by Lisa Kleypas
“Shhh…” She had freshened the flannel, made it colder and wetter. As the unhurried stroking continued, his fingers encountered the folds of her skirts and closed on them so tightly that nothing could have pried the fabric free. Her gentle hand slid beneath his head and lifted it enough for the cloth to slide underneath to the back of his neck. The pleasure of it drew a mortifying groan of relief from him.
When he had relaxed and was breathing deeply, the cloth was set aside. He felt her maneuver around him, easing his head and shoulders upward, tucking pillows behind him. Perceiving that she intended to give him more water or perhaps some of the foul laudanum tonic from earlier, he protested through gritted teeth.
“No – damn you —”
“Just try.” She was gentle but merciless. Her slight weight depressed the side of the mattress, and a slender arm slid behind him. As he was caught in that half-cradling hold, he considered shoving her off the bed. But her hand touched his cheek with a tenderness that somehow undermined his will to hurt her.
A glass was brought to his mouth, and a sweet, very cold liquid touched his lips. As he took a cautious sip, the woolly surface of his tongue absorbed the faintly astringent drink instantly. It was delicious.
“Slower,” she cautioned.
He was so parched, as dry as a powder house, and he needed more. Reaching upward, he fumbled for her hand with the cup, gripped it steady, and took a greedy swallow before she could stop him.
“Wait.” The cup was pulled from his grasp. “Let’s see if you can keep it down.”
He was tempted to curse her for withholding the drink, although a distant part of his brain understood the sense of it.
Eventually the glass came to his lips again.
He forced himself to drain the contents slowly rather than gulp. After he had finished, Lady Helen waited patiently, still supporting him. The motion of her breathing was gentle and even, her breast a soft cushion beneath his head. She smelled like vanilla and some faint, flowery essence. He had never been at such a disadvantage in his adult life… He was always well dressed and in control, but all this woman saw was a helpless, grossly unkempt invalid. It was infuriating.
“Better?” she asked.
“Ydw,” Rhys replied in Welsh without thinking. Yes. It seemed impossible, but the room had stopped turning over. Even though shocks of pain still ran up his leg as if bullets were being fired through it at intervals, he could tolerate anything as long as the nausea was gone.
She began to ease him from her lap, but he laid a solid arm across her. He needed everything to stay exactly as it was, at least for a few minutes. To his satisfaction, she settled back beneath him.
“What did you give me?” he asked.
“A tea I made with orchids.”
“Orchids,” he repeated, puzzled.
He’d never heard of any use for the odd flowers, other than as exotic ornaments.
“Two varieties of Dendrobium, and a Spiranthes. Many orchids have medicinal properties. My mother collected them, and filled a score of notebooks with information she’d gathered.”
Oh, he liked her voice, a low and lulling melody. He felt her move again – another attempt to set him aside – and he slumped more heavily into her lap, his head pinning her arm in a determined effort to make her stay.
“Mr. Winterborne, I should leave you to rest now —”
“Talk to me.”
She hesitated. “If you wish. What shall we talk about?”
He wanted to ask her if he’d been permanently blinded. If anyone had said anything to him about it, he’d been too drugged to remember. But he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the question. He was too afraid of the answer. And there was no way to stop thinking about it while he was alone in this quiet room. He needed distraction and comfort.
He needed her.
“Shall I tell you about orchids?” she asked in the silence. She continued without waiting for an answer, adjusting her position more comfortably. “The word comes from Greek mythology. Orchis was the son of a satyr and a nymph. During a feast to celebrate Bacchus, Orchis drank too much wine and tried to force his attentions on a priestess. Bacchus was very displeased, and reacted by having Orchis torn to pieces. The pieces were scattered far and wide, and wherever one landed, an orchid grew.” Pausing, she leaned away for a few seconds, reaching for something. Something soft and delicate touched his cracked lips… She was applying salve with a fingertip. “Most people don’t know that vanilla is the fruit of an orchid vine. We keep one in a glasshouse on the estate – it’s so long that it grows sideways on the wall. When one of the flowers is full grown, it opens in the morning, and if it isn’t pollinated, it closes in the evening, never to open again. The white blossoms, and the vanilla pods within them, have the sweetest scent in the world…”
As her gentle voice continued, Rhys had the sensation of floating, the red tide of fever easing. How strange and lovely it was to lie here half dozing in her arms, possibly even better than fucking… but that thought led to the indecent question of what it might be like with her… how she might lie quietly beneath him while he devoured all that petal softness and vanilla sweetness… and slowly he fell asleep in Lady Helen’s arms.
Chapter 22
L
ate in the afternoon, Devon left his bed with the intention of joining the rest of the family in the dining room for Christmas Eve tea. He managed to dress with the help of his valet, but it took far longer than he’d anticipated. The process first entailed binding his midsection firmly enough to support the cracked ribs and restrict sudden movements. Even with Sutton’s assistance, it was excruciating to slide his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. The slightest twist of his torso sent agony zinging through him. Before Devon was able to don his coat, he was obliged to take a half dose of laudanum to dull the pain.
