Improper Gentlemen (16 page)

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Authors: Diane Whiteside,Maggie Robinson,Mia Marlowe

Tags: #Historical romance, #Fiction

BOOK: Improper Gentlemen
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MacTavish pursed his lips in disapproval. “I’ll speak to him. There’s no need of that.”
“Oh, leave him alone. You have me to bully.”
“Not I. That will be Miss Dellamar’s job. And you don’t have to thank me when she falls into your arms. Well, I suppose I should say arm.” MacTavish gave him an uncustomary leer and Simon knew he was done for.
Chapter 14
 
M
acTavish’s face was grave when he finally entered the downstairs parlor. Lucy had done her usual pacing, hampered now by the influx of furniture she had purchased for Simon. She’d banged her knee and finally sat down on a new chair before the butler had to bandage
her
up.
“Well?”
“Sir Simon is in a great deal of pain. It’s a verra nasty break, Miss Dellamar, I won’t lie to you.”
“Should we fetch a doctor?”
The butler straightened to his imposing height. “I think not. No one should have anything to say about the job I did putting him to rights. He’ll be out of commission for quite a while, however. I think it best he stay right here instead of returning home.”
“Here?
All night
?”
“And for the next several days. I think it best. We can’t have Sir Simon bouncing about in a carriage or walking home when anyone might knock him to the ground.”
“This is Mayfair,” Lucy reminded him.
“Aye, and I’ve heard of the troubles, even on this street, for all it’s so fancy. Kidnappings and assaults, etcetera. And what about that woman who shot her husband at his mistress’s house?”
“Simon is not going to get shot. Not yet,” muttered Lucy. “I don’t have a gun.”
“Neverthless, I’m going to give him something for the excruciating pain, and he won’t be fit to travel. He might even be delirious. You will assist me with him, won’t you, Miss Dellamar? A man my age can’t be expected to be running up and down the stairs at all hours.”
“What about the footman? Or the maids?”
“Ah, I meant to tell you. There’s been a death in the family. I’ve given them all the week off.”
This was news to Lucy. Calvin, the footman, had been busy flirting with Mary, the extra maid, last time she saw them, and Yvonne was French. None of them seemed at all mournful, or in any way related. She stared hard at MacTavish, who stared back, daring her to question him.
“Can’t you get your boys to come?”
He shook his head. “Ham-handed, the both of them. A sore trial to me, I can tell you. And anyway, a woman’s touch is a healing balm for a man in agony. Sir Simon’s recovery will depend on you. I trust you care enough to help the poor soul.”
That was the problem. Lucy cared too much.
“And he’ll be blue-deviled. A man like Sir Simon—why, his hands are his fortune. He’ll be imagining he’ll never get the feeling back and then what will he have to live for?”
Lucy knew what Simon had done and could do with his hands. In her mind’s eye, she saw the roller bearings twirling around his fingertips. Saw his fingers keeping perfect time to music at the opera. Saw his brown hand easing down her body, leaving a trail of sensual fire in its wake.
“How long must he stay?”
“We’ll have to watch for swelling and returning strength. Keep him quiet and pleasantly occupied. I don’t mean to alarm you, but a splinter of bone could travel right through his blood to his heart and kill him.”
Lucy had never heard of such a thing and so she said. But MacTavish was adamant—Simon needed to rest and recuperate upstairs in her bed, and she was somehow the key to his health.
Stuff and nonsense. She was leaving at noon tomorrow whether Simon needed her or not. Her arrangements were made. He had the money to hire a troop of doctors to care for him. Nursemaids, too, women who would not look down at his rumpled brow and feel a pang of longing.
Lucy marched up the stairs, grumpy already at the thought of sleeping on her chintz sofa. She certainly would not crawl into bed with the invalid. If MacTavish was so concerned about Simon walking down the street bumping into someone, lying next to Lucy would not be a good thing. She was always restless at night, rolling around and wrapping the covers up over her ears like a mummy. Except, of course, when she tossed everything on the floor. No, Simon would not have a peaceful night beside her.
