Reckless (20 page)

In truth, he wanted Charlotte and no one but Charlotte, and his efforts to get over her were only making
things worse. He could have had her in the carriage. His release might have been enough to finally let go. There was no way that the sex had been as good as he remembered. Impossible. All he had to do was tup her again and he'd know that for a fact.

He was almost home. The full moon had set, and the night was dark. Perhaps that was his problem—folklore had it that everyone got a little crazy during a full moon. Certainly the watchmen were busier with miscreants and Mohocks. By tomorrow he might feel entirely differently.

But tomorrow was too far away. He could see his cozy little house up ahead, but he stopped, looking back the way he'd come. Not quite ready to admit defeat.

But what could he say? If he had any idea which was Charlotte's bedroom he'd damn well scale the walls of Evangelina's house to get to her. Perhaps he could just charge in like some bloody pirate and demand her, throw her over his shoulder and carry her off. Who could stop him?

He laughed at the thought. Charlotte would probably break his head for trying it. And he suspected Evangelina wouldn't be any help—she was damnably protective of the woman. Girl. Woman.

If he had any sense he would spend the night blessedly alone with a bottle or two or three.

He had no sense. He turned, moving back the way he'd come, when something rushed out of the
darkness, straight at him. More than something—three men, brandishing clubs, and the first blow took him off guard, hitting him in the head, momentarily stunning him.

The next caught his knees, and he fell to the ground, reaching for the pistol he carried beneath his coat.

“Watch out, 'e's got a popper,” one of them called, and his arm went numb from another blow.

“Finish 'im off, Jem,” one man said. “We wants to get paid before the cove takes off. Besides, we gots other work to do tonight besides this one.”

Presumably it was Jem who moved closer. Adrian looked up at him dazedly, his head still ringing. The next blow would most likely crush his skull. And for some reason all he could think of was Charlotte's reaction to his untimely demise.

“You there!” someone shouted, and just like that the men scattered into the shadows like the rats they were, Adrian thought dazedly.

He tried to sit up, and someone came up to him, putting his hand under his arm to haul him to his feet. The arm they'd hit, and he let out a string of blasphemous curses as he struggled to his feet, only to see that his savior was wearing the collar of a vicar.

“Bloody Christ,” he muttered weakly.

The man laughed. “You're in one piece, Rohan. You can thank God for that, not curse him.”

“Fat lot you know,” he said. He narrowed his eyes.
He was still seeing a shadow around everything, but he was fairly certain he'd never met this man before. “Who are you?” he demanded, suspicious. “How do you know who I am? Did you set those men on me?”

“I'm the one who saved you, remember? I know who you are because I've come to see you. I'm Simon Pagett. I've come from Lord Montague.”

He was already dizzy, and the man's words weren't helping. “He's not dead, is he?” he said in a dangerous voice.

“No. But he doesn't have long. He wants his closest friends to come and say goodbye.”

For a long moment Adrian didn't say anything. And then he nodded toward his house. “I live just over there. Come in with me and you can tell me about it.”

“I don't have much time—–I'm to meet with some people and escort them to Sussex.”

“I don't have much time either. My head is killing me and I damned well want to get drunk and go to bed.”

“It might not be a good idea to get drunk after someone slammed you in the head,” the vicar said mildly.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then I'll take my chances. Come along, Vicar. There's drinking to be done.”

C
harlotte, normally the best of travelers, was totally miserable on the seemingly endless drive to Sussex. It took all her willpower not to throw up as the traveling coach lumbered along the bumpy roads, and when they stopped to change horses she couldn't manage more than a few sips of weak tea.

It was late morning by the time the coach pulled up at Hensley Court and discharged its bedraggled passengers. Mr. Pagett had gone ahead of them for the last hour, in order to make certain all was in readiness for their arrival.

Indeed, the interaction between Lina and Mr. Pagett provided Charlotte with much-needed distraction from her current woes. She couldn't very well think about Adrian Rohan without fury churning her poor beleaguered stomach. How dare he? How dare he tempt and taunt her like that, as if she were some idle plaything. She could console herself with the
knowledge that she hadn't given in, no matter how much her body had cried out for it. She'd won the battle.

It just happened to feel like she'd lost the war.

At least thinking about Lina and the vicar kept her mind off her stomach. Listening to Lina's fuming diatribe had been wonderfully distracting.

“Isn't he the most odious man, Charlotte?” Lina had demanded early in the trip. Mr. Pagett was riding outside, having to keep his horse's pace slow to match the heavy coach. “You were spared much of his company, or you'd realize how abominably high-handed he is. The Lord preserve me from small-minded vicars and their prosy ways!”

“He didn't seem particularly prosy,” Charlotte said, a hand clasped to her roiling stomach beneath her loose pelisse. “He mainly seemed concerned about Montague. A concern you share.”

“That's the only thing we do share,” Lina said with an angry sniff. “And he has no right to cast judgment on anybody—his own early life was fully as sordid as the most depraved libertine's.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me,” Lina said artlessly. “You just need to take a good look at him to realize the truth. He looks a good ten years older than his real age, all due to excesses of brandy, of whoring, of ruinous behavior. How dare he tell me what I should be doing?” She fumed as Charlotte had rarely seen her.