Eventually Sutton tied his neck cloth in a precise knot and stood back to view him. “How do you feel, my lord?”
“Well enough to go downstairs for a while,” Devon said. “But I’m not what anyone would call spry. And if I sneeze, I’m fairly certain I’ll start bawling like an infant.”
The valet smiled slightly. “You’ll have no shortage of people eager to help you. The footmen literally drew straws to decide who would have the privilege of accompanying you downstairs.”
“I don’t need anyone to accompany me,” Devon said, disliking the idea of being treated like some gouty old codger. “I’ll hold the railing to keep myself steady.”
“I’m afraid Sims is adamant. He lectured the entire staff about the necessity of protecting you from additional injury. Furthermore, you can’t disappoint the servants by refusing their help. You’ve become quite a hero to them after saving those people.”
“I’m not a hero,” Devon scoffed. “Anyone would have done it.”
“I don’t think you understand, my lord. According to the account in the papers, the woman you rescued is a miller’s wife – she had gone to London to fetch her little nephew, after his mother had just died. And the boy and his sisters are the children of factory workers. They were sent to live in the country with their grandparents.” Sutton paused before saying with extra emphasis, “Second-class passengers, all of them.”
Devon gave him a look askance.
“For you to risk your life for anyone was heroic,” the valet said. “But the fact that a man of your rank would be willing to sacrifice everything for those of such humble means… Well, as far as everyone at Eversby Priory is concerned, it’s the same as if you had done it for any one of them.” Sutton began to smile as he saw Devon’s discomfited expression. “Which is why you will be plagued with your servants’ homage and adoration for decades to come.”
“Bloody hell,” Devon muttered, his face heating. “Where’s the laudanum?”
The valet grinned and went to ring the servants’ bell.
As soon as Devon left his room, he was overwhelmed by a surplus of unwanted attention. Not one but two footmen acco
mpanied him down the stairs, eagerly pointing out dangers such as the edge of a particular step that wasn’t quite smooth, or a section of the curved balustrade that might be slippery from a recent polishing. After negotiating the apparent perils of the staircase, Devon continued through the main hall and was obliged to stop along the way as a row of housemaids curtsied and uttered a chorus of “Happy Christmas” and “God bless you, milord,” and offered abundant wishes for his good health.
Abashed by the role he seemed to have been cast in, Devon smiled and thanked them. He made his painstaking way to the dining room, which was filled with lavish arrangements of Christmas flowers, and hung with evergreen garlands twined with gold ribbon. Kathleen, West, and the twins were all seated, laughing and chatting with relaxed good humor.
“We knew you were approaching,” Pandora said to Devon, “from all the happy voices we could hear in the entrance hall.”
“He’s not accustomed to people exclaiming happily when he arrives,” West said gravely. “Usually they do it when he leaves.”
Devon sent his brother a mock-threatening glance and went to the empty place beside Kathleen. Immediately the underbutler, who had been waiting at the side of the room, pulled back the chair and helped to seat him with exaggerated caution.
Kathleen seemed to have difficulty meeting Devon’s gaze. “You mustn’t overdo,” she said with soft concern.
“I won’t,” Devon replied. “I’m going to have tea, and help the family greet the tenants as they arrive. After that, I expect I’ll be done in.” He glanced around the table. “Where’s Helen?”
“She’s keeping company with Mr. Winterborne,” Cassandra said brightly.
How had that come about? Devon sent a questioning glance to West, who hitched his shoulders in a slight shrug.
“Mr. Winterborne had a rather difficult day,” Kathleen explained. “He’s feverish, and the laudanum makes him ill. It’s against all decorum, obviously, but Helen asked if she might try to help him.”
“That’s very kind of her,” Devon said. “And it’s kind of you to allow it.”
“Mrs. Church told me that Mr. Winterborne isn’t snapping and snarling anymore,” Pandora volunteered. “He’s resting on pillows and drinking orchid tea. And Helen has been chattering like a magpie for hours.”
Cassandra looked dumbfounded. “Helen, chattering for hours? That doesn’t seem possible.”
“I wouldn’t have thought she had that much to say,” Pandora agreed.
“Perhaps it’s just that she’s never able to slide a word in edgewise,” West remarked blandly.
A few seconds later, he was pelted with a shower of sugar lumps.
“Girls,” Kathleen exclaimed indignantly. “Stop that at once! West, don’t you dare encourage them by laughing!” She sent a threatening glance at Devon, who was desperately trying to suppress his amusement. “Or you,” she said severely.
“I won’t,” he promised, wincing and reflecting ruefully that whoever said laughter was the best medicine had never broken a rib.
Kathleen thought it was a wonder that the family had managed to adopt a reasonably dignified façade by the time the tenants and townspeople began to arrive.
