Heartless

by Jaimey Grant

  “Liza, you are not to speak of this to anyone, do you understand? I do not like gossip. It is hurtful and brings no good with it. Promise me, Liza.”

  “Yes, your grace. I promise, your grace,” the maid responded in a terrified squeak.

  “Good. Now I must finish dressing and see how his lordship is faring.”

  Liza swallowed with difficulty. “Cook says as how his grace is already up and about, your grace.” She cringed at the no doubt furious look in Leandra’s eyes. “I wasn’t gossiping, honest.”

  “It’s not that, Liza. I will murder that madman when I find him. He was stabbed just last night. What the devil does he think he’s doing?”

  Leandra’s toilet was finished only moments later. She sped down the stairs to the drawing room where she assumed everyone would be. Upon entering, she found the ladies assembled in one corner of the room, two of the gentlemen entertaining them with Society gossip. In the far corner of the room her husband stood with Lord Greville and Mr. Gabriel St Clair, the expressions on their faces attesting to the seriousness of their conversation. She had trouble maintaining her temper as she stalked over to them where they stood near the window.

  Derringer saw her coming out of the corner of his eye and his face lit up with unholy glee. “Unless I miss my guess,” he told his companions, “my lady wife is going to finish the deed started last night.”

  Greville chuckled, agreeing with the duke’s observation. Gabriel added his own observation that perhaps he deserved it. This made the three of them laugh.

  They closed their mouths and placed innocent expressions on their faces as the duchess drew up to their group—which only made Leandra want to throttle them all.

  “Just what the bloody hell do you think you are doing out of bed?” she demanded, keeping her voice low with an effort.

  Greville’s brows shot up at the intensity of her anger. With a muttered excuse, he and Gabriel fled what they were sure would become an awful row.

  Leandra dimly noted their departure and heard him suggesting to the others that they take a stroll in the rear gardens. She continued to glare at her husband, who stared steadily back until the room emptied.

  “Such language, my love. One would think you’d been hanging around the stables all your life,” remarked Derringer. “Or me.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, your grace.” She threw his title at him like a weapon and he stiffened imperceptibly.

  “You do realize that as my wife you are of high enough rank to call me my lord, or your lordship, or Duke, or Derringer. You don’t have to lower yourself to the ranks of an earl’s bastard daughter.”

  Anger shivered through her. “Thank you for the lesson in proper deportment, your grace, but I am nothing more than an earl’s bastard daughter!”

  “You are behaving like a shrew,” he informed her, ice coating each word.

  “Is it shrewish to worry about my husband who was just stabbed, and beaten, a mere eight hours ago? You should not be up and about. You should be abed.”

  “Scratched, my blushing beauty, not stabbed. And hardly beaten,” he drawled carelessly. “Just knocked about a bit.”

  His tiny bride growled at him in frustration.

  Derringer’s eyes lit with sudden speculation. The sight caused a momentary qualm in Leandra’s breast. What was he up to now?

  “I am well enough to wander around the castle, Merri,” he soothed.

  “How is that possible?” she exclaimed. “You were stabbed, Hart! Stabbed!” She completely ignored his earlier claim about his wound being a mere scratch.

  “Would you like me to prove to you that I am well?” he asked, eyes intent on her face. He marveled at how green her eyes turned when angered. He’d seen emeralds with less vibrancy, less fire that were still magnificent specimens.

  She studied his face for signs of fatigue, signs of hidden pain, but saw only his dark eyes staring relentlessly into hers, devoid of expression. “Very well,” she replied reluctantly. “If you can prove to me, without a doubt, mind you, that you are well enough to carry on as usual, you may do so.”

  She wondered how he planned to prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt.

  He wondered where she had gotten the mistaken impression that he would obey her whether he proved it or not.

