Jordan, Nicole - Notorious 1 (11 page)

Nearly an hour had passed when Olivia’s head began to droop wearily, even though they hadn’t seen half the acreage or gone near the conservatories.

“Would you like to return to the house?” Vanessa asked. “I don’t want to tire you.”

Olivia nodded, then gave a sigh of frustration. “How absurd that I cannot even sit in this horrid chair without becoming exhausted.”

“Your brother tells me you’ve agreed to see the doctor. Perhaps he can suggest some ways to alleviate your weariness.”

The girl grimaced. “I doubt it. But I decided the sooner I gave in to Damien, the sooner he would leave me in peace. You cannot believe how vexing he has become, always pressing me to stir myself from my bed, as if I weren’t really a cripple. I wish he would just return to London.”

“I’m certain he’s only thinking of your welfare.”

“No,” the girl disagreed. “I am merely a burdensome duty to him, and he wants to be done with it as soon as possible.”

When they turned back toward the house, they saw the tall, lithe figure of Lord Sinclair striding toward them.

“Speak of the devil,” Olivia murmured with evident bitterness.

Upon reaching them, Damien came to a standstill and stood searching his sister’s face intently.

“I seem to have shocked you speechless,” she observed dryly.

“A pleasant shock, my dear.” He bent to kiss her forehead. “It is good to see you up and about.”

When he straightened, he met Vanessa’s gaze for a moment. She could read the gratitude in his eyes before he returned his attention to his sister. “Dr. Underhill should arrive this afternoon, if you are up to seeing him.”

“Very well, but there is no need for such haste. He will not be able to cure me today

if ever.”

“I didn’t want to risk your changing your mind. And the sooner he can advise us on a regimen for therapy, the sooner your healing can begin.”

Damien took over pushing the chair, and he himself carried Olivia upstairs to her bedchamber, where he left her to rest. But the tension between them was obviously distressing to them both.

Observing their brittle interaction, Vanessa suspected it might be easier to find a cure for Olivia’s health than to heal the rift between brother and sister.

“I don’t believe her infirmity is necessarily permanent, my lord,” the radical-minded Dr. Underhill announced as he exited Olivia’s room several hours later.

Vanessa, who had been present for the examination, followed him into the hall to listen to his explanation to Lord Sinclair.

“I could find no evidence of fractures,” the doctor continued, “but the bruising of the spine suggests severe trauma. I have seen this same sort of injury twice before. In both cases the patients recovered at least partial use of their limbs.”

Damien kept his expression inscrutable, Vanessa noted, while his tone suggested carefully controlled emotion when he said, “So you think it possible she can walk again?”

“With therapeutic activity and enough determination, yes, it is possible.”

Damien shut his eyes and expelled an uneven breath. He looked like a man who had been given a reprieve from death, Vanessa thought.

“What sort of therapeutic activity, Doctor?” he asked in a voice that was not quite steady.

“Gentle yet consistent physical exertion. The worst thing she can do is remain abed.” He glanced at Vanessa. “Forgive my plain speaking, but too many ladies fancy themselves invalids. Their physicians prescribe endless bed rest, when what they truly need is fresh air and exercise to cure what ails them. They lie about till they are limp as sacks of meal, and then wonder why they haven’t the energy God gave a fish.”

Vanessa couldn’t help but smile, which the doctor returned cheerfully.

“As I said, gentle physical exertion is crucial, but other activities may be highly beneficial. Heat, warm baths, massage—anything to stimulate the nerves and muscles and keep the rest of her form from weakening beyond repair until she heals.”

“How long do you think healing will take?” Damien inquired.

“Perhaps in a few months she might begin to regain sensation in her limbs. If so, then we will know we are on the right course.”

“And if not?”

The doctor’s craggy brows drew together. “Then I might have to admit failure. But a few months may not be adequate to judge. It could take a year, perhaps even two for the spine to recuperate fully. It would help her recovery if she had an attendant who could assist her with mild exercise and perform massage on her limbs.”

“I know of a nurse-midwife who attends my mother sometimes,” Vanessa broke in. “She is said to have healing hands.”

