An Inconvenient Wife (29 page)

“What do you think, Papa?”

Think about what?
Loath to admit he had not been paying attention, Westcott put on a bland
expression and hedged. “Hmmm, I’m not sure. How do you feel about it?”

“
We
want to do it,”
Sarah said, giving him an odd look, “but it is not up to us.”

“You will say truthfully if
next week is too soon for you? I felt certain you would be, but Sarah was
concerned that you might
pretend
you were well enough,” Anne said before
he could answer.

Judging from the glint in
her eyes, Anne knew he’d had no idea it was the
show
that concerned
Sarah, but he was too grateful for the clue to mind. “I expect to be much
better by then, Sarah, and promise to tell you if I don’t feel up to snuff.” He
pushed his face into a funny grimace and peered intently at her. “You are not
expecting me to perform, are you? I hope not, or you are doomed to
disappointment.”

“Of course not.” Sarah put
her fingers over her mouth to hide her grin. “You are much too big for our
puppet theater.”

“Why so I am. What a
relief!” He brushed the back of his hand against his brow in an exaggerated
manner, and the grin turned to a storm of giggles that set them all laughing.

“You must feel better if you
can play the fool,” St. Clair said as he stood and held out a hand to his wife.
His smile took any sting from the comment, and indeed, if the look of relief on
his face was any indication, the earl was nothing but pleased at Westcott’s
playacting.

“I’ve had a lot of practice
in the role,” Westcott said, but there was no bite in his voice, and more than
a hint of humour.

St. Clair’s mouth twitched,
but he chose not to answer, instead turning to Juliette. “It’s more than time
we allowed the invalid some peace and quiet. Anne, a delightful repast, thank
you.”

“Yes, thank you.” Juliette
leaned over to whisper in Anne’s ear. “Come and visit me soon.” She stepped
back, kissed Sarah and Danielle on the cheek and gave Guy a cheery wave. “We
will be back next week for the show,” she promised and they departed,
accompanied by a flurry of good-byes.

Quiet reigned for a moment,
and Westcott leaned back against his pillows, appreciating the peace and
silently acknowledging that his shoulder hurt like the devil. However enjoyable
the past hour, hiding his discomfort took its toll, but he managed to keep his eyes
open and his countenance placid, aware of Sarah’s watchful gaze. Anne’s as
well, he realized, and hers the more discerning, as she once again came to his
rescue.

“It is time you allowed your
father to rest, Sarah. Guy, I believe Bonnie is expecting you to take her
outside.”

Guy’s eyes widened and he
stared at the clock on the mantel in dismay. “I am late again!
Excuse moi
,
Mother Anne, sir.” He fled without waiting for permission, and Westcott hid a
smile at the resigned expression on Anne’s face. They had all but given up on
curbing the boy’s impetuous habit of dashing off.

“I will see Miss Blackwell
back to the schoolroom, if she is agreeable,” Thomas Atkinson offered, stepping
forward. He glanced at Westcott, saw his nod, and waited for Sarah’s approval.

“Will you take me to Papa
first, so I can kiss him good-bye?”

Atkinson rolled the chair
close to the bed and Westcott leaned over far enough for her to plant a noisy
kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for coming to keep me company, muffin.”

“Thank you for having us. It
was so much fun.” Sarah’s happy sigh was a strike to his conscience.

Some father you are, when
your daughter counts so simple a gathering a highlight in her life. She needed
this, and you never saw it.
Pushing aside the guilt, he managed a
faint smile. “We can do it again sometime soon. Perhaps you will invite me to
join you in your rooms.”

“I will, I promise.”
Beaming, she waved to him as her chair started moving, attention going at once
to her companions, and he could hear her high voice, peppering Miss Caxton with
suggestions about the puppet show they were planning.

