Jesus, where had that thought come from? He was the Earl of Ravenscroft, by God. He’d lived thirty-one years without ever needing a woman. A man required only funds, after all. Not a warm cunny and a luscious pair of tits. What was wrong with him, chasing after this slip of a girl as though no other woman would have him? He ought to let her go. Load her on a Virginia-bound ship. Wave goodbye.
But he couldn’t.
“You need not be cruel,” she said then, her voice accusatory. “I do care about you, my lord. Surely that must be apparent. A woman without feeling would not help carry a wounded man to his bed, clean away his blood, or hold his hand while the doctor stitches his wounds. A woman without feeling would not have prayed for you to wake.”
Her anger coiled in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. His head ached. His mouth was dry. His stomach jerked, threatening to cast up its accounts. Devil take it. He was in no shape for this reckoning.
She had been by his side, tending to him. She’d held his hand. The jagged pieces inside him shifted, fitting together in perfect harmony. He reached for her, clasping the nearest bit of her, those agile fingers.
“Thank you,” he said simply, for he meant it. Never had he been more thankful. “You didn’t owe me that, Clara, and I thank you for it all the same.”
Her expression softened, and she turned her hand palm up, tangling her fingers with his. “You’re welcome, Julian.”
Not precisely an extension of the proverbial olive branch, but he would take it. Yes, damn it, he would take it.
ell me, Lady Ravenscroft, is it true that someone tried to murder our brother last evening?” Lady Alexandra hadn’t even waited to begin filling her plate from the sideboard at breakfast the next morning. She’d pounced the moment she stepped over the threshold.
Someone would have to teach the earl’s sisters some manners. Clara had just been about to take a sip of her ritualistic morning coffee when the wayward duo bustled into the breakfast room, brimming with ill-contained curiosity. She replaced her cup in its saucer. “Lady Alexandra, Lady Josephine, good morning.”
In truth, it was anything but. She’d slept in a chair at Ravenscroft’s side and had only left him to the care of his manservant so that she could break her fast and inform his sisters of what had happened. Worry for him still soured her stomach, and her neck and shoulders ached from the manner in which she’d finally fallen headlong into slumber. It would seem that his sisters had already heard the news from another source. Of course they would have done.
His sisters spilled across the floor in outmoded pastel gowns, crowding her at the table. “How is Julian?” Lady Josephine demanded. “His wits aren’t addled now, are they?”
The girls before her certainly required a great deal of patience.
Lady Alexandra jostled into her sister. “Have they caught the fiend?”
“Lord Ravenscroft is as well as can be expected.” As recalcitrant as the girls were, Clara knew a moment of gratification at their genuine concern. “Your brother was indeed attacked last evening and gravely injured. At last word, the criminal responsible has not yet been apprehended. Fortunately, the doctor assures me that with some rest, the earl shall recover.”
“He has already recovered,” came the familiar drawl of Ravenscroft himself, traveling from behind the wall of concerned femininity obscuring him from Clara’s vision.
His sisters spun, Lady Josephine’s flounced bell-shaped crinolines nearly knocking Clara’s coffee to the floor. She rescued it just in time, righting it in its saucer, before her husband swept into her line of vision. He moved with the same easy grace as always. He wore gray trousers and a black jacket, a silver waistcoat atop his crisp white shirt. His bandage interrupted the inky beauty of his hair, but aside from it, he bore no other sign of the grave injury he’d sustained. He was handsome and debonair as ever.
What in heaven’s name was he about?
Her lips compressed into a disapproving frown. “My lord, you ought to remain abed as the doctor ordered.”
“My lady.” His gaze met hers, warm and intimate. He bowed. “Thank you for your tender care and concern. However, I am, as you can see, mended.”
No man could be mended that quickly after the loss of a great deal of blood. Clara had seen firsthand just how much of his life source had been spilled. Upon further inspection, he did appear a bit pale. “Dr. Redcay prescribed rest, my lord. In matters of an injury to the head he said it was of utmost import. I insist you return to your chamber. I’ll see that your breakfast is brought to you.”
“You insist?” He smiled, as if she amused him.
Perhaps she did. She supposed it wasn’t every day that someone dared to gainsay a peer of the realm. But she didn’t give a fig for ancient English custom, propriety, social rules, or even eloquence. What she did care about was his wellbeing, and if he was too foolish to realize that he ought to take better care of himself, she had no problem telling him.
“Yes.” She stood, pinning him with a meaningful glare. “I insist, my lord.”
She felt Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra’s wide eyes upon her and turned to find them staring at her as if she’d done something scandalous. Well, wasn’t that rich, coming from those two? She stared them down as well. “If the earl won’t have a care for his person, then who will?” she demanded.
Lady Alexandra’s mouth worked, as if struggling to form words. None were forthcoming. Lady Josephine watched her from beneath raised brows. Inspect my mettle all you will, she told them with her silence. A Virginia girl did not back down from a challenge. Nor did she bat an eyelash at ordering about an earl.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Ravenscroft swaying on his feet. She rushed past his sisters and to his side, throwing her arm about his waist. His arm draped over her shoulder, as if he could steal some of her strength. She felt a tremor pass through him and knew he was not nearly as well as he pretended. Who, then, was this show of bravado for? The foolish man.