  Taking her hand firmly in his own, Derringer led his wife from the room and to the back of the house. He led her up the servants’ stairs and down long winding corridors that Leandra had never before traversed. He finally stopped outside the door of his own chamber. Without a word, he led her inside, shutting and locking the door behind them. Releasing her hand, he locked the door leading to the sitting room between their apartments, pocketing both keys.

  Leandra watched all this with growing alarm. Surely he didn’t mean to…? Not now! Lord, what was he thinking?

  Derringer was thinking that he’d waited long enough to bed his wife and she wanted proof that he was well. What better way to prove it?

  When he advanced on her, Leandra found herself backing up. The gleam of desire in his eyes had her truly alarmed…more of her own reaction than his. And what if he further injured himself? She would feel it was her fault.

  “Hart, listen to me,” she implored as he continued to literally back her into a corner. “You cannot possibly mean to do this. It would be the greatest folly. It could kill you,” she said desperately although she had no actual fear that it would.

  This ludicrous statement made him pause. He cocked his head to one side, regarding her one dark brow quirked, then smiled. “But what a way to go,” he remarked devilishly.

  With those words, she knew there was no hope of dissuading him and her own sense of humor rose to the fore. She smiled at the look on his face, then laughed. He traversed the rest of the distance between them in three quick strides.

  Before she could say or do anything, he was kissing her with a single-minded passion that threatened to rob her of her wits, her breath, maybe even her life, she thought, dazed. His hands went into her hair, scattering pins everywhere and she found her own arms stealing up around his neck. His hair was tied back in the usual tail and, seemingly of their own volition, her hands untied the knot in the black silk cord. She ran her fingers through his silky black hair and groaned at the feel of it slipping through her fingers. She had wanted to do that since she’d first laid eyes on him, she realized.

  Derringer lifted his head just enough to see her face, his hands still threaded through her dark brown locks. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly and swollen from his kiss. Her hands had slipped down to his shoulders, using him as support. His shoulder protested but he grinned at her reaction regardless.

  Finally regaining some of her scattered wits, Leandra opened her eyes. She saw the look on her husband’s face and felt her lips twitch up in amusement.

  “I wonder,” Derringer said seductively, one hand leaving her glorious mane of hair to move slowly along her neck, over her shoulder and down the front of her gown. She gasped as his hand closed over her breast. “I wonder,” he repeated slowly, but he didn’t go on.

  She could barely think with his fingers making smooth circles over her breast. He seemed to realize that she was not in a state of mind to ask him what it was he wondered. He didn’t seem to require a reply. “I think you do,” he said. She was sure she heard surprise in his words but before she could comment on this, he slipped one arm around her waist and scooped her up against his chest.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t been wanting this, Merri,” he said huskily, carrying her to his bed.

  She didn’t deny it. And as his lips met hers in another demanding kiss, she knew it would be everything that was wonderful.

  21

  Although the duke managed to suitably prove his point, he wondered if he might really die, as he’d jested earlier, when he collapsed, rolling slightly to lie at his wife’s side. His breath came in staccato gasps, his heart trying to beat from his body.

  He w
as laughing… and thinking that if he did die, he’d have proven just how stupid men could be.

  Leandra, dazed at what had just happened, smiling and nearly laughing herself, smacked him lightly on his uninjured shoulder.

  “Abuse!” he croaked out, another pained laugh escaping. He grabbed at his sore ribs, amazed he’d actually managed to successfully bed his wife when just breathing hurt like the devil.

  Thank God—or somebody—that he had a high tolerance for pain.

  Leandra turned to gaze at her husband. It was wonderful to hear his laugh, even if it was so painful for him.

  She reached out and brushed a lock of silky black hair from his cheek, her fingers skimming his warm flesh. Not too warm, thankfully, she reflected. It would be terrible if he were to develop a fever.

  Derringer let his head flop to the side, his laughter finally spent. His smile remained, however. Looking at his wife—in truth now—he couldn’t help but smile.