“What were his suggestions?”

Lina was too busy muttering imprecations beneath her breath to immediately notice her cousin's question. She was dressed most becomingly in a demure gown of soft rose, and for the first time Charlotte didn't have to worry that her cousin would succumb to inflammation of the lungs from having vast amounts of her beautiful chest exposed. Even her hat was a subdued affair, instead of the usual outrageous confection, awash with feathers and silk flowers and the occasional representation of a woodland creature.

No, something or someone had inspired the notoriously unrepentant Evangelina, Lady Whitmore, to abandon her wild ways, and Charlotte couldn't help but wonder if the vicar had anything to do with it.

“It's a waste that he's so attractive,” Lina went on, half to herself. “All that lovely, diffident grace, that world-weary air, that handsomely debauched face. He'll marry some whey-faced miss who'll keep his house and present him with whey-faced children, and all the whey-faced women in his whey-faced parish will adore him, of course. He'll pretend not to notice, the righteous Mr. Pagett, but underneath he knows full well the effect he has on vulnerable women.”

“Then it's a good thing that neither of us are vulnerable women,” Charlotte said, more out of a wish to see Lina's response than a belief in the truth. Not that she planned to say anything about it, but it seemed to Charlotte that Lina was completely vulnerable from
the top of her neatly coiffed and braided black hair to the hem of her demure dress.

And how typical. The unfairness of life was quite extraordinary. If one of them was to fall in love with a sober parson and the other with a libertine, surely their roles should have been reversed.

She made a sudden, choking sound.

“What's wrong?” Lina demanded, her concern momentarily distracting her from her anger with the vicar.

“Nothing,” Charlotte muttered, secretly horrified.
In love with?
Where had that thought come from? It was ridiculous, absurd, sheer madness. How could anyone fall in love with a self-indulgent sensualist like Adrian Rohan? It was as absurd as thinking Lina had fallen in love with the parson.

Except that Lina had changed her clothes, her behavior, and couldn't seem to keep her mind off Mr. Pagett. And Charlotte felt her recalcitrant stomach lurch.

But she was nothing if not resilient, and she smiled brightly at Lina, not revealing her inner turmoil. “Mr. Pagett sounds most unpleasant. Which is a shame. He seemed like a most pleasant-spoken gentleman.”

“Don't be misled by his handsome face,” Lina said darkly. “He's a snake.”

The more Lina protested the more Charlotte was intrigued. Lina was much too interested in Montague's friend, no matter how much she denied it,
and Charlotte was tempted to point it out to her, then thought better of it. She was too weary to argue.

She slept, and dreamed of Adrian, his hands caressing her body, his smiling, handsome mouth brushing hers. She hoped he was suffering. Men were less able to hide their arousal, and she'd had no doubt at all that he'd wanted her, quite badly.

Was he lying alone in his bed, hard, aching, regretting his stupid, callous treatment? Probably not. He could take care of the problem himself, couldn't he? Lina had explained it to her one time—that men, that Adrian, would use those deft, beautiful hands on himself, bringing his own release.

And presumably she could do the same. She remembered waking occasionally, lying on her stomach, rocking against her fists, feeling flushed and feverish. She certainly wasn't going to do that again. She had no particular interest in getting better acquainted with the mysteries between her legs. She was for more curious about his parts. She wanted to look at him, touch him. During those long hours she'd never had a chance.

Adrian probably didn't plan to endure a night of frustration or the substitute ministrations of his own strong, beautiful hand. There would be scores of women who'd shared his bed. All it would require would be a note, or a surprise visit, and they'd lift their skirts for him as easily as she did. If he wanted to avoid entanglements he could always do what his
friends had suggested and visit the notorious Madame Kate's.

He had countless ways to deal with their unfinished business, and she had nothing. Heartless bastard, she thought, feeling her bile rise again.

She made it to Hensley Court but not much farther. The carriage pulled to a stop and she took a dive out the door, not even waiting for the footman to lower the steps. She landed on her knees in the gravel and proceeded to become embarrassingly, miserably sick.

“Travel sickness,” she said wanly when Lina and Meggie rushed to her side. “Too much jostling in the coach. I feel fine now.”

Lina eyed her, unable to disguise her worry. “Have you been ill before today, dearest?”

“No, thank heavens. That is, my stomach has felt a bit off for days now, but this is the first time I've cast up my accounts.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lina and Meggie exchange glances. “I'm fine,” she said again, nettled. “Just happy to be out of that wretched coach.” Unbidden, the memory of the last coach she'd been in returned, Rohan's mouth on hers, his hand between her legs, his hot, solid body beneath hers in the velvety darkness. She groaned.

Simon Pagett met them in the massive front hall, and Charlotte had just enough energy to notice that his eyes went straight to Lina. So whatever lay
between them wasn't one-sided. “Thomas is sleeping,” he said. “Your rooms are ready—you may as well use the time to rest. The doctor's just been here. He's mystified—just when he thinks it's the end, Thomas rallies. He says there's no telling how much longer.”

