Lord Harry's Folly (29 page)

She tried to twist away from him. His arms began to ache with holding her down. Then he simply couldn’t stand her pain any longer. He measured a lesser dose of laudanum into a glass of water and forced it down her throat. She choked, doubling forward in a paroxysm of coughing. He pulled her against his chest and held her close, rubbing his hand on her back, until the racking shudders subsided. He began to rock her gently, until finally, he felt the tension in her gradually ease.

The laudanum was beginning to blunt the edges of her pain. She was seized by a sudden sense of urgency. She lurched up, saying, “Millie, where are you? What time is it? Please, we must hurry. Father will wonder where I am. I can’t let him suspect. Millie. Oh, hurry.” Millie didn’t come to her, but there was someone else near to her. A low, soothing voice. “Is that you Signore Bertioli? The vendetta, Signore. I mustn’t fail. I am nothing if I fail. You must help me, Signore, please, you must teach me. But it’s over, isn’t it? I was a fool, Signore. I went into battle with naught but a prayer and a foil. No pistols for me, just that damned foil.”

A soft shimmering light was shining in her eyes. A dark face was staring at her, dark eyes, deep and fathomless. “My God, it that you, Damien? Please forgive me. I tried so hard and I did win, but I failed because I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill him.”

Dry heat consumed her. She was burning, waves of scalding heat swelling deep inside her. There was suffocating material choking her, tightening about her throat, yet she wasn’t strong enough to pull it away. She ripped at the material about her neck. Fingers were closing over hers, pulling them away from her throat. There was a sudden lightness of her body, then the touch of warm air caressing her skin. Still it wasn’t enough. Her fingers clawed at the mounting waves of drenching heat. The dark eyes were again close to her face. “Please, I’m so hot, so very hot. Please stop the heat.”

“Yes, I will.” A cool wet cloth smoothed over her face, like a light summer’s rain upon a sunbaked earth. Cooling drops of liquid rolled down her face onto her neck, cutting a trail of prickly cold in their wake. The damp coolness floated over her shoulders and breasts, down to her belly, quenching an unbearable heat that burned her legs. She was being slowly lifted, the cooling liquid cleansing away the ghastly burning from her back. The flames of heat in her body surged with new intensity as the cool damp soaked in again and again. Finally the burning was lessening, withdrawing from her. The burning was dying away as would embers doused over and over until they steamed away the last of their existence, hissing and spurting until at last they lay cold and lifeless.

Was that a woman’s voice sounding softly near to her? “Louisa, Louisa, is that you? Have you come to curse me? So many lies, Louisa. Too many. I can’t bear that Jack must now risk his life because I failed. Please don’t hate me, Louisa. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t finish it. It was all lies, I lived nothing but lies.”

“Miss Hetty, oh God, Miss Hetty.”

“Thank God you’ve come, Millie. Yes, it’s you, I know it’s you. You must help me rise now, I can’t be late. Father’s schedule, I must be downstairs. Help me, Millie, I can’t seem to pull myself up. Help me!”

She heard a wrenching sob, then a deep voice sounding next to her face. The cold rim of a glass touched her dry lips and she opened her mouth, greedily gulping down the bitter liquid. Her body felt suddenly light, or was it her mind, floating above her, scornful of the weakness that held her a prisoner? The shuddering sobs were from the helpless weak body, not from her.

“Why is it suddenly so very cold, Millie? Please light the fires, it’s so very cold. Millie, where are you? Pottson, please help me. My greatcoat, Pottson, how can I go about in the winter without my greatcoat?”

A chattering, clicking noise sounded in her ears. She could not hold her jaw still. She was weighted down, mounds of greatcoats piled over her, yet she was naked to bitter winter winds. She tried to draw her body up, but the heavy greatcoats held her prisoner. They grew frigid with cold, weighing her down so that she was motionless beneath them.

Suddenly, there was movement next to her and dizzying warmth touched every part of her. She breathed in the warmth, pressing her face against yielding, warm flesh. She clutched at the warmth, burrowing her body so tightly that she felt one with it, fearful at any second that it would fade away from her and she would once again feel the bitter coldness. She felt gentle hands slowly caressing up and down her back, enfolding her, and she nestled close as would a small babe in its mother’s arms.