  He caught her hand when she would have pulled away, twining his fingers with hers. “Did I prove my point, lovely one?” he asked lightly, placing a kiss on her knuckles.

  His duchess, smiling hugely, nodded her head. A pink haze crept over her features and she dropped her eyes, embarrassed… realizing she was naked as the day she was born. With a gasp, she pulled the bedsheets up over herself.

  Derringer shook his head in mock reproof. “I’ll never be able to properly corrupt you if simple nudity makes you skittish as a colt.”

  Leandra responded in quite the most adult manner she could—by sticking out her tongue.

  The duke leered at her. “Is that an invitation?”

  His bride rolled her eyes heavenward and edged off the high bed, the sheet wrapped securely around her. Derringer propped himself up on an elbow, ignoring the vehement protesting in his ribs. He watched as she scurried around, replacing the clothing that he had so recently removed from her delectable person.

  As much as he regretted the necessity, however, there was something he had to discuss with her—and he was not looking forward to it.

  “Tell me,” he began curiously, “why is Vi here?”

  “I invited him,” she stated simply, not bothering to look up. She was trying to pull up her pantalets without dropping the sheet first. The duke was very interested to see who would win the battle.

  “Why?”

  Leandra frowned at him, pausing in her dressing to meet his eyes. “Why not? They are your friends, are they not?”

  “Yes, they are. That still doesn’t explain why you invited them.”

  He saw her shrug and, staring up into her face, he saw a stubborn look settle in her eyes. “Do I need a reason, your grace?”

  The use of his title annoyed him and he had no doubt that annoyance showed in his eyes. At least he could easily tell when she was angry with him, he thought wryly.

  After a moment, she asked, “Should I ask them to leave?”

  Derringer sighed, shoved a hand through his dark hair, and shook his head, firmly repressing the twinge of pain in his much-abused shoulder. “No, Vi will be of some use to me, I think. And it was only a matter of time before he showed up anyway, demanding to know why he keeps hearing about my near-fatal accidents.”

  The blood drained from the duchess’s face. “Near-fatal accidents? What near-fatal accidents?” Her voice was a trifle shrill and even she winced to hear it.

  Vaguely, Derringer noted the panic in her tone but he was distracted by the fact that the sheet had won the battle, pooling at his wife’s tiny feet. He sighed a little, wishing he could drag her back into bed. But he knew his shoulder and ribs were not up to it—even if other parts of him were more than willing.

  “I exaggerate, sweeting,” he told her with as much conviction as he could muster, which was significant, considering he’d been in so many accidents that he’d lost count. The need to keep her safe and unconcerned was paramount.

  “You, exaggerate? But you don’t! Exaggerate, I mean,” she protested, still adorably unaware that she stood before him in her altogether. “You were attacked in your own home. It’s clear to the veriest lackwit—and I assure you, I am not—that someone desires your immediate departure from this world.”

  Derringer stifled a smile and gestured toward her. “Merri, my love, perhaps you should pick up your sheet. I can’t concentrate with so much bounty before me.”

  She snapped her mouth shut and bent to retrieve her covering, presenting the duke with the alluring sight of her curved backside. Her husband groaned.

  Hearing the sound, Leandra straightened and asked, “What is it?”

  “Muscle spasm,” Derringer said, straight-faced.

  Her expression implied disbelief. Securing her covering snugly around her and tucking the end in so both hands were free, she slipped on her pantalets. Her chemise took a little more effort but she managed.

  The duke’s shoulder started to protest vehemently, so he dropped back down on his back, noticing idly that he’d actually made the damned wound bleed again. He distractedly pressed a hand into the bandage, ignoring the pain that lanced through his upper body. He watched his duchess dress. She was quick about it, he thought with some disappointment. He had actually missed most of the spectacle. Comes from having to do for oneself, he reflected.

  She moved to sit beside him on the bed. He took her hand and pulled her close, saying, “Merri, I should not have said anything. I didn’t mean to frighten you. And there is really nothing to worry about.”

