Minor Indiscretions (4 page)

"As if that makes it right!"

His nose had finally stopped bleeding; his eye needed a slab of liver or something. Her inspection continued down—No, mopping at a man's chest was still beyond her daring. She'd never even seen one before today! For goodness' sake, she'd never been alone in a room with a man before today. Melody dragged her eyes back to Corey's, and caught an amused, knowing smile. She took his hand and poured brandy over the torn knuckles.

"The deuce!"

"Sorry, my lord, but spirits are the best thing to keep a wound from infection."

"And a waste of fine liquor. I can see by that martial look in your eye that you disagree and are about to do your worst to my other poor hand. Do you think I might have another glass while there is a drop left?"

Her hand shook slightly when she poured, he noticed, along with noticing the graceful tilt of her neck, the soft curve of her gown's bodice. His own hand shook slightly. "Perhaps you should have a sip also. This cannot be pleasant for you."

"Thank you, my lord, but I am not used to spirits."

"I'll warrant you aren't used to nursing fallen gladiators, either. You have my gratitude, of course, and also my respect. Every other young lady I know would have fainted long ago, and some gentlemen, too."

"Paltry fellows," she said, to cover her embarrassment at his praise. She certainly could not admit to the queasy feeling in her stomach. "And Monday is my day to be a vaporish female, not Wednesday."

His hands were dried and loosely wrapped in torn strips of linen. That left his chest to be tended, his taut-skinned, well-muscled chest. Melody took a deep breath.

Corey chuckled. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink? Dutch courage, don't you know."

He was altogether too knowing.

"I'm, ah, afraid of hurting you further. Shouldn't you do this?"

He held up his bandaged hands and just smiled. The dratted man was enjoying her discomfort.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

"Like hell you are."

Maybe if she distracted him, and herself, she could consider this just another job, like polishing silver or rinsing a fragile teapot. Of course no teapot of her experience had soft golden hairs or firm—

"Why did you do it? I mean the, ah, fight. It could not have been for the money, I know." At his raised eyebrow, the good one, she admitted to spying out the window and seeing his expensive equipage. Then there were his clothes, and the deference of Mr. Barstow.

"Have you never heard of punting on tick, little one? No, I can see from your face you haven't. No matter, I am well enough to pass that I need not hire myself out for a sparring partner. And no, I am not so noble a character to sacrifice myself to save Mr. Barstow's inn from an ugly melee. It was the challenge of the thing. The locals were boasting that Irish Red had gone fainthearted, and no one could best Albert. I took the dare."

"You did this for a
dare
?" She rubbed more vigorously; the viscount clenched his teeth. "Of all the irresponsible, reckless, cork-brained notions. Isn't that just like a man."

"How much could you know about men, from your great age? What are you anyway, eighteen, nineteen?"

Melody chose not to answer that. "I know that my father was just such a one, gambling on duck races, taking every madcap challenge, thinking no farther than the excitement of the moment! Why, you could have been killed!"

"So little faith, my angel. But I did weigh my chances, you know. After all, there is science involved. Albert is the product of barroom brawls, while I have studied with Gentleman Jackson. Albert had strength, I knew, but I had speed. He may have the brawn, but I have the brains."

"And the conceit! I should have thought the brains of a flea would tell you not to get in the ring with a man twice your size. Just look at you!"

"Ah, but you haven't seen Albert."

"You mean you won?"

Her look of incredulity struck a blow to his pride, possibly the only part of the viscount not yet injured. Then she smiled, with dimples and sparkling eyes, and it was almost worth it, even the aching ribs. Gads, what a little beauty! Young and unsophisticated, she was unaware of her effect on a man, if Corey knew women at all—and he knew women as well as he knew the art of boxing. She wasn't in his line, of course. Unless a man was on the Marriage Mart, schoolroom misses, debutantes, and such were like playing with fire. Corey much preferred to dally with women who already smoldered. But if, say, a man was thirty-five or so—the viscount was only twenty-eight—and he was looking to get legshackled, a fellow could do a lot worse.