Westcott shifted position in
an attempt to ease the pain in his shoulder, and closed his eyes, lulled by the
familiar clink of crockery and ting of flatware. He should be up—had
planned
to get out of this bed for longer than it took to tend to his personal needs
and slip into a loose shirt. Simple tasks that had required Harman’s aid, blast
it, since even the slightest effort left him weak as a kitten. He scowled,
impatient with this inactivity. Not a morsel of information had turned up as to
who was responsible for putting him here. Even knowing St. Clair was still
making inquiries—and no one was more tenacious than Devlin—Westcott wanted to
join the hunt personally.

“You are in pain, I see. I’m
sorry we overtired you.” Anne’s soft voice interrupted his gloomy musings, and
he opened his eyes, although he’d known she had lingered, familiar now with the
womanly scent of her.

“A little, and no, I’m not
particularly tired, but am more willing to lie on this bed than I care to
admit. Come, sit with me for a time.” He looked closely at her. “You look
weary, Anne. I hope it is not on my account. Harman is to hand at night, since
he insists on sleeping in here on a trundle bed.”

Anne hesitated, and then
pulled a chair closer to the bed. “Yes, I know. He is quite devoted to you,
sir, and so concerned I didn’t even attempt to persuade him otherwise. So you
see, I have stayed with you only during the day.”

“Good. I’ve troubled you
enough lately and prefer not to cause you any more sleepless nights.”

“Not trouble,” she murmured,
her gaze on the hands resting loosely in her lap.

“A
great deal
of
trouble,” Westcott said, noting the graceful curve of her neck. Her skin was
pale in the dim light. He imagined it, soft and smooth under his hand, her hair
running like silk through his fingers. Stirring restlessly, the sudden stab of
pain was a welcome interruption to the dangerous thoughts. “You saved my life,
Anne, and don’t think I am not aware of it. I doubt there are many women, or
men for that matter, who would have had such presence of mind. I am very
grateful you did.”

A delicate flush climbed
from neck to cheeks, and her hands fluttered in protest. “Anyone would have
done the same,” she said in a low voice, still avoiding his gaze.

“That is questionable,” he
said dryly, but seeing her distress, dropped it, instead asking an innocuous
question about this proposed performance the children had in hand. “I’ve seldom
seen Sarah so enthusiastic about anything. It was a good idea, Anne.”

She looked up at that. “Oh
no, it was Sarah’s idea entirely. I had nothing to do with it and, in fact, was
not sure if it was too ambitious a project. They had planned it as a surprise
for you, but under the circumstances….” She smiled. “Sarah can be
very
persuasive.”

“An understatement if ever I
heard one.” The tart comment drew a laugh from her and they exchanged a look of
complete understanding.

“I did want to speak to you
about something, sir.” Anne looked searchingly at him, drew in a quick breath,
and hurried on. “But you are exhausted and in need of a nap. We can talk about
this another time.”

“I think I have the strength
to converse a bit longer.” Stung by the implied weakness, his answer was
sharper than he’d intended and she drew back. Feeling like a bad-natured brute,
he softened his tone and smiled. “Go on, Anne. I promise to send you away when
I’m tired.”

Her returning smile was
tenuous, but she raised her head to look at him. “I want to purchase a piano
for Sarah’s birthday. I know it is some weeks away, but I believe it takes a
goodly amount of time to have an order fulfilled.”

Westcott frowned, not
certain he understood her diffidence. “Anne, you must be aware you are free to
purchase just about anything you wish. I know Mr. Atkinson set up a personal
account for you.”

“Yes, and you have been more
than generous. I did not intend this to be a charge upon you, however. I do
have some funds of my own, now that my father’s estate has been settled. Not a
large amount,” she said, looking amused, “but more than enough to purchase a
piano, although they
are
shockingly expensive.”

“You will charge it to the
estate,” he said in a tone any member of his household knew not to question.

Any member but Anne, who
stiffened, a mutinous expression on her face.
She
was prepared to argue
with him, judging from that look. He had yet to intimidate her. Why expect it
now? But he’d be damned if he allowed her to spend all her inheritance on
something benefiting the entire family. He had no idea how much a piano cost
but suspected it was more than Anne imagined.

