really, I can do little for her and so much more for others.”
Jack nodded, studying Olivia’s still form, preferring her marching around the residence, chastising him for one thing or another. “Do you ever feel like you’re playing God, picking and choosing who gets your attention?”
“I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m being difficult.”
“Most people are when someone they care about is ill.”
Jack snapped his gaze to Graves. He was on the verge of denying the charge, but the man had a speculative gleam in his eye. It was as though he had the uncanny ability to see deeply into a person—without medical instruments of any kind.
“I barely know her,” Jack grumbled.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t care.” Graves held up his hand. “I know. I know. You care only about Jack Dodger. I’ll find a way to come by this evening.” Heading toward the door, he stopped beside Jack and whispered, low, “You might want to button your trousers.”
With a groan, Jack strode to his bedchamber. He needed to finish getting dressed anyway. He wasn’t certain the maid believed his story that he was dressing when he heard a loud thud coming from the duchess’s room. He supposed it didn’t really matter what anyone believed. All that mattered was that she got better.
Sitting at his desk in the library, Jack was quite content with the day’s achievements. To keep his mind from wandering to Olivia, he’d undertaken a great many tasks. He hired a nurse, a lady named Colleen, to watch Olivia during the night. Her lady’s maid insisted she would stand vigil during the day. While he interviewed nurses, he also interviewed nannies. The young lady he hired to watch over Henry was named Ida. She was short, the top of her head possibly reaching the middle of Jack’s chest—and that was with shoes on. Her black hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, but her blue eyes sparkled with merriment, even when she was answering Jack’s tough questions regarding her attitude about punishment. She didn’t believe in striking children.
“How will you make him behave?”
“With kindness.”
Surely not a conventional approach, but then, Jack had never cared much for following conventional wisdom. At twenty, her experience was limited to watching over her younger brothers. But Jack recognized a gentleness in her eyes, and he liked the way she treated Henry and the manner in which he responded to her. Henry seemed comfortable with her, and the boy seemed to understand that if he was unhappy about anything, he was supposed to interrupt Jack at any time and tell him.
So with the nanny situation taken care of, Jack was able to
focus on the financial matters, but suddenly nothing was adding up. He didn’t think it had much to do with the numbers in the ledgers but the fact he was concerned about Olivia.
Near midnight, when he should have gone to the club to see to matters there, he went instead to Olivia’s room. Ever aware of her devotion to proper behavior, he left the door open. The room was dark save for a lamp with a low flame sitting on the bedside table. The nurse came to her feet.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Still fevered. Mumbling a lot. But I think she’s comfortable. I’ll move over here to the corner if you’d like a moment of privacy.”
He almost asked why he’d need a moment with Olivia. He had the information he required. He could leave now. But he found himself nodding before he’d really given it any thought. “Yes, thank you.”
He took the velvet-covered bench near her vanity, set it beside the bed, and sat. So great was his concern for Olivia earlier he’d barely noticed the room, the room she’d asked him not to enter. Glancing around quickly, he couldn’t see anything unusual, anything that might embarrass her or that she might want to hold as a secret. Perhaps it was no more than that this room was her sanctuary and she didn’t want the likes of Jack Dodger invading it. She shouldn’t have taken ill, then.
He considered taking her hand, but the action somehow seemed more intimate than the kiss. He didn’t even know why he was there. He could do little enough for her—but he felt a need to do something. He hated feeling as though he had no control over the situation. It didn’t help that the infernal clocks were ticking—
He looked to the bedside table. A clock with winged cherubs was marking the passing of time. But that wasn’t enough to set up such a ruckus. Twisting around, he looked to the corner and discovered the clocks he’d had removed from the library were resting on a small lace-covered table. Why were they so precious to her?
He shifted back around and studied her. She seemed to be resting comfortably. He slid his gaze over to the nurse. She was sitting near the fireplace, her profile to him, concentrating on her knitting. He suspected that she’d notice if he did anything not of a gentlemanly nature, but she was far enough away not to hear any words whispered. Not that he wanted to whisper anything to the duchess.
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