To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (2 page)

“I hope so,” said Samuel.

Having situated Lord Brookes as best they could, the maids lingered near the bed, fussing with the linens and adjusting his pillow.

Almost as though they were reluctant to leave their handsome patient.

When there was nothing more to be done, Cicely sighed and pulled the other maid along by her elbow. “Come on then. You can help me bring the water up.”

Amelia glanced at Samuel, who looked pale and unsteady on his feet.

She waved at a chair in the corner of the room. “Would you like to sit? Perhaps a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. Would you mind if I waited for the doctor downstairs? It’s rather unmanning to have to admit, but I’ve never been much use in sickrooms… particularly when there’s”—he swallowed—“blood.”

Amelia immediately ushered him toward the door. “Think nothing of it. I’ll remain here until the maids return. Go on.”

And just like that, she was alone—in a bedroom, of all places—with the most notorious rake in London.

Chapter 2

Miss W. has once again demonstrated abominable judgment

in receiving two gentleman visitors well after normal calling hours.

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

A moan came from the bed—or more precisely, the man on the bed.

Amelia rushed to Lord Brookes’s side. He groaned, a ghostly, chilling sound. His eyes were closed and his head lolled back and forth, loosening the coils of the cravat that covered what must be the worst of his wounds.

Staring down at his cut, bruised, and yet undeniably handsome face, she whispered, “You’re safe. The doctor is on his way.”

But he grew more unsettled, pushing away the blanket and straining as though he wished to sit up. Amelia glanced at the door. If he began thrashing in earnest, she wouldn’t be able to restrain him—she doubted three men could. But she could try to soothe him.

Boldly, she placed her hands on either side of his face. She was careful to avoid the worst of the cuts as she held his head still. “Shhh,” she said softly. “You’re going to be all right.”

Gently, she smoothed her thumbs over the sides of his jaw, marveling at the warm, abrading feel of his skin. He quieted a little, and as some of the tension left his body, his lips parted. Even though the lower one was split and swollen, she found herself staring at those lips, wondering what they might feel like if she touched them with her own, and what it might feel like to be properly kissed—or rather, wickedly kissed—by a man like him.

These were purely hypothetical questions of course, as she had no intention of kissing
anyone
, but even the thought stirred something warm and lovely in her belly.

And then, because her amateur attempts at nursing seemed to have the desired effect on Lord Brookes, she continued lightly stroking his face… and the smooth skin below his ears… and the brown curls at his nape. Though unaware of his surroundings, he sighed contentedly.

Well. Apparently, she was quite good at this… this comforting thing. The knowledge not only pleased her, but emboldened her further. She’d noticed the skin exposed by his loosened shirt, of course—any warm-blooded girl would have. Her gaze took in the small hollow above his collarbone, the breadth of his shoulders, and the light sprinkling of hair across the smooth planes of his chest.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Amelia let her hand glide down his sinewy neck and over the taut muscles of his shoulder, barely breathing as she did so. She traced his collarbone with a fingertip, then, ever so lightly, placed her hand flat on the upper part of his chest, letting the springy hairs tickle her palm. The angelic smile playing around his lips almost made her regret her decision to remain unmarried for—

“Cock.”

She couldn’t have jumped back more quickly if the bed had been infested with snakes. Lord Brookes had uttered the word so clearly that there could be no mistaking it. Even worse, there could be no mistaking the
way
in which he’d said it.

As a plea.

Dear Jesus. His eyes were still closed, and Amelia desperately hoped they’d remain so until she could remove herself from the room. Lifting the hem of her robe, she turned and began to tiptoe toward the door.

“Amelia? Er, Miss Wimple?”

Blast. As she slowly spun around to face him, heat crept up her neck. He’d lifted his head a few inches off the pillow, and confusion clouded his eyes. Well, at least the eye that wasn’t swollen shut.

“Ah, Lord Brookes,” she choked out. “You’ve returned to the realm of the living.”

“If you say so.” He let his head drop and winced. “What am I doing here?”

“Samuel brought you. Because it was convenient, I suppose, and he knew Mama was in Bath.”

“You should have sent us away.”

“Undoubtedly.”

He smiled at that, and Amelia’s belly fluttered. She started to nibble on her finger again, but stopped herself and clasped her hands tightly behind her back. Clearly, her hands were not to be trusted. “Can I get you anything? Another blanket? Some water perhaps?” Anything at all that would provide a reasonable excuse to flee the room?

He did not respond, merely studied her. After an uncomfortable silence—uncomfortable for
her
at any rate—he said, “Were we…?”

“No!” A ridiculous giggle rose in her throat. “Of course not. You were probably having a nightmare.”

His gaze traveled the length of her neck to her silk robe—thank heaven she hadn’t worn her shabby one—to her toes. “Not a nightmare. Not even close.” He paused as though he’d let that sink in. “Where’s Samuel?”

“Downstairs. We’ve sent for the—” Hushed voices, laced with concern, carried down the hallway, flooding her veins with relief. “Why, that must be Dr. Wescott now. I’ll just leave you in his capable hands.”

“But you’ll come back later, won’t you, Miss Wimple?”

“Perhaps,” she said, darting toward the door like the coward that she was.

“I’d like it if you did.”

Amelia mumbled a few words to the doctor just outside the door, then went directly to her room, where she doused her face with chilly water. Blinking at her reflection in the looking glass, she patted her cheeks dry and silently scolded herself for letting Lord Brookes fluster her so. Her steady diet of gossip rags should have made her immune to the shock of scandalous behavior.

But this time, Lord Brookes was not just a name printed in ink on paper. He was here, in her home, in the flesh. Lots of exposed flesh.