“Help me escort his lordship back to his chamber,” she ordered a footman. When he hesitated, looking from her to Ravenscroft, her patience snapped. “Be quick about it, man. We haven’t all day.”
The servant rushed forward. Excellent.
“No.” Ravenscroft halted him in his tracks. “I only require the assistance of my wife.”
He leaned against her, pressing his large, warm body into hers. She flushed at the contact and tried to rein in her thoughts. He’d been gravely wounded, after all. What was wrong with her?
Moreover, how did he think she alone could aid him back to his chamber? “But my lord, perhaps some more support would be beneficial.”
His gaze roamed over her face, hungry, or so it seemed to her. “I’m not an invalid, my lady. I require you alone.”
Stubborn man. He was an invalid, but why argue the matter? Very well. She would allow him to win this small battle, for there remained others to fight and win.
She looked back to the footman. “See to it that a proper breakfast is sent up for his lordship.” She paused, rallying to her cause. “And get me Osgood. I require an interview with him in an hour.”
It was far past time that the household possessed the proper number of servants. Well-trained servants. Servants who didn’t do unmentionable things in the library.
“Perhaps she’ll do after all,” Lady Alexandra said sotto voce to Lady Josephine.
Clara’s eyes narrowed on the two of them once more. For that matter, perhaps she’d found just the person to do something about his sisters’ sadly lacking manners. Herself. “I’ll expect tea this afternoon with you, Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine. Do be prompt.”
With that, she began guiding Ravenscroft from the room. He followed her lead, surprisingly compliant. Perhaps too compliant. Suspicion stirred in her. Had his show of inhuman strength been for her benefit? Had he forced himself from bed in the hope that she would help him to return to it? He was a calculating man, the stranger she’d wed. She’d put nothing p
ast him.
“Lady Ravenscroft, you’re as formidable as a general this morning.” His low voice rumbled into her ear, his hot breath fanning over her throat.
She suppressed a shiver. “I’ve discovered I need to be in this household.” Truly, the man needed a voice of reason. They’d been married for the span of a day, and already he’d been bludgeoned outside his home. His sisters were mayhem in frills and pink. His servants were insufficient and scandalous. His home was threadbare, in desperate need of a judicious eye and a deep purse. A woman’s touch. Not her touch, however. Someone else’s.
Yes, most assuredly, someone else’s.
They were all—from Ravenscroft down to the chamber maid who needed sacking—someone else’s problem. And yet here she was, somehow making them hers. Making him hers. The thought caused a pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. She tamped it forcefully down.
“I’m afraid we haven’t precisely provided you with the welcoming I would have preferred.” His tone was wry and strained.
That was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Lord have mercy, none of this was what she’d envisioned. None of it was what she’d prepared for, what she’d waited for. And yet, somehow tending to him and seeing him at his weakest last night had changed something inside her forever.
Her heart had softened toward him. She could not deny it. Not enough to stray from her course forever, but perhaps enough to stray from her course for now. And there was the stark, unabridged truth. She wasn’t prepared to leave him. Not with the shadow of an assassin hanging over him. Not when he was weak and injured. Not when he needed her.
“Whatever did you do without me, my lord?” She couldn’t help but ask. They went up the grand staircase now, taking their time. The banister was in sad need of a sound polish, but Ravenscroft seemed steady enough on his feet.
“I’m sure I don’t care to recall, little dove. You’re here now, aren’t you? That’s all that matters. You cannot imagine I’ll let you go after this.”
A frisson of something indefinable skittered through her entire being, warming her before she reminded herself that their union was not meant to be. They reached the top of the stairs and made their way down the hall to his chamber.
“I’m sure I cannot imagine you having the power to keep me here against my will,” she challenged.
It wouldn’t do for him to forget that she still intended to return to Virginia, after all. Nor would it do for her to forget. One day as his countess, and already she’d faltered. He made her want to lose herself in him.
He stopped their progress, hauling her against the wall with surprising strength, given his condition. His palms flattened to the damask on either side of her face, neatly trapping her. “I’m not planning for it to be against your will, love.”
She stared up at him, wishing she could read his expression. After the blow he’d taken to the head and the blood he’d lost, he shouldn’t look so inviting, so handsome. But he appeared as beautiful as she’d ever seen him, pallor to his skin and all. Not even the bandage on his head could detract from the effect he had upon her. He was magnificent. Hers.
For now.
She swallowed. Her common sense reminded her to think of his condition, of the importance of his rest. “My lord, you should be abed.”
“Yes, my lady, I should.” He lowered his head, bringing his wicked mouth to within an inch of hers. “With you.”
A strange sensation sank through her at his words and his nearness both, starting in her belly before sinking into the very center of her. Her breasts tingled. The part of her he’d stroked when he’d put his hand up her skirt ached. This was why good women ruined themselves, she realized. This was why so many ladies had sought him. Temptation was delicious. He was delicious.