As they welcomed the procession of guests, Devon was self-assured and gracious, without the slightest hint of arrogance. He exerted himself to be charming, receiving praise and admiring comments with self-deprecating wit. Well-scrubbed children were shepherded forward, the little boys bowing, the girls curtsying, and Devon bowed in response, showing no sign of the pain he had to be feeling.
However, after an hour and a half, Kathleen noticed subtle grooves of strain appearing on his face. It was time for him to stop, she thought. West and the girls could manage the last few arrivals without him.
Before she could draw Devon away, however, a couple approached with a rosy-cheeked infant, a girl with blond curls tied up in a ribbon.
“Will you hold her, milord?” the young mother asked hopefully. “For luck?” Obviously she knew nothing about the injuries that Devon had sustained during the train accident.
“Oh, please let me hold her,” Kathleen exclaimed before he could reply. She reached out for the cherub, feeling a bit awkward since she knew little about young children. But the baby relaxed contentedly in her arms and stared up at her with eyes as round as buttons. Kathleen smiled down at the infant, marveling at the delicacy of her skin and the perfect rosebud shape of her mouth.
Turning to Devon, she lifted the baby and suggested, “A kiss for luck?”
He complied without hesitation, bending to press his lips to the infant’s head.
As he stood, however, his gaze traveled from the baby to Kathleen’s face, and for one brief moment his eyes were the flat, frozen blue of glacier ice. The expression was deftly concealed, but not before she had seen it. Instinctively she understood that the sight of her with the baby had opened a door on emotions he didn’t want to confront.
Forcing a smile to her lips, Kathleen gave the baby back to her proud mother, exclaiming, “What a beautiful little girl. An angel!”
Fortunately there was a lull in the line of arriving guests, and Kathleen took swift advantage. Slipping her arm through Devon’s, she said quietly, “Let’s go.”
He escorted her away without a word, letting out a sigh of relief as they walked through the entrance hall.
Kathleen had intended to find a quiet place for them to sit undisturbed, but Devon surprised her by pulling her behind the Christmas tree. He drew her into the space beneath the stairs where heavy-laden evergreen branches obscured them from view.
“What are you doing?” she asked in bemusement.
Lights from hundreds of tiny candles danced in his eyes. “I have a gift for you.”
Disconcerted, she said, “Oh, but… the family will exchange presents tomorrow morning.”
“Unfortunately the presents I brought from London were lost in the accident.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he said, “This is the one thing I managed to keep. I’d rather give it to you privately, since I have nothing for the others.”
Hesitantly she took the object from his open palm.
It was a small, exquisite black cameo rimmed with pearls. A woman on a horse.
“The woman is Athena,” Devon said. “According to myth, she invented the bridle and was the first ever to tame a horse.”
Kathleen looked down at the gift in wonder. First the shawl… now this. Personal, beautiful, thoughtful things. No one had ever understood her taste so acutely.
Damn him.
“It’s lovely,” she said unsteadily. “Thank you.”
Through a glaze of incipient tears, she saw him grin.
Unclasping the little pin, she tried to fasten it to the center of her collar. “Is it straight?”
“Not quite.” The backs of his fingers brushed her throat as he adjusted the cameo and pinned it. “I have yet to actually see you ride,” he said. “West claims that you’re more accomplished than anyone he’s ever seen.”
“An exaggeration.”
“I doubt that.” His fingers left her collar. “Happy Christmas,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her forehead.
As the pressure of his lips lifted, Kathleen stepped back, trying to create a necessary distance between them. Her heel brushed against some solid, living thing, and a sharply indignant squeal startled her.
“Oh!” Kathleen leaped forward instinctively, colliding with Devon’s front. His arms closed around her automatically, even as a pained grunt escaped him. “Oh – I’m sorry… What in heaven’s name —” She twisted to see behind her and broke off at the sight of Hamlet, who had come to root beneath the Christmas tree for stray sweets that had fallen from paper cones as they’d been removed from the branches. The pig snuffled among the folds of the tree skirt and the scattered presents wrapped in colored paper. Finding a tidbit to consume, he oinked in satisfaction.
Kathleen shook her head and clung to Devon as laughter trembled through
both of them. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, her hand resting lightly at the side of his waistcoat.
His smiling lips grazed her temple. “Of course not, you little makeweight.”
They stayed together in that delicious moment of scattered light and fragrant spruce and irresistible attraction. The entrance hall was quiet now; the guests had proceeded en masse to the drawing room.
Devon’s head lowered, and he kissed the side of her throat. “I want you in my bed again,” he whispered. Working his way along her neck, he found a sensitive place that made her shiver and arch, the tip of his tongue stroking a soft pulse. It seemed as if her body had become attuned to his, excitement leaping instantly at his nearness, delight pooling hotly in her stomach. How easy it would be to let him have whatever he wanted of her. To yield to the pleasure he could give her, and think only of the present moment.