Cheryl Holt (10 page)

From the moment Eleanor Chamberlin Dunworthy had pulled into the yard in her fancy coach, Anne had known that she was in for trouble, and she’d been correct. She didn’t regret fostering Stephen; she merely wanted matters to calm, so that she could reestablish some of the routine on which she depended and thrived.

Stephen was demanding as a newborn babe, his road to recovery bumpy, and he was a terrible patient. Placid one minute, angry the next, he was never content with his progress, and unable to accept defeat or failure. Now that he was determined to mend, he expected instant health.

She devoted all her energy to him. If she wasn’t helping him in the pool, she was cooking his food. If she wasn’t cooking his food, she was serving it to him. If she wasn’t serving it to him, she was keeping him company.

When she managed to sneak away, she couldn’t concentrate on any topic but him. She was exhausted, weary, the oil in her lamp scarcely lit, yet she wouldn’t trade her experience.

His presence made her . . . happy. Yes, that was it. Where before, she’d imagined that she’d had an adequate and pleasant existence, she’d been deluding herself. She hadn’t been happy.

Something had been missing, and until he’d arrived, she hadn’t recognized it. He made her pine away, had her fretting over what might have been, and what could be, instead of what was, and she couldn’t believe she was imprudent enough to hunger for more than she had. The cards had been dealt at her birth, and she couldn’t alter who or what she was. She’d been a smart girl, had grown up to be a pragmatic woman, and at an early age, she’d resolved never to lament her fate.

As she’d watched, her mother had faded away, shattered from having loved the wrong man, an aristocrat she couldn’t have wed in a thousand years, and Anne had reaped a valuable lesson.

She understood her place, had been resigned to her circumstance. But Stephen Chamberlin had transformed her view of the world.

She wanted to be more than a spinster, wanted a serenity that ran deeper than what could be gleaned from running her
own business. The tangible aspects that had sustained her—the walls of her home, the dirt in the yard, the water in the pond—seemed cold comfort.

Much to her surprise, she wanted a man in her life, and not just any man, but Stephen Chamberlin. The notion was so depressing! Had she learned nothing from her mother’s plight? Had she no better sense?

He was so far above her, so out of her reach, that he was like an angel in heaven. She could worship him from a distance, but could never have him for her own. Her father’s despicable behavior toward her mother had guaranteed that fact.

Yet, she aspired to be Stephen’s equal, to meet him on common terms. His sister had hired her to care for him, which created an association of employer and employee, and she chafed at her subservient position, but there was naught to be done.

She’d agreed to tend him, and she would, but she would have to tamp down on her feelings. Stephen didn’t have a lock on vanity. She was proud, herself, and she wouldn’t evince the slightest hint that she was enamored.

Marching inside, she filled a bowl with hot water, grabbed some towels, and proceeded to his room. He was on the bed, and he assessed the items on her tray, frowning when he saw that they weren’t food.

“I’m hungry,” he grumbled.

“A good sign that you’re recuperating.”

“I must have something to eat besides gruel. I’m a bloody human being, not a bird!”

She laughed. “Are we a tad grouchy this morning?”

“My head’s throbbing.”

“I’m reducing your amounts of laudanum.” She’d been weaning him off the vile stuff, the liquor too, and she hoped to have him free of them when his sister next visited, though it would be no easy chore.

“I could use a stiff drink.”

So could I
, she mused, smiling. It was eleven o’clock. He could try the patience of a saint. “No. You had a dose with breakfast. You shan’t get more for a bit. I’m not about to send you home a drunkard and an opium addict.”

“I’m neither one,” he huffed.

“You couldn’t prove it by me.”

“I can do without them. I’ll show you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I’m itchy when I don’t take them.”

“Your body has cravings, but they will abate. Give it some time.”

“I don’t want to give it some
time
. I want to be cured now.”

“I realize that.”

He motioned to her tray. “What have you there?”

“I plan to cut your hair.”

“The devil you say!”

“And you’re going to shave.” He shot her a mutinous look, and she threatened, “Or else
I
will shave you. It’s your choice.”