A branch of candles had been lit in her little parlor, and the door to the bedroom stood wide. Lucy bent to scoop up the troublesome books that Simon had tripped over. So much for self-improvement, not they improved anything but the author’s bank account. Lucy had a sweet tooth for the shocking novels of her neighbor Lady Christie. She placed them on the table with her hat form and unfolded the worn quilt that had been draped on the back of the sofa. She was just plumping a pillow when she heard unearthly groans.
“Urrgh. Aargh.”
Sighing, Lucy entered the bedroom. “MacTavish will be up shortly with a draught for you.”
“Urrr.” Simon turned to her, his eyes sliding to the corner of the room. “Where are you, Luce? I canna see.”
“I’m right here! Did you hit your head when you fell?”
“Aye. I’ve got an awful headache.” He closed his eyes. “Everything hurts, as a matter of fact. Touch me, Luce. Touch me anywhere so I can feel your softness.” His voice was raspy, as though he was suffering from the croup.
Lucy slapped a hand on his forehead. “No fever. I’m tired, Simon. We both need our rest. I’ll just be in the other room, only a shout away.”
Simon’s blue eyes snapped opened. “Nay! Come lie with me. I need you.”
Lucy wrapped her arms around her, shoving her hands inside her lace sleeves, else she might touch him again. He did look so very pitiful now, like a puppy whose paw had been crushed. “I’m sure you do not. MacTavish says you are not to be disturbed. He’s mixing up something so you can sleep. Is the pain very bad?”
“He didn’t mean you, Luce. I don’t mind if you fuss over me.”
“I don’t fuss—I know nothing of nursing.” She faked a yawn, keeping her hands firmly inside her sleeves. Let him see her back teeth—she prided herself on her good oral hygiene. “Good night, Simon.”
“Wait!” Simon pushed himself up quickly, obviously forgetting both arms did not work. His lips whitened, but there was none of the earlier groaning. He really did look in dire straits now, unmistakably in distress.
“Lie back down, you silly man!”
“Only if you stay.” He eased himself back on the pillows and flopped his bandaged wrist across his chest. His inky hair was damp on his brow, and Lucy fought the urge to brush it back. “Please.”
She was spared a retort with MacTavish’s entrance. He presented a glass with grayish liquid on a silver salver to Simon, who gulped it quickly.
“What’s in it?” Lucy asked.
“This and that. The master should sleep in a little while, but he’ll need watching until he does. It’s all apt to get worse before it gets better.”
From Lucy’s experience, that was what life was all about, wasn’t it? Grudgingly she sat at the side of the bed, as far away from Simon as she could get without falling on the floor herself.
“Come closer, Luce,” Simon croaked once MacTavish had left. “I can’t see you.”
She sprang up. “I’ll light some candles.” There were plenty of them now, not tallow but wax. A wickedly wasteful amount, really.
“Nay! The dark is fine. Better for my headache,” he said quickly.
“Your head will be fine soon.” She wished MacTavish had given
her
something to drink to knock her out, to make her sleep for a hundred years. But then she’d miss her rescue.
How many more hours under Simon’s thumb? Well, his bandaged wrist. She looked at the spinning clock at her bedside. Half a day more of servitude, minus the hours Simon would sleep. He’d be unconscious shortly. She could do this—she had to.
He patted the bed with his good hand. Reluctant, she resumed her position on the edge, wishing she had a bit more padding on her bottom to make this vigil comfortable.
“So, what did
you
do today, Lucy?”
“Nothing much. Finished a hat.”
“Mac told me you had a visitor.”
He would, the snitch. “Only Percy.”
“Lord Ferguson? What was he doing here?”
“Oh, why aren’t you asleep already instead of conducting an inquisition?” Lucy asked in irritation.
“Perhaps because I’m concerned about your associations in my house.”
“It was Percy’s house first. And he—forgot something.”
The blue steel of Simon’s eyes pierced her in the darkened room. Remarkable what you could see even when you didn’t want to.
“Indeed. And what was that?”
“A—a hat for his mama. He’s a very dutiful son.”