She thought she felt warm breath on her hair. She thought she felt the warmth of breath against her ear. Her teeth stopped their chattering, her shuddering eased. Deep shadows closed over her mind and gently, she fell into a silent, warm sleep.

Vaguely, she became aware that her face and body were being gently touched with a damp cloth. She tried to turn away from it, unwilling to relinquish the peacefulness of sleep. There was a feather-light probing at her side, and she cried out at the unwanted touch. Then it was gone. With a soft sigh, she drifted back into a deep sleep.

Hetty awoke suddenly and blinked away the last scattered remnants of the laudanum. She felt only a moment of confusion at the unfamiliar room, for memory stirred, and even before her eyes fell upon the marquess seated in a large chair near to the bed, a newspaper in his hands, her mind flashed over the duel and his presence with her before she’d fallen unconscious. As though he felt her eyes upon him, he looked up and she saw a smile of relief.

He spoke as he rose to come to her. “Now I trust you’re really back to me again. How do you feel, Hetty?”

Feel? How should she feel? Should she be feeling less pain in her side or should she feel relief or anger that she hadn’t killed him? She felt light-headed and uncertain at the moment how to answer him. She said only, “I’m with you. Where am I?”

“You’re at my home just south of London Thurston Hall. After I discovered Lord Harry Monteith wasn’t what he claimed to be, I thought it wise to bring you here.”

She wasn’t listening to him. She was staring at the lengthening shadows of the afternoon sun on the far wall. “Oh no. I must go now. Father will worry, he’ll find out, and all will be lost.” She tried to rise. A stab of throbbing pain shot through her side and she fell back panting against the pillow. She felt his hands upon her shoulders, holding her down.

“Hush now, Hetty. You’re causing yourself needless pain. If you will but listen to me, you will realize that the world is not quite as you left it.”

“What do you mean? Oh God, how long have I been here?”

“It’s been three days since our duel.” She stared at him, unwilling to believe him. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“I remember stabbing my foil into the ground. It was hard to do because the ground was frozen. I remember so much pain I wanted to die. Three days? My father, dear God, my father. What will he have done? Oh God, what’s he thinking?” His hands left her shoulders. She stared up at him. Carefully, slowly, as if she were afraid of further betrayal by her body, she let her fingers gently trail down to her side. She felt the bulky strips of linen binding about her waist, and remembered with sickening clarity the dizzying pain and the huge pool of blood like splayed red fingers pressing her shirt against her body. She looked at her hand. She realized she wasn’t wearing her own nightgown, for the material didn’t fasten at her wrist with tiny pearl buttons, but rather flopped over the ends of her fingertips.

“My father,” she said again.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

She turned her head slightly, carefully avoiding any sudden movement, and regarded the marquess’s face above her. She remembered for a brief instant the raging fever, then he’d wiped her down over and over with the damp cool cloth, soothing away the fever. She trembled at the memory of the bitter frigid cold that had frozen her from within. Then the soothing, giving warmth it had been him. He’d held her against him, pressed her against the length of his body. Stroked his hands over her back.

“Is this your nightshirt?”

“Actually you should thank my great-aunt Agnes, for it is her tenacious needlework that’s kept you clothed. Yes, it’s my nightshirt.”

“Where is the doctor? Millie? I know I heard her voice. Has she taken care of me?”

“Hush now and ease yourself. You’ve asked me a great many things. Would you like a drink of water?”

She drank avidly, choking. He lifted her gently, patting her back. It seemed a normal thing for him to do.

“I told you you’ve been with me here for three days. It’s been three days since you’ve eaten. Are you hungry?”

She realized suddenly that she could devour anything that called itself food. “Oh yes, please. Anything at all will do, just bring it now.”

He grinned down at her. “I’m glad you’re hungry. I’ve had all sorts of broths made for you daily in hopes you’d come about.”

He tugged the bell cord. At the soft knock on his bedchamber door, he walked quickly to the door. As he’d done since he’d brought her here, he stood in the doorway to shield her from the servants. She looked so much like a young girl that he couldn’t imagine anyone else seeing her any differently.