  She pulled roughly away from him, jarring his shoulder and making him inhale sharply. Leandra was too incensed to notice. “What do you mean there’s nothing to worry about? Are you daft? Someone is trying to kill you. It was attempted last night and God only knows how many times before that, and you tell me there’s nothing to worry about? What kind of simpleton do you take me for? Ugh! You make me want to scream!”

  As she talked, Derringer’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly. His little wife was turning into a shrew and he thought he rather liked it. Her anger made her face light up and her eyes turned that deep emerald green he found so fascinating.

  And in the face of her discomposure, he realized that she just might do something foolish like try to protect him or hunt down his villain herself. That was out of the question. He had no desire to lose her when he’d only just found her.

  A horrifying realization shook him. Lady Greville was in the castle. Derringer nearly groaned aloud. If she got wind of it—and according to Greville it was already too late for that—these two harebrained females would probably try to take matters into their own hands. He had no doubt the two women were already thick as thieves and that could only mean trouble.

  “Merri, if you get involved in this, I swear I will beat you.”

  She reared back, mouth falling open in outraged shock. “Well, I like that! I express my worry for my husband and he threatens to beat me.” She mumbled something under her breath that Derringer surprisingly didn’t catch.

  “What was that?” he asked silkily. He pushed himself upright, sitting against the pillows. He drew a blanket over his nakedness even as he reached out and took hold of her wrist none too gently.

  “I said, your grace, that you are a damned nodcock,” she told him fearlessly, chin tipped at a stubborn angle. Her eyes flashed. “You are completely attics to let if you think that for one second I am just going to pretend nothing is wrong.”

  Fascinated by his wife or not, Derringer was losing patience. “Such language, Merri? I’m surprised at you. Where did you learn such gutter talk?”

  Leandra tried to hold back as he drew her closer but he was much too strong for her. His eyes glinted with anger. Had she pushed him too far? He threatened to beat her and she knew with a sudden sicking feeling that it was more than just empty words.

  But she refused to sit around like a good little wife while her husband was murdered in his bed! And so she informed him before he could scatter her wits again by kissing her or touching her or�
� or… looking at her.

  Derringer pulled her forward until she was forced to kneel beside him on the bed. He sat up straighter, bringing their faces within inches of each other. “And just how would you protect me, my little Valkyrie?” he asked, a thread of amusement coloring each word.

  His lips waited only a hairsbreadth from her own. Coherent thought fled from her brain at his nearness. His eyes searched hers with mocking contempt and somewhere in the back of those inky depths she saw desire held rigidly in check.

  A smile touched his lips. Anger flared in her breast. The cad knew what he was doing to her! If he thought seducing her would change her mind about doing what she could to protect him, he was vastly mistaken!

  “Your grace—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Merri, if you call me that one more time, so help me God, I’ll…” He stopped talking as if suddenly unsure exactly what he would do to her—which was exactly the case.

  “You’ll what, Lord Derringer?” she dared to ask.

  “I’ll lock you up until you’re old and gray, Merri, see if I don’t.”

  She laughed. “Is that a threat, Hart? I’d have to say I prefer the one where you’ll beat me. It is far more in keeping with your dastardly reputation, you know.”

  “Leandra, you have no idea to what lengths I am willing to go in order to see my will done. I would suggest you not tempt me to prove it to you.”

  He still held her wrist in a steel grasp, a touch of pain shooting up her arm. But for some unknown—and possibly suicidal—reason, Leandra decided to test her husband. Would he really hurt her?

  “I realize you are speaking of my desire to protect you rather than what I choose to call you. You will not stop me from trying to keep you from harm, Hart. You will not.”

  Visions of Leandra, bleeding, dying, even dead, rose before his mind’s eye. And all because of her feelings for him. The pain these imaginings caused robbed him of breath, choking off his air. He reacted without thought, his free hand curling around her slim white throat.