“A hat. A pity he forgot again to take it with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mac said nothing about hats. Or hat boxes. Unless Lord Ferguson secreted it under that ridiculous cape he wore. I’ve seen it, you know. The man canna dress to save his life.”
Lucy was inclined to agree, but felt obligated to defend her friend. “His tastes are unusual, I admit.”
You should see him in peach and puce silk.
“What attracted you to him, Luce?”
His voice wasn’t weak or breathless now, but clear as the midnight bells that reverberated outside. She shrugged. “His money, Simon. Isn’t that what all whores are after?”
“You’re not a whore! Or you weren’t when I left.”
“People change. I was tired of living in Edinburgh. Tired of my aunt. Tired of waiting for you. When Percy turned up, I snatched my opportunity.”
Simon pulled himself up on the bank of pillows. “I did come back, Lucy. When I’d made something of myself.”
I would have taken you unmade.
“Too late. Let’s not rehash the past. There’s nothing we can change, and nothing that I’d want to.”
Oh, lie lie lie, and lie some more. If Lucy had her way, she’d be living in some snug thatched cottage with half a dozen children and Simon by her side. He could be a farm laborer or a farrier, it would not matter. Just a simple, honest life with a simple, honest man—was that too much to ask for?
Apparently it was. There was no thatch on Jane Street. And the fiendishly rich, fiendishly handsome and fiendishly inconvenient Sir Simon Keith was in her bed, with no plans to get out anytime soon.
The room was quiet save for the gentle rumble and hiss of the fireplace. Lucy wondered if he’d finally fallen asleep when Simon cleared his throat. “I’d change things.”
“Would you choose to be less rich?”
“Don’t be foolish. We both know the pain of poverty. With my money now I have a chance to help others get out of it.”
“Like Percy,” Lucy said dryly.
“He’s the least of my projects. And if things go well, he will be rich again. Then what will you do?”
Lucy looked at him through the gray gloom of the room. Simon did not look one bit sleepy, and she wondered what MacTavish had put in his drink. “What do you mean?”
“Will you go back to him? Lucy, God help you, are you in love with the man?”
He sounded so wounded, so anguished, so absolutely stupid that she choked back her laughter. “In
love
with Percy? Of course not. I’m not in love with anyone.”
“No one? Could you ever fall in love again?”
Here was her chance to hurt him and ensure her escape.
But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say the words that would end this pickle, as he’d called it.
“Who knows what tomorrow will bring?” she asked, her voice falsely bright. “Now, Simon, you must excuse me. We’re both tired, and you’ll do your injury no good by fighting with me all night.”
His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. “It’s not fighting I want to do, Luce.”
She could feel his every fingerprint through the worn batiste of her nightgown, hot little circles sending sinful signals directly to her heart. No, not heart. Her lustful brain, perhaps. Certainly the juncture between her thighs.
Oh, Simon
.
She must have said his name aloud because he was drawing her to him. The man didn’t need two hands for what he planned. Lucy remembered the old yellow chair in her aunt’s shop, and how she bounced up and down on him like a shameless jack-in-the-box. Jill-in-the-box. Oh, why was she parsing words when his warm mouth was on hers, tasting of brandy and herbs? When his fingers skittered down her throat and plunged beneath her suddenly unbuttoned night rail? When her nipple peaked into his palm and the wetness seeped between her legs? When his tongue and hers danced the most delicious waltz?
What did she know of waltzes? She had watched Percy and Yates but had never mastered the steps herself. She wasn’t the type of girl who would ever be asked to waltz at Almacks.
Girl
. She wasn’t a girl, but a woman, past her prime even if she was flying awfully close to the sun now, feeling remarkably impervious to time’s mutations. Simon had certainly gotten better with age—who was to say that she had not also? He seemed perfectly satisfied to break their kiss and tug her nightgown over her head. Unravel her braids, angle her hip and thrust her down his cockstand. Efficient. Effortless. All one-handed. He was a wonder.

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