Finally—something of import to write in her diary. She pulled the leather-bound journal out of her desk drawer, opened it, and ran her hand over a creamy, smooth page. Ever since the Jilting, writing had been a comfort, for she could write things that she’d never dream of saying out loud. She often expounded on the many advantages of remaining single. But she also enjoyed reimagining the admittedly mundane activities of her life—in gossip paper style. It amused her and was infinitely more entertaining than, well, the truth.

Tonight, however, would require less embellishment than usual.

She tickled the underside of her chin with her quill as she debated how best to capture the excitement of the evening. And then she began to write.

The devastatingly attractive Lord B. finally landed himself in a predicament that he could neither charm nor fight his way out of. This Author thinks it a shame that the rogue’s injuries—however justly deserved they may be—have marred the countenance that every debutante, married lady, widow, and matron once thought to be sheer perfection.

But that is not the whole story, dear Readers, not at all! Playing nursemaid to the notorious rogue is someone you would never suspect. Not Miss P., or Lady S., or even Mrs. D. It is the never-before-mentioned and completely forgettable Miss W., whose greatest accomplishment prior to this incident was being jilted by Lord V. at a house party.

What can the newly svelte Miss W. be thinking? Has she forgotten the perils of loving a rake? This Author does not believe Miss W. is so dense that she is oblivious to the danger that Lord B.’s considerable charms present to her. But then, perhaps she is a willing victim.

Amelia shook her head. Her dear cousins, Olivia and Rose, were undoubtedly right—she really ought to spend less time reading the gossip rags.

And perhaps venture out of the house now and then.

* * *

Stephen much preferred Amelia’s bedside manner to Dr. Wescott’s. The doctor insisted on checking every damned bone and dressing every tiny cut. As though the routine ass-kicking Stephen had received would be the end of him.

Admittedly, this was worse than his usual ass-kickings.

Which wasn’t to say it was undeserved. He counted himself lucky, in fact, that he still had all his teeth.
This
was what happened when one borrowed money from the wrong people and didn’t pay it back in a timely manner.

“Broken ribs… some nasty gashes to the head… bruising around the eye,” the doctor was saying. As if Stephen didn’t already know. “I’ll give you some laudanum to help you sleep. Stay in bed for a couple of days, if you can manage it.”

Stephen couldn’t impose on Amelia for that long, but his head pounded too much to argue with the sour-faced doctor. “I’ll try.”

The doctor sighed as though he could already see that his painstaking stitches and bandaging would be for naught. He thrust a glass of foul-smelling stuff at Stephen, who choked it down. After swiping the back of a hand across his mouth, he used his good eye to give the doctor a pointed look. “Do not mention my injuries to anyone. My mother suffers from a weak heart. If she were to find out… well, I fear for her health.”

“Her health? Or your own skin?” the doctor accused.

If Stephen’s head wasn’t pounding like the worst hangover of his life, he might have arched a brow and countered with a biting remark. Instead, he replied honestly. “Both.”

“Look, I can patch up garden-variety cuts and broken bones, but next time?” The doctor snapped his bag shut with more force than was necessary. “You could bleed to death in the street.”

“There won’t be a next time.” Stephen knew this in his bones. Gambling had lost its thrill long before tonight. He was done.

“Right.” The doctor didn’t even try to hide his skepticism as he quit the room.

Stephen’s eyelids grew heavy. He didn’t want to be lectured. He just wanted to sleep. Although he wouldn’t mind if Amelia kept him company. She was the same, sweet young woman he remembered Sam courting, only now she was more… sensual.

He liked the rogue curls that had sprung free from her bun and the way they floated about her neck when she moved. He liked the way she smelled—like raspberry jam and fresh laundry. But mostly he liked the way she’d touched him—with a seductive combination of curiosity and genuine appreciation.

He’d wanted to reach out and loosen the tie of her silky robe till the front gaped open. Of course, a proper miss like her probably wore a modest night rail beneath, but he preferred to imagine her naked, all lush curves and soft skin, begging for his touch. If he had his way, he’d pull her down on top of him, broken ribs be damned, and they would explore and enjoy each other until morning.

Even in his groggy state, he knew that would never, ever happen, but he saw no harm in dreaming of it. Dreaming of Amelia.

Chapter 3

Lord B. had the audacity to appear in mixed company without a cravat—

or jacket… or waistcoat… or shirt…

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

Amelia tumbled into bed and slept for a few hours. When the sun peeked through her curtains she rose, slipped into a yellow morning gown, and scurried down the hall to check on Lord Brookes. She gingerly opened the door to his room, strangely nervous.

Would she find him tossing with fever? Would he have kicked the bed linens to the floor and be sprawled on the bed, naked? Her heart galloped as she peered inside.

She was greatly relieved to find him resting comfortably. And only slightly disappointed to find the coverlet in place.

The morning light revealed that his face was more swollen and bruised than it had been the night before, but when she took a few steps toward the bed, she heard his breathing, soft and even. Thank heaven.

She hurried downstairs to see Samuel. He’d refused to sleep in one of the bedchambers, insisting he’d be perfectly comfortable in a wingback chair in the drawing room.

When she entered, she found him barely awake, simultaneously yawning and pawing at a stubborn cowlick on the top of his head, to no avail.

“Good morning,” she said. “I just checked on Lord Brookes. He seems fine.”

Samuel shot her a weary smile. “Thank you again for your help last night. I’m going to let a room and take Brookes there later today. I’ll stay in town till he’s sufficiently recovered to go home.”

Some logical corner of Amelia’s brain knew this was the most appropriate solution, but she didn’t want to be sensible—not if it meant that tomorrow life would return to its normal, humdrum course. “The physician instructed that he not be moved for a few days,” she said firmly. “You need to get home to your wife so that you’ll be there when your beautiful baby is born. Lord Brookes will stay here.”