“You can buy something else
for Sarah. Get her a flute. I know she is using one of yours.” He scowled at
her. “Why a piano? We have a harpsichord and Sarah has never shown the slightest
interest in it. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to play a piano.”

Anne huffed and narrowed her
eyes. “She will once I teach her. There is no reason the child cannot play.
Besides, your instrument is in such terrible condition I doubt it can be
repaired.”

Anne threw out the last
comment with the utter conviction that her stance was unarguable, and Westcott
bit back the impulse to laugh. She was so earnest, but he had no intention of
allowing her to use her funds. “It does appear repairing the harpsichord is not
sensible, and if you say Sarah will like it, I have no objection. Go ahead and
have Mr. Atkinson order your piano, and you will
not
pay for it.”
Shamelessly using his injury to forestall any further argument, he touched a
hand to his shoulder and grimaced.

“You are in pain, and I’ve
kept you from resting.” Anne stood and looked down at him with a worried
expression. “Did I upset you terribly with all this? I never meant to.”

Westcott lowered his eyelids
to a slit and sighed loudly. “You did not upset me, Anne, but I soon will be if
you continue this foolish insistence. Westhorp will stand the cost, or there
will be no piano.”

Anne stared at him for a
long moment, her expression unreadable. “Very well, sir. I won’t trouble you
any further. Thank you. Get some rest. I will send Harman in to you.”

So slight he barely felt it,
the touch of her fingers against his cheek, and she was gone, the sound of her
steps fading as he rubbed at the spot on his face, dispelling the unexpected
sense of warmth on his skin.
Don’t be a fool, Westcott. Feeling like
something the cat dragged in is no excuse to keep someone around for
company—especially your wife!

Chapter Twenty-Three

After two hours of tossing
and turning in her bed, Anne conceded. Yesterday’s disagreement with Westcott—
not
an argument since her every objection was instantly overruled—still annoyed
her. But how can one persist when one’s opponent is ill? He was far too
accustomed to issuing decrees and expecting everyone to follow along, no matter
how they felt about it.
Westcott is not an adversary, Anne, and he was being
kind in offering—insisting!—to pay for the piano.
“And cows can jump over
the moon,” Anne muttered as she shoved back the covers, swung her legs over the
side of the bed, and felt around for her slippers. The fire was no more than
embers, but it provided enough light for her to find her robe and a taper to
light a candle. In a smaller establishment, she would heat some milk, but even
her imagination did not stretch to seeing herself invading Westhorp’s enormous
kitchen.
Not
to mention the servants’ disapproval of such impropriety.

Anne shielded her candle
from the vagrant drafts as she ghosted along the deserted passageways. The
library was a more welcoming destination. A glass of the sherry she knew always
graced the sideboard would be just the thing to help her sleep, along with
something dreadfully boring to read.

She used her candle to light
one of the lamps, put a few pieces of wood on the fire, and stirred it, not
giving the reason a fire was lit in a seldom-occupied room a passing thought.
Westcott preferred his study, and she her pleasant parlour and office, although
the library was magnificent, with its colourful vaulted ceiling, floor to
ceiling bookshelves, heavy damask draperies and thick Aubusson carpets. The
lamp in Anne’s hand illuminated but a small portion of the room, but she knew
enough from prior visits to easily find the section containing the family
travel diaries. Purposely choosing one that looked both boring of content and
poorly written—
why did people persist in prosing on about their travels?—
she
settled into a comfortable chair near the fireplace, lamp on the table beside
her. A ribbon confined the loose braid she wore when abed and she pulled it
free. There was no one to see and perhaps she could stave off the threatening
headache.

“Oh, fiddlesticks.” She had
neglected to pour the sherry. Anne grimaced, and tried to decide if she wanted
it badly enough to get up—a dilemma instantly forgotten at the sound of Westcott’s
voice.