“That would be ideal,” the doctor proclaimed, nodding briskly with approval. “I should like to examine Miss Olivia again in three weeks, my lord, and there are some medications I would like to prescribe, if you will direct me to a pen and paper.”

“Certainly. I would very much like to discuss this further with you, sir. But will you first give me a moment with my sister?”

“But of course, my lord.”

Entering Olivia’s room, Damien went to the bed where she was lying. From her position in the hallway, Vanessa saw him reach down and clasp the girl’s hand.

“You heard?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” Her pale face was shining with hope.

An ache rising to her throat, Vanessa prayed with all her heart that the unconventional doctor was right.

Another rose lay on her pillow when she awakened. Slowly coming to consciousness, Vanessa reached out to touch the velvet petals with a fingertip. Last night’s bloom had been bloodred. This one looked almost silver in the moonlight, with faint striations of what might be coral along the veins.

“That variety is called a Shropshire Beauty,” said a familiar male voice from across the room.

Her heartbeat quickening, Vanessa raised her head and saw a pair of lazy-lidded gray eyes calmly watching her in the moonlit darkness.

He was lounging in the same wing chair, dressed casually in shirtsleeves and breeches, like any squire or yeoman farmer might. Yet with his inherent aristocratic grace, no one would have mistaken Damien Sinclair for anything but a nobleman. With his shirt open at the throat, the white cambric presented a severe contrast to his dark good looks and sun-warmed skin.

Despite her vow to keep her feelings for him under control, Vanessa felt a surge of pleasure. He had as much as promised her he would return for future late-night’tęte-ŕ-tętes, and, mad as it might be, she was glad he had come.

It seemed almost natural to rise and put on a shawl and slippers and join him in front of the hearth, where a pleasant fire burned.

Then again, perhaps she had made a mistake. Damien gave her a soft smile, ripe with the seductive charm that made strong women weak. To hide her response to that devastatingly sensual smile, she bent her head to the rose, inhaling the fragrant scent.

How far and fast she had fallen—behaving like a wanton at the first opportunity. How dangerous he was. How captivating. All he did was beckon to her and she came running like a hound to heel. But she could no more resist him than she could have repressed the need to breathe.

She tried to compensate for her brazenness by avoiding his gaze. “I inspected the entry panel to the passage,” she murmured. “I could not manage to open it.”

“I will show you how if you like.”

“Where does it lead?”

He gave her a long look, until she finally raised her head. “To my bedchamber.”

Meeting his silvered eyes, Vanessa felt her heart accelerate into a rapid rhythm. “It doesn’t seem to have a lock.”

“True. It doesn’t. You may wedge an object in the junction to prevent it from sliding open. But you needn’t look so worried. I won’t press you to share my bed without your full cooperation.”

“You are likely to have a long wait.”

He smiled. “Anticipation merely makes the pleasure all the more sweet, angel.”

She drew an unsteady breath. “Does everyone know about the passageway?”

“It’s a secret, to my knowledge. I was a boy when I first discovered it. My illustrious father used to invite

certain female guests to stay here. The first time I found him, he was with a married lady.”

“His mistress was married?”

His lip curled. “I fear I was disillusioned quite young.”

“Did you aspire to be like your father?”

“God forbid.” He took a long swallow of brandy and stared pensively into the flames. “Nowhe was a reprobate of the first order. You would not have cared for him

Then again, you might. He had a way with women. He kept a string of mistresses—until he became so ensnared by one that he forswore all the rest, including my mother.”

The dark edge to his tone suggested pain as well as censure, and Vanessa studied him curiously. “I confess you are not what I expected.”

“How so?”

Vanessa pursed her lips thoughtfully. At his country home, Lord Sin seemed vastly different from his reputation. She’d seen little of his rakish ways here. On the contrary, she’d seen how he treated his sister, his protectiveness and gentleness toward her. He could not be all bad if he cared so deeply for someone. “You just seem different. Not as wild and wicked as I would have thought.”

“I rarely indulge in orgies and perversions at home,” he responded wryly. “And I draw the line at adultery.”

“I am comforted to know that.”

Her reply elicited a quick grin from him.