“I’m partial to my hair and beard. I’m not ready to lose them.”

Trophies of his illness?
she speculated.
Or a shield to hide behind?

She picked up the sharpened razor, flicked her thumb across it. “Don’t argue with a woman who’s about to hold a blade to your throat.”

“Witch,” he muttered. “Seat me in front of the mirror. I demand to observe every snip.”

She situated a chair, then guided him into it. Though he hadn’t noticed, his strength had increased. The therapeutic sessions were having a remarkable effect, as were the nutritious broths and teas she’d been forcing down him.

If only his mood would rectify accordingly!

Gripping his wild mane, she whacked off a hunk. He
complained, and she punched him on the shoulder. While she was no coiffeur, she was no bungler, either. She’d had plenty of practice on Phillip when he was a boy. But that had been before he’d turned fourteen, proclaimed himself an adult, and hied himself off to toil in their father’s stables. She hadn’t seen much of him after that, but she still recalled how to barber.

“Where’s Phillip these days?” he asked as though he’d read her mind.

“Back at work.”

“At Salisbury?”

She stiffened, irked that he would so casually mention her father’s estate. “Yes.”

“How’s his leg?”

“Mostly healed. It occasionally causes him trouble. He limps.”

“Did you nurse him?”

“I did my best.”

“That’s my girl.”

He patted her hand, which flustered her. What did he mean by his
girl
? He sounded sweet on her, possessive, as though they were connected. Was he fond of her? More than fond? The very idea made her pulse pound.

“He’s your father’s stable master, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“How is Edward? I haven’t seen him in an eternity.”

Edward Paxton. Earl of Salisbury. The father she loathed. Stephen Chamberlin knew him well enough to refer to him as Edward.

Of course, he would! They traveled in the same circle. They were probably bosom buddies, and the prospect aggravated her beyond her limits.

“I wouldn’t know how Edward
is
,” she answered, inexplicably distressed by the question. “He doesn’t deign to inform me as to his welfare.”

Angry, she combed through his snarled, uneven tresses, not aware that she’d been so sensitive on the subject. Being very rough, she tugged and jerked.

“Ouch!” he snapped at a particularly vicious yank. He peered at her over his shoulder, scrutinizing her.

“I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bringing up your father. Phillip spoke of him warmly. I thought you were . . . were . . .” He trailed off, grasping there was nothing he could say that would be appropriate.

“We’re not close,” she managed, tears suddenly swarming.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Talk
about it? To him? The legitimate, lauded, acclaimed son of an earl?

How could she explain a lifetime of fury and anguish? A mother who’d died of a broken heart? A father who’d cast them off like so much rubbish? If she’d had an entire year, she couldn’t have vented it all.

“No,” she mumbled.

Linking their fingers, he pulled her around the chair, snuggling her onto his lap even though it was painful for him, and he brushed one of his light, dear kisses across her lips.

“Don’t be sad,” he coaxed.

“I’m not.”

“I can’t bear it when you’re not smiling.”

He kissed her again, lingering, the embrace enhancing to a level it hadn’t before. She relaxed into him, enjoying the moment, but as she raised her arms to wrap them around his shoulders, the rear door opened, and Kate came into the house. Anne jumped away from him as if he’d gotten too hot to handle.

“Kate?” he inquired. He’d met Kate, and appeared to like
her, had even permitted her to assist them once when he’d fallen, and Anne couldn’t lift him by herself.

“Yes.”

Because of Kate’s cautions when he’d initially arrived, she hadn’t found the courage to confess her burgeoning affection, or the intermittent kisses and caresses they’d shared.

Our dallying doesn’t signify
, she told herself, as she intended to insist to Kate should her flirtation ever be discovered.
He’ll be gone in a few weeks
.

He held on to her hand, cajoling a smile from her.

“Will you tell me about Edward someday?”

“Perhaps,” she equivocated, not sure she could voice that much sorrow aloud.

“And would you be kind to my hair?” he chided, changing the mood from somber to teasing. “I have quite a lot for a man my age, and I’m vain about it. I don’t need you ripping it out, strand by strand.”

“I’ll try to accommodate you, Your Royal Highness.”

