The Earl Takes All (18 page)

H
ours
later she set her watercolors aside and walked to the window. It had grown dark and he had yet to return. She was considering whether to send the stable lads out to search for him when Torrie walked in and handed her a missive.

Lady Greyling,

A widow in the village is in need of my assistance. Not certain when I will return. Kiss Lady Alberta for me and give her my love.

—­Greyling

With a scoff, she crumpled the paper. Did he think her a fool? She knew precisely what sort of assistance he was delivering. He was a man with needs, and they would be met most willingly with a night in the arms of a widow. Assistance, indeed.

Julia took her meal in the dining room, the first time since that fateful night when she'd discovered the truth. She was kept company only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the footman occasionally removing one dish to place another before her. While she had dined alone within this room many a night while Albert was away, she couldn't recall ever feeling quite so devastatingly alone.

Following dinner, she enjoyed a glass of port in Edward's library, sitting in a chair, listening to the crackling of the fire, imagining him here by himself night after night while she remained in her bedchamber seeking to ensure he understood her displeasure at all he'd done, hoping to make him miserable. In the end, being the one who was miserable.

It was after ten when she went into the billiards room and, using her hand rather than a cue, rolled balls back and forth over the table, remembering how easily he had lifted her onto it, the devilish smile he'd given her. She thought of all the times he had looked at her with desire and hunger, all the times he made her feel as though he had no interest in any other woman, made her believe that no other woman would satisfy him.

What a fool she was. She kept envisioning him with the widow. She wanted her to be old, wrinkled, with half her teeth missing. No, all her teeth missing. But in truth, she suspected she was young and pretty, more than willing to provide an evening of comfort to a man as strappingly built and handsome as he.

She understood now why he had drunk, why he had sought to dull his senses. Thinking of him in the arms of another woman made her want to weep when she knew she had no right to him, no cause to expect him to be loyal to her.

For all she knew he had sought out dalliances before now, only he'd been incredibly discreet and now there was no need for discretion. But even as she thought it, she rejected the notion that he'd been with others before now. Strange that she had known Edward as a drunkard, a womanizer, a gambler, and yet had no doubt whatsoever that from the moment he returned from his travels until this evening, had been faithful to her.

The fact that he was with another woman should not have caused the ache in her chest that it did. She should not be missing him.

But she was grateful for tonight, for the reality of it, because it made her realize that she might not be strong enough to stay here after all.

T
wo
afternoons later Julia was convinced that the widow was not only young, but incredibly skilled at pleasuring his lordship and distracting him from his duties. As she splashed watercolors on her canvas in order to create tempestuous skies, she was half tempted to ride into the village and remind the Earl of Greyling that he had responsibilities. Although perhaps he had moved on to tavern wenches. He did tend to take his vices—­whether it be wine, women, or wagering—­to excess.

She'd thought he had changed, thought he was different, but he was falling into his old habits.

Torrie opened the door and walked in carrying a tea service on a tray. She set it on the low table before the fire. “I brought your afternoon tea.”

Julia took a seat on the sofa and smiled with delight at the sight of four strawberry tarts. “Please give Cook my regards. I had no idea she could make tarts that look just like the ones at the village tea shop.”

“In fact, m'lady, they are from the village tea shop. His lordship brought them.”

She jerked her head up. “The earl has returned?”

“Yes, m'lady. Not more than twenty minutes ago. Gave the tarts to Mr. Rigdon, with orders to serve them with your tea, and dashed off straightaway to his chambers.”

He was back and he'd brought her a gift. She was touched that he'd remembered how much she enjoyed strawberry tarts, almost enough to overlook that he had spent the past three nights keeping a widow company.

Biting into the pastry, she moaned with the pleasure the taste brought her. It was so decadent, and now she was beholden to him. She would have to thank him.

Torrie turned to leave.

“Press my red gown. I'll be dining with the earl tonight.”

Her maid's smile was so wide and bright as to be blinding. “Yes, m'lady. With pleasure.”

She fairly skipped out of the room, while Julia took another bite of pastry and wondered if Edward would come to this room today, if he would pay a visit to Allie.

E
dward
leaned against the wall near the window while his valet oversaw the preparation of his bath and the building of a fire in the fireplace. He'd never in his life been so bloody tired. The widow's fever had finally broken late last night, her son's this morning. Both of the other two children had seemed to escape the disease—­at least so far. As chills were racking his body, he didn't think he'd been as fortunate.

As he'd ridden back here, he thought it was exhaustion coupled with the weather. But now he wasn't so sure. When the servants finished with their chores, his valet stood at attention by the door. Edward had already ordered him to keep his distance. “After you walk out of here, you are not to come back in.”

“My lord, I don't think you're well.”

“Very observant. I'm going to bundle my clothes into a blanket and set them outside the door. Touch them as little as possible. Burn everything.” That was probably an extreme precaution, but he was going to take whatever means necessary not to cause anyone else to fall ill. “Every two hours you are to leave a pitcher of water and a bowl of broth outside the door. If they remain untouched for two days, you may enter.”

“My lord—­”

“If you enter before that, you'll be sacked. And you're not to breathe a word of this to the countess.” Not that he thought she would ask after him, but again a precaution was needed. He didn't need her praying for his hasty demise.

“I don't feel right about this, my lord.”

“It's only influenza. I'll be miserable for a few days and then I'll be fine. No need for anyone else to be bothered by it.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Good man. Now be off with you.”

With obvious reluctance, Marlow opened the door and slipped out. Edward pulled a blanket from the bed and dropped it to the floor, tempted to follow it down and stretch out right there. Instead he began the laborious process of removing his clothes.

He did hope Julia enjoyed her strawberry tarts.