She shook her head, attempting to banish the dissolute thoughts he provoked within her. “No. You need to recover. Dr. Redcay stressed how imperative it is for you to rest and regain your strength.”
“Redcay can go to the devil.” He leaned against her, their bodies making contact from breast to chest all the way to their thighs. His legs wedged between hers, her complicit skirts billowing about him. She felt him for the first time, the hardness of him pressed straight to her center with a tip of his hips. Her dress and crinoline weren’t a sufficient barrier. “You’re all I need to recover, little dove. Just you beneath me. I can assure you I have enough strength for what we both want.” His head dipped, his mouth opening on her throat.
The rigid shape of him against her, so suggestive and foreign and wicked, heightened her every sense. To her great shame, an echo of want pulsed within her. She didn’t know how they would fit together. The vague mechanics of it had been whispered to her in finishing school. None of the girls had truly known for certain what happened between a man and a woman. She ached now with her half knowledge, needing something from him. He kissed a path to the hollow behind her ear. She tilted her head to grant him better access. His mouth played over her like velvet fire.
But she could not indulge in her newfound depravity, for she was bound and determined that their marriage would never be consummated. And he was not well. He was a man who didn’t appear to take care in his own wellbeing. Were all his days just an endless string of one debauchery after the next? Did he not realize how close he’d come to being murdered the night before?
The thought chilled her. She caught his face between her palms, stilling his mouth’s exploration. The stubble of his whiskers pricked her. His valet had not shaved him, and the rough abrasion felt good against her skin. The contact jolted her but she did her best to pretend as though she was unaffected.
“Lord Ravenscroft, someone almost killed you last night. Do you not have a care for yourself? You must rest and regain your strength so that you can discover what truly happened and prevent it from happening again. If someone wants you dead, he or she will surely try again once their lack of success becomes apparent.”
He closed his eyes, seeming to gather his strength, leaning into her even more. “It was likely a case of mistaken identity.”
It was not, and they both knew it. His attacker had meant to kill him. He’d been right outside his residence.
“I fear for you, Julian.” At last, the truth was torn from her.
His eyes opened, vivid and brilliant. “You fear for me, but in every other sentence you remind me that you will leave me, and that you want no part of this marriage, no part of me. You cannot have it both ways, little dove. You must choose.”
She stared at him, stricken by the one word she’d nearly blurted. You. But no, she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t give up on her dreams. Who was he to her? A stranger who’d taken advantage of her foolishness? The man who’d cozened two hundred thousand pounds out of her father?
She’d spent each day since her father had brought her to England longing for her eventual return home. So many years had passed that Virginia had become hazy and indistinct, a soft and warm memory, beating within her heart but not within her mind’s eye. Why, she could scarcely even recall most of it with proper detail. And she would not abandon her cause of helping her fellow women to gain the vote that was rightfully theirs.
“Choose, damn you,” he said again, his face so close to hers, their lips almost brushing. But he did not kiss her. “I won’t force you. I won’t have you knowing that you’d prefer to be somewhere else, in someone else’s arms. Do you understand me?”
She still held his face in her hands. She couldn’t choose. It should have been easy, a quick sentence leaving her tongue. I choose Virginia. I want to go home. But the words wouldn’t come.
“I can’t,” she forced herself to say. He wanted too much from her, and too soon. They’d been wed for one day. She was not even accustomed to the layout of his household, and already all her plans had been dismantled. He’d been attacked. The unwanted feelings she’d developed for him during their impromptu courtship added to her confusion. Her body betrayed her, even now longing for him, for th
e weight of his frame pressing into hers, for his body against her, claiming her.
His expression was harsh, demanding as his tone, as the man himself. “I’m telling you now, Clara. You must choose. If it’s a cold piece of ground you long for, I’ll have my man take you straight to a hotel. You can bide your time until the next passenger ship departs for Virginia.”
He shuddered against her then, swaying. She reached for his shoulders, anchoring him to her until the spell subsided. Hours before, she’d been stained in his blood. She’d watched over him, praying for him to wake. Back in her chamber that morning, she’d scrubbed her hands and face, tossed her ruined dressing gown into the dust bin. The blood was gone, but what had happened to him remained. Someone meant to do him harm. How could she sail away from him forever? What if the person who’d attempted to kill him would return, this time succeeding? How would she feel from an ocean away?
“I reckon it’s Virginia then.” A grim acceptance tempered his voice. He attempted to push away from her.
No.
She overpowered him in his weakened state, holding him to her when he would have retreated. “You,” she breathed before she could think better of it.
Because a strangeness had overtaken her from the moment she’d first stepped into his study, a feeling that he alone could unlock the secrets within her. He was a mystery to her, a man who claimed to be a jaded cynic. A man who had misled her, who had courted her, who had listened to her opinions. He wasn’t as hardened as he pretended to be. He wasn’t as careless. He had decorated her chamber, had taken in his sisters. He wanted her to be his wife when allowing her to go would be the easiest path.
Restless Rake (Heart's Temptation Book 5) Page 14