“I can’t have you adding baldness to my problems.”

She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.

As she aimed the scissors, he persisted with griping over every clip and pare, and she hated to admit that even his grousing thrilled her. Pitifully, she was smitten, enthralled, captivated, but she ignored him and kept on. Dark locks drifted to the floor, and she was struck by the intimacy the activity generated. It hadn’t seemed overly familiar when she’d done it to Phillip, but with Stephen, it had the same effect as their being in the water together.

She was behind him, his shoulders leaned on her chest, his head nestled between her breasts. The arrangement was naughty, improper, and it allowed for bodily contact she wouldn’t have attempted or sanctioned in a different environment.

When had she grown so brazen? Why did she torture herself with such proximity? When she was with him, she
couldn’t stop touching him, and she pondered how he must view her.

Did he find her loose? Wanton?

Whenever a physical interlude occurred, he acted as though it was normal conduct, so he provided no clues as to his thinking, and amazingly, she didn’t care what his opinion might be. She was unable to keep her distance and had ceased trying.

It was exciting to riffle about, and she fussed and trimmed much longer than necessary, just so she could stretch out the encounter. But she couldn’t loaf forever, so she combed through the mass, then offered him a small mirror.

“Well?” she queried.

“You’ve missed your calling. You should be running a tonsorial parlor instead of a bathing establishment.”

“I’m a woman of many talents.”

“Yes, you are.”

He gazed at her, and her stomach twisted in knots. She’d heard stories as to how winsome he was, and she’d suspected there was a rogue lurking under all that scraggle, but it was frightening to have that man emerging. In light of her sheltered upbringing, she had no experience or aptitude for dealing with someone of his magnificence and charm. He simply took her breath away.

Busying herself, she dipped the towel in the water, and pointed to his beard, though she didn’t confide that she’d never shaved anyone before. The news had to be more than a sick fellow could abide.

“Would you like me to do it?”

“You’d better. My hands are too shaky.”

“You’re very trusting.”

“Hah! I’ll be watching your every move.”

With the scissors, she lopped off the length, then she retrieved the towel, wrung it out, and draped it across his cheeks and chin, pressing it in place. She didn’t know if she
was proceeding correctly, but she imagined if she continued with sufficient aplomb, he wouldn’t guess that she was incompetent.

She picked up the razor, studied it, studied him, then gnawed on her lip. She wasn’t sure how the blade fit to the skin, and she approached, twisting it this way and that, trying to figure out where to start.

“Give it to me!” He yanked it away, just as she would have nicked him. “You’ve no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

She thought about lying, then laughed and shrugged. “No.”

“Lord, keep me safe from bossy females!” He still had the mirror, and he passed it to her. “Hold this so I can see, and set the bowl and soap where I can reach them.”

His commands furnished her with a hint of what he must have been like in the army, ordering about the poor young men who’d served under him. A virtual terror, no doubt! How had Phillip stood it?

For many minutes, she dawdled, tilting the mirror, lathering, or swabbing away whiskers. Little by little, his features were revealed, until he wiped off the last of the residue.

“Well? How do I look?” Grabbing the mirror from her, he preened. “Am I a handsome dog, or what?”

He grinned at her, and she gawked in dismay. Was he handsome? Like a seraph painted on a church ceiling!

She didn’t want him to be so attractive! She wanted him to be ordinary, plain, common. It wasn’t fair that he should be gifted with so much. Couldn’t he have at least one flaw? No wonder he was so impossibly arrogant!

Declining to stoke his vanity, she clutched his chin, assessed him, and blandly announced, “I suppose you’ll do.”

“I’ll
do!
” he barked, feigning affront. “I’ll have you know that there are ladies in London who have swooned upon observing my pretty face!”

I’ll bet they have!
she reflected miserably.

“If you’re fishing for compliments, you won’t get any from me. You’re entirely too pleased with yourself as it is.”

“And
you
are a sassy, impertinent wench.”

“Someone needs to keep your head out of the clouds.”

“You’re jealous,” he jested. “You can’t stand to be reminded of how everybody loves me.”