As it was, sea-green eyes, adorable dimples, and petal-soft skin were exactly why chaperones were created. Which reminded him that his angel's was not doing a very good job of it. "I'll, ah, take over from here," he said, chivalrously relieving her of the towel, and himself of dangerous thoughts as she wiped at the red streaks lower down his chest.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful or anything, but isn't your companion being a trifle lax?"

"Nanny's nerves were overset so she took a sleeping draught, thank goodness. I mean, she needs her rest. There was a mishap with the carriage, and we had to walk a considerable distance this morning."

"Never tell me you are the Incognita in the ancient coach the fellows were snickering about before? They were calling you the Damsel, the Dragon, and Dobbin. That was you?" He laughed out loud, then clutched his side. "Dash it, I shouldn't have laughed."

Melody's chin was raised. Her tone was grim, "No, sir, you shouldn't have."

"Now you are angry. I'm truly sorry, Angel, really I am. Tell me what I can do to make things right."

How could she not forgive a silver-tongued devil with a ready smile and a black eye? She tugged his shirt around him better. "So you won't take a chill. And thank you, but unless you can play Cinderella's fairy godmother, wave your wand, and get my carriage fixed in a hurry, I don't think there is much you can do for me."

He laughed again, but much more cautiously. "I'm afraid I'll stay in your black books then, my dear, for your carriage won't be repaired anytime soon. Albert is the blacksmith!"

«
^
»

The doctor came. Melody vanished into the bedroom.

It was a good thing Nanny had a heavy hand with the laudanum. And a good thing the doctor had some experience with ex-soldiers and dockworkers, or other patients with colorful vocabularies. And it was an especially good thing that Melody, behind the bedroom door, did not understand half of what she heard. No maiden's education need be
that
complete.

The doctor left, and Barstow and one of his stable lads helped Lord Corey down the hall, out of Melody Ashton's life. She wished she'd said good-bye.

Back in the sitting room she found no trace of the whole episode, no gory water or stained towels, no decanter, no battered but unbroken nobleman. There was just the faintest scent of brandy and male body—and Mrs. Barstow, clucking like a chicken that's spotted a fox near the henhouse.

"I just brought some fresh hot water, miss, in case you want to freshen up before tea."

Both sounded heavenly, but Melody thought of her dwindling supply of coins. "Thank you, ma'am, but I didn't order tea, and we agreed not to be a further burden to you. Your giving up your rooms is far more than money alone can repay."

"Nicely spoken, miss. I told that clunch Barstow you were quality. But never you mind. It's all been taken care of by a gentleman whose name I don't recall so don't ask me."

Melody smiled. "You mean the one who wasn't here before?"

"Right. The one I'm to swear on my life you never spent the afternoon with."

"In that case, thank you, tea would be delightful. And please thank the gentleman for me."

"What gentleman might that be?"

"He'll be all right, won't he?"

"No one's ever cocked his toes up in
my
inn, miss. 'Specially not any handsome rogue what's too slippery for the devil to catch."

Nanny woke to the smell of fresh-brewed tea, lemon wafers, and buttered toast fingers with jam.

"You been behaving yourself, missy?"

"I haven't been out of these two rooms, Nanny."

Mrs. Barstow spilled the cream and had to go fetch more.

One night she .was dreaming of balls and beaux; the next, fretting over her family's uncertain future. This evening, Melody dreaded blowing out the candle, for fear she would have nightmares of blows landing, bones breaking, blood and bruises and horrid yellow-purple, swollen skin. She didn't. She fell asleep with a smile, and a mind picture of a crooked grin and laughing blue eyes. She hugged the image to herself and never stirred till morning.

Mrs. Barstow brought morning chocolate, hot rolls, and the news that the coach would be out front in an hour. Albert's nephew and two of the grooms had been working on it since sunup, long before the bucks were up requiring their services. Melody was pleased to accept Mrs. Barstow's offer to help her get ready, saving her scalp from Nanny's ruthless touch. In forty minutes she was washed, dressed in a fresh gown, her hair pulled back in a neatly braided coil, her cape newly sponged and pressed.

When Melody reached for the reticule hanging off her wrist, Mrs. Barstow was having none of it. "Reckoning's been paid," she whispered for Melody's ears only. "Nothing improper in that, I made sure. Just his nibs's way of saying thank you."