She felt light-headed. She supposed it was because she was so very hungry. Yes, that was it. As soon as she ate, she would deal with this man. He was still the same. He was still evil and ruthless and didn’t care about anyone except himself. Even though she hadn’t killed him, he’d still killed Damien and she would make him pay for it. Just not yet. But as soon as she was better, then she’d think of something and he would pay for what he’d done, he’d pay dearly.

Had he really taken care of her since he’d wounded her? She couldn’t bear that thought.

Croft stood owl-eyed and quite sober, amazingly alert to receive his master’s orders. The marquess grinned, hoping this transformation would last, though he doubted it would. Croft would be back to the wine cellar the moment the marquess left Thurston Hall. He rapped out his orders and shut the door.

He turned and walked back to Hetty. He thought she looked rather flushed, and in that instant dreaded the onset of another fever. As he reached out his hand to touch her forehead, she jerked away, her back stiff against the headboard of his bed.

“Good God, what is this?” He’d forgotten for the moment that although he knew her body almost as thoroughly as was possible, she, on the other hand, was unaccustomed to either him or to any intimacy from him. Also, she hated his guts. Well, for the moment, it was too bad.

“Look, Hetty, I merely want to see if you’ve another fever. Don’t be afraid of me. I have no intention of assaulting you or trying to hurt you.”

She just stared up at him and tried to inch away toward the center of the large bed, but another sharp pain in her side held her rigid. She closed her eyes tightly. “None of this makes any sense at all. I don’t have a fever, damn you, but I suppose since you’re the stronger then you’ll have your way.”

He did, lightly laying his palm on her forehead. Thankfully, her skin was cool to the touch. “You’re fine, thank God. Now, I imagine you’re ready to eat your water glass. It shouldn’t be much longer now, Hetty.”

“My name is Miss Rolland.”

He looked faintly amused. “Het Miss Rolland, I believe that I know you well enough to dispense with such formality.”

“You don’t begin to know me, your grace. But I know you, I know all about you.”

“Do you also know that I’ve taken care of you? There’s been no doctor. I see you don’t like that at all. Well, just remember, Miss Rolland, I fought a duel with Lord Harry. Lord Harry you must remain if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that I personally wouldn’t want to have to live through. I’ve really done quite well by you, you know. You’ll live. You’ll have a scar on your side, but you’re alive and soon you’ll even be eating.”

He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Her eyes darkened and narrowed. He wondered if she had a pistol she’d shoot him. She’d had so much to adjust to that her hatred of him had been momentarily forgotten. He wondered with amused irony whether feeding her was wise. The moment she gained back some strength, she would be at his throat.

“Ah, food.” He walked away from her before she could speak.

Hetty eyed the steaming bowl of soup and fresh warm bread. She tried to struggle to a sitting position, only to fall back, biting her lower lip, as the wound in her side sent a ripping pain through her.

“Listen to me, Hetty, you must keep still. I don’t want those stitches to tear. I don’t want you to start bleeding again. Just hold still. No matter what’s between us, for now just let me feed you. All right?” He frowned at her, saw how very near to tears of pain she was. “Please, allow me to help you.”

She was simply too weak to resist. She was also dizzy with hunger. As much as she hated it, she knew she’d have to lie here in his bed like a weak fool and let him feed her. She lay limp as he slipped one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her legs. He carefully eased her to more of a sitting position and plumped the feather pillows behind her head.

“There, you’re ready to dine.”

He pulled out the wooden legs of the bed tray and set it across her lap.

“I hope it isn’t corn soup,” she said, eyeing the steaming bowl warily.

“Corn soup? Why the devil not?”

“Father’s a Tory.”

“Good God, do I ever know that. Your father and my uncle between them would run England if allowed. It’s a frightening idea. You aren’t speaking of the Corn Laws, are you? No, don’t answer. Let’s feed you now.” He sat on the bed beside her. He picked up the spoon and stirred the hot soup.

To have him feeding her was simply too much. Besides now she was sitting up, not lying on her back like a lump. “I don’t need your help now. I’ll feed myself.”

“As you will,” he said, and handed her the spoon.

She couldn’t make her fingers do any more than curl weakly about the handle. She slid her thumb closer to the bowl of the spoon and dipped it into the soup. Her hand was trembling and before the spoon reached her open mouth, her thumb lost its leverage and she grimaced as the hot soup splashed onto her nightshirt, rather his nightshirt sewn for him by his aunt Agnes.