S
he
dined alone, blast him. He hadn't come to her room where she worked with her watercolors. Nor had he visited Allie. His absence there was odd, as he had seemed to adore the girl. Had he only been pretending in order to get into Julia's good graces?

She didn't think so. From the moment her daughter was born, he could not have been more tender or expressed a more sincere interest in her well-­being. Perhaps he was simply worn-­out from his escapades. She knew firsthand that he poured a great deal of effort and himself into the act of pleasure. As hard as she tried, she had no success not envisioning his powerful muscles bunching and cording as he glided his body—­

Damn him. Damn him for giving her a taste of what she could not have. Damn her own weak body for wanting to be worshipped.

She spent most of the night writhing on the bed. Every time she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of him reaching for her. Even though he and Albert looked exactly alike, she knew it was Edward, because of his devilish smile and his smoldering eyes.

She awoke in a foul mood, with a need to confront him, to face him, but feared he'd take satisfaction in her need to see him, that he would know he had sparked jealousy in her by spending multiple nights with another woman. Which was ridiculous, as she had no hold on him. She was a widow, in mourning. The last thing she should be thinking about was another man.

Still, she needed to thank him for the tarts. It was unconscionable that she had yet to do so. Taking breakfast downstairs would allow her the opportunity to express her appreciation.

However when she entered the breakfast dining room, Rigdon informed her that the earl was taking breakfast in his room. First dinner and now breakfast? He was secluding himself as she had been. Why?

“Is he planning to have all his meals in his bedchamber?”

Looking somewhat guilty, Rigdon shifted his feet. “For the present time, yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing m'lady.”

Oh there was something. Otherwise he wouldn't have averted his eyes. Why was Edward staying in his room? Oh, dear Lord! Had he brought the merry widow home with him? Had he sequestered himself away because he was coupling with her?

And what if he had? It wasn't her business. She couldn't forbid him from bringing women into his own home, not like before when it was hers. Except that everyone thought he was Albert being unfaithful to her. And that she could not tolerate. He was disparaging Albert and her relationship with him.

Rigdon suddenly straightened his stance, squared his jaw. “It's not right, m'lady. On this matter, his lordship is being most foolish.”

Oh, God, she was correct and the servants knew he was carrying on with some other woman. Why the devil couldn't he have been discreet? The anger swept through her on such a rush of heated indignation—­

“He ordered us not to tell you but I fear for him.”

As well he should. She was going to do all within her power to ensure Edward was never able to show his face in a fancy parlor. To humiliate her like this was beyond the pale. She might even take a poker to him in his most private of areas to ensure he pleased no other widows.

“He has yet to retrieve the broth or water that Marlow left out for him,” Rigdon told her.

Broth? He was serving his mistress broth? Hardly the most charming means of seduction. Yet he'd brought her strawberry tarts. None of this made any sense. She shook her head. “Marlow is leaving broth
where
?”

“In the hallway, outside his lordship's chamber door.”

“Why?”

“Because he's forbidden anyone from going inside—­unless the broth sits there for two days, at which point someone may enter. I suppose because Lord Greyling will be dead.”

Did one die from excessive sex? She supposed it was possible, and wasn't an entirely unpleasant way to go . . .

“Rigdon, I'm not quite sure I follow.”

“Of course not, m'lady, because we're not allowed to tell you.”

“Then I suggest you tell me.”

“He'll sack me.”

“I shall sack you if you don't.”

He released a big heavy sigh. “Very well. Lord Greyling is ill.”

“Ill?”

“Yes, madam. Influenza. He feared that if he did not isolate himself . . .”

The remainder of his words faded into the background because she'd already run out of the room and was rushing down the hallway. Her parents had died of influenza. How had this come to pass? How had he gotten ill? He was too strong, too bold, too young to be taken down with an illness such as this.

Not until she reached his wing did she realize that she had no idea which room he had claimed as his own. Broth. She merely had to find the broth in the hallway. She sprinted up the stairs. At the landing, she headed toward the left.

She didn't need to locate the broth after all. Marlow was sitting in a chair at the end of the corridor. As she neared, he came to his feet. “Lady Greyling.”

She went past him.

“His lordship doesn't want—­”

But his words, too, were lost as she shoved open the door and dashed over the threshold, coming to a staggering stop as she saw Edward, lying in a tangle of sheets, the upper half of his body exposed and covered in sweat.

He pushed himself up, waved his hand. “You can't be in here.”

“And yet I am.”

As she crossed over, he flopped back onto the bed. “You need to leave.”

Ignoring him, she pressed the flat of her hand to his forehead. “You're fairly on fire.”

“Which is why you need to leave.”

Which was exactly why she wouldn't. Turning, she was grateful to see Marlow had followed her in, hovering just inside the doorway. “Have someone fetch Dr. Warren.”

“There's nothing he can do,” Edward muttered.

“Oh, and when did you become an expert on medicine?”

“When I was caring for Mrs. Lark and her son.”

Who the devil were Mrs. Lark and her son? And where was Mr. Lark? Good Lord, was it conceivable that he hadn't been fornicating with a widow but caring for one? “Is Mrs. Lark a widow?”

He gave a slight nod. “Her husband died recently. Fever. She was ill. The boy was ill. I shouldn't have returned here. Should have stayed in the village, but I was just tired. Thought I was cold because of the weather.”

“Doesn't matter. You should be home when you're ill. But why were
you
caring for this woman and her child?”

“No one else would.”

He'd stayed in the village to do good, and she'd assumed the worst. How much longer was it going to take before she accepted that the man with whom she'd been living for nearly three months now was the true Edward Alcott? She turned to Marlow. “Send someone to fetch Dr. Warren. He's to come as quickly as possible.”