“Seriously,” Vanessa remarked, “you do surprise me. Your interest in roses, for example. Horticulture is an unlikely pastime for a man of your stamp. Mrs. Nesbit tells me you rescued the gardens from near ruin.”

“It was merely a diversion I dabbled with many years ago, in my youth. The roses rarely require my attention now. I have an excellent head nurseryman in charge, and the conservatories are practically self-sufficient.”

“Your library seems as well tended as your gardens. I spent a few moments examining your collection this afternoon. I never expected to find such a wide selection of volumes—everything from novels to political discourses to technical treatises.”

“My secretary deserves much of the credit. Last year he arranged and catalogued the lot. The library in my London house has space for only a modest collection, so I usually have the volumes shipped here. You met George Haskell in London, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Poor George. He’s a clever young man but intensely studious.” Damien flashed a self-deprecating smile. “He would doubtless be happier in someone else’s employ. In his opinion, I’m an abject failure.”

“A failure?”

“Because I won’t take my seat in the House of Lords. George writes excellent speeches that I have no intention of delivering.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never taken much of an interest in politics. Yet he won’t give up hope that I will develop political aspirations someday.”

Vanessa eyed Damien curiously. “The books I saw in your library seemed to have been well perused. Did your secretary read them all?”

“No, I am the culprit, I’m afraid. I tend to read a great deal here. There is little else to do.”

“You actually read Wollstonecraft’sVindication of the Rights of Women ?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“Yes.” Her chin rose somewhat defiantly. Mary Wollstonecraft’s publication arguing against the subjection of women by men was considered seditious among the noble class. “And I found myself in accord with a number of her convictions regarding marriage. Especially those refuting the divine rights of husbands.”

“She made some interesting points about the social tyranny exercised by men,” Damien agreed, “but I thought some of her opinions stretched credibility.”

“Perhaps,” Vanessa acknowledged.

His glance seemed to measure her. “I confess, you are not precisely what I expected either. You are far more innocent. I never would have guessed you had been married before.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because you’re so skittish with men.”

“Not all men.”

“Just myself?”

She gave him an arch look. “I think you’ve given me good reason to be skittish, if that is what I am.”

“Perhaps so. We will have to remedy that.”

Vanessa shook her head mentally at the velvet promise in his tone. It was mystifying, how she could feel safe with him when he had as much as threatened her virtue.

An easy, contented silence settled between them. Some moments later Damien broke the quiet spell by asking, “Do you always plait your hair before sleeping?”

“Usually.” She looked wary. “Why?”

“You have lovely hair. I want to see it loose and fanning across my pillow.”

It was a deliberately provocative remark, which she determinedly ignored. Even in the moonlight, however, Damien could make out the flush on her cheeks, and he was enchanted.

Catching her off guard was not easy. Breaking through her prickly defenses required a deft and delicate touch.

He’d spoken truthfully. She was indeed unexpected. He’d been mistaken about her experience, obviously, prejudiced by the scandals involving her late husband and the rumors about her afterward. Vanessa was really nothing like her rakehell of a husband or her cur of a brother.

Damien was willing to admit he might deliberately have misjudged her. Many of the highborn ladies of the ton were thoroughly selfish and self-centered, only out for themselves. Yet Vanessa seemed quite different.

Her success with his sister had surprised and gratified him. It remained to be seen if her kindness and warmth was truly real, but if her concern for Olivia wasn’t genuine, she was giving an excellent performance.

Her intelligence was surprising as well. He had never expressly sought intellectual stimulation or clever conversation in his usual mistresses. One with a keen mind would be a novelty—a novelty he suspected he would enjoy. He found himself wanting to know Vanessa better, to explore her hidden depths.

Precisely because of his growing doubts about her, though, he’d found himself wrestling with an ironic dilemma: whether or not to hold her to their bargain and make her his mistress.

His seduction of her had begun as an irresistible challenge. Her mask of reserve and her cool disdain for men like him were as tempting as a thrown gauntlet. He’d been so positive he would easily conquer this beautiful, intriguing woman. Yet to his surprise, and perhaps perplexity, his goal had subtly changed as he’d come to know her over the past few days, while his own deepening interest had only burgeoned.