Melody waited until Nanny went back to the bedroom to check that they hadn't left anything behind, for the third time. "You've seen him, then? He's better?"

"Cranky as a crab and uglier nor a pickled pig. He's down the hall in one of the private parlors where we moved a cot in to save him the stairs. It can't be what I'm liking, but he asks if you could stop in for a minute on your way out."

"It would only be proper to thank him for his generosity," Melody rationalized. Then Nanny clomped to her side in heavy boots. "But I don't think I can."

"That's been taken care of, too, miss." Mrs. Barstow turned to Nanny. "You know, I've been thinking of that mishap of yourn yesterday. A terrible thing, these ruffians on the road. Anywise, my sister used to be a prodigious needlewoman afore she moved away. Now her threads and such are in the attic, likely going to moths, for I never have time for it, more's the pity. I'd be pleased if you'd come choose what you could make use of, to make up for the delay and all."

Mrs. Barstow started Nanny up the stairs, nodding back at Melody toward the first door on the right. "Ten minutes, miss," she murmured. "And it's against my better judgment. But he's looking as harmless as a babe, so I suppose that's fair."

Melody hesitated outside the door. She really should not do this. Her reputation, her future—his practiced charm. She tapped lightly.

He was sitting, stiffly it seemed to her, in a high-backed chair. He was wearing a bright paisley dressing gown with a black velvet collar and gray pantaloons. The colors of the robe, which was open enough for her to see wide swatches of bandages across his chest, were as nothing compared to the colors of his face.

"Oh my," she said, going closer. "You shouldn't be up."

"And you shouldn't be here."

My word, Corey thought, standing cautiously. He must have taken a harder hit to the brainbox than he thought. Yesterday, with her hair down and her toes bare, his angel was a most appealing little baggage, and he had wanted—needed—just one more look at her dewy innocence to remind him that the world wasn't all hardened cynics. Today she was nothing more than a pretty schoolroom chit, all prunes and prisms, not a hair out of place, bundled sensibly against the cold. By all that was holy, even he had more conscience than to make mice feet of her good name, whatever it was. "You had better leave."

Of course she shouldn't be here. Any peagoose knew that. But hadn't he asked for her and arranged the whole elaborate scheme so she could come? Obviously, he had changed his mind. So had Miss Ashton. Instead of wishing him Godspeed and hoping that by some miracle this nonesuch would ask for her direction, she would stand tall—she had her shoes on today—and make polite inquiries as to his health, then return his largesse. A lady never let a strange man pay her way. She pulled at the strings of her reticule—the weight of the thing was making it devilish hard to undo—and raised her proud chin.

"What the deuce is that thing around your neck?"

Drat Nanny anyway! She couldn't admit the muffler was her own cross to bear, so Melody answered, "It's all the thing, don't you know, my lord." But she showed her adorable dimples, and a lot of the viscount's good resolutions melted.

He raised the one moveable eyebrow. "Perhaps in Shavbrodia, my girl, but in London ladies don't pay attention to the weather. They are wearing the flimsiest of gowns, with the least underpinnings. Some are even dampening their skirts."

Her green eyes opened wide. "They are? Whatever for?"

He grinned. "Child, you have so much to learn. I only wish I… No, you had better leave."

"I am not in leading strings, Lord Corey. About your paying my shot at the inn, I do know that's not the thing." She couldn't get the blasted strings unknotted, and the wretched man was laughing at her! She stamped her foot in frustration.

He reached for the bag to help her, and exclaimed, "My God, what's in here? The thing weighs a ton."

She snatched it back, not about to reveal the reticule's contents, but he kept her hand in his, to her confusion. "If you must know, it's a going-away present from my schoolmistress."

"A fine instructor she must be, not teaching her young ladies about the danger of rakes." He was teasing her purposefully, noting her stress on the "going-away" part to distance herself from the schoolroom. He also noticed how the color came and went in her peach-blushed cheeks.

"School taught me everything I need to know, thank you."

"Everything,
mon ange
?" With that Corey drew her forward and brushed his other hand across her cheek and behind her head. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, tenderly enough for his bruised lips, thoroughly enough to leave Melody dazed.