“Are you suggesting
I look tired?
” Lina demanded, looking to take offense.

“No, Lady Whitmore. I'm suggesting that you rode all night over rough roads and unless you're superhuman you'd doubtless like an opportunity to relax. If you'd rather go for a brisk hike in the woods and then organize a house party, I wouldn't think of arguing.”

Charlotte could practically hear Lina growling beneath her breath. It was fascinating to observe. She didn't ever remember a gentleman speaking to Lina with such a deliberately aggravating tone. Most men fell all over themselves in an effort to ingratiate themselves with her. And she couldn't remember Lina reacting so strongly to provocation.

“My cousin is feeling unwell after the trip,” Lina said in her stiffest voice. “She's suffering from travel sickness, and I want to make certain she's comfortable. And then I will come downstairs and sit with Monty until he wakes up, since
you
had a long, difficult ride. I imagine you need your beauty rest. Unless you have any objections.”

Mr. Pagett stiffened, but Charlotte finally decided
that even the interesting contretemps between the vicar and her cousin wasn't enough to distract her from her current state of misery. She allowed herself a small whimper, feeling truly pathetic, and Lina rushed to her side, studiously ignoring her newfound nemesis.

When they got to her rooms Meggie stripped her and wrapped her up in a fine lawn nightdress, tucking her up in bed with a warm brick at her feet and a cool damp cloth for her head. She lay back, trying to keep from sniffling miserably. She was just so bloody pitiful. She felt queasy, she had no energy, all she wanted to do was sleep. And if that weren't enough, she had the lowering feeling that her heart was broken.

It wasn't fair.

She had no reason to fancy herself in love with a selfish sybarite who cared for nothing and no one but his own pleasure. But once the idea had managed to creep into her thoughts there was no way she could banish it. If she had any kind of sense at all, that last meeting with him, in the closed confines of his town carriage, should have given her a complete disgust of him.

It only made her long for him more.

She moaned, softly enough that Meggie and Lina couldn't hear her. If she just managed to keep her distance she could probably manage to get over him. After all, she'd been recovering, albeit at a
ridiculously slow rate. If only she hadn't seen him at Ranelagh, danced with him, let him lead her to the supposed safety of a hackney.

Duplicitous bastard. She liked heaping epithets on his head, the more the merrier. He was sneaky, dishonest, amoral, selfish, mean…there weren't enough bad words to describe him. The more she saw of him the more she disliked him. Or if that wasn't precisely true, at least she was more and more determined to keep her distance from him. If she simply stayed in the country she would never have to see him again. Viscount Rohan was notoriously unmoved by the countryside, avoiding it at all costs. If she could just convince Lina to remove to her Dorset estate then sooner or later Rohan would go abroad, and maybe he'd fall off a mountain or marry a Chinese princess or be eaten by a tiger. She didn't care which fate befell him, as long as it happened
soon
.

Lina and Meggie were whispering about her. Their voices were low, and clearly they were self-assured enough to think she'd never hear them. They'd for gotten her childhood. She'd spent many of her formative years growing up alone in the old house in Yorkshire, her parents paying no attention to her, the servants whispering their shock over the poor, abandoned child. She knew the concerned tone of the whispers, even if she couldn't make out the actual words.

It didn't matter. All she needed was sleep, and she'd feel wonderful. All she needed…

 

Lina found Simon Pagett on the terrace overlooking the winding canal that led to the ruins of the old abbey. It was a beautiful late-spring morning, the scent of damp earth in the air, the promise of new life…

She didn't want to be thinking about new life. She and Meggie were probably jumping to conclusions. After all, Charlotte had assured her that the blasted viscount had been careful, and from what she knew of Adrian Rohan, she could well believe it. Society would know if he had bastards littering the countryside, and from what she'd seen of the old marquess, she could well believe Adrian wouldn't dare risk impregnating a girl of decent breeding. Not that the marquess wasn't utterly charming. If he wasn't clearly so besotted with his wife she might have been tempted to see whether an older man might be the answer to her problem. Not that it was a problem, per se. Nothing like the mess Charlotte would find herself in if the tisanes didn't work and Rohan hadn't been careful enough.

There were more drastic ways to deal with things if they'd progressed to that point, but Charlotte wouldn't want it and Lina wouldn't let her. They could go abroad together, providing the bloody French didn't
decide to start another war. Or simply retire to the country.

“You're looking perturbed, Lady Whitmore,” Pagett said. “Is there something troubling you?”

She looked at him. With the sunlight shining full on his face she could see his ruined glory quite clearly. He must have been devastating when he'd been a hellion, she thought. Even now, with the lines of weariness and an abandoned dissipation writ on his lean face he was still quite…appealing to someone with no sense.

She had a great deal of sense. “My dearest friend is dying. Of course I'm perturbed.”

If she'd hoped to put the vicar in his place she failed. “You've had a while to come to terms with that,” he said, though his voice gentled. “I had the impression that there was something new and disturbing.”

“If there is I would hardly be likely to share my concerns with you, now, would I, Mr. Pagett?”

“I don't know why you wouldn't. I'm a vicar—it's part of my job to hear people's concerns. I'm accounted to be a very good listener.”