A Scandalous Connection, page 18
Thomas regarded the merry organdy dispassionately. It was a soft sea of blue that should be folded neatly, or discarded on the floor. It mattered not. What mattered was dry clothes for her ladyship. Dry clothes. He concentrated on the words, as if mouthing them would make the deed occur. It did not, of course.
And first there were the buttons. . . . They were sparkling at him. In normal circumstances, he would have attacked the matter ruthlessly. Possibly even with a malicious relish. Possibly merely with relish. Mr. Endicott tried to smile at his own humor but failed singularly. All he wished to do was sleep. But he couldn’t. Not when Raquel could catch her death. He had saved her from freezing, he had saved her from burning. Now he wanted to save her from inflammation of the lungs. A pity, he was certain, she would be grateful for none of these small attentions.
The candle was set down yet again. This time, on a small occasional table—if such it could be described—near the bed. It had burned almost to the socket, but Thomas could see well enough. So he did not return to Lady Caro’s basket of delights, but rather began on the buttons. His fingers were clumsy. How strange, when he had dutifully unribboned, unbuttoned, unlaced and undressed all his manly life. What was more, the ladies did not snore when he did so. Neither did their eyes flutter open in confusion, although he had to admit, their lips did tend to part, as Lady Raquel’s were now doing.
“Don’t scream. I am not ravishing you.” Sick as he felt, Thomas thought such clarifications of his intentions were necessary. He was glad there was no earthenware pot to hand, much less a pistol.
But Raquel was strangely dreamy as her tongue slowly moistened her lips. If Thomas had any wits about him, which sadly, he hadn’t, he might even have thought her content.
“Oh,” was all she said before drifting off again.
Mr. Endicott would dearly have loved to explore the wealth of possible interpretations behind that simple syllable, but felt it more prudent to engage himself with the job at hand. He wished his chest did not ache so, or that the room did not feel so hot. He considered kissing her ladyship’s back, for it was so delightfully creamy and cool to the touch. Then he thought that maybe her back was the incorrect place, for it was always so rigid and unbending. Perhaps her curves, for they molded delightfully—but no. Curves, he told himself sternly, were strictly forbidden. The lady was Demian’s betrothed. The future duchess of Darris. He must keep thinking that, for it was virtuous, chivalrous and suitably chilling. He needed to be chilled, the room was so hot. . . .
He was somewhere between the thirty-ninth and forty-second button when his fingers betrayed him and his breathing altered to match Raquel’s. It mattered not that his boots were still on, or that his intentions had truly been noble. Mr. Thomas Tyrone Endicott was sound asleep.
Sixteen
When Raquel opened her eyes, she had a most wonderful sense of well-being. The room was strange to her, and the biting cold froze at her toes, where there was no horse blanket and no golden-skinned man—who was draped across her stomach—to warm her. The drapes fluttered slightly, and she could hear a dripping on the drain pipe. It was snowing outside, she knew it from the white light.
Vaguely, she wondered where she was. Perhaps she was dreaming. Oh, she had never had such an outrageous dream before, where she was damp and warm and luxuriously lethargic. There was no maid tiptoeing across her chamber with hot water from the kitchens, there was no cocoa arriving on a tray, there was not even, she noted sleepily, a dour-faced Anders demanding to know whether she intended spending all day in curling papers, and brandishing a brush with businesslike intent.
Instead, there was soft breathing and that curious warmth, warmer than a hot brick, which by now would surely have grown cold. Raquel sat bolt upright and leaped from her bed as if scalded. It was not her bed, there were no sheets redeeming it, and worst of all . . . she gasped at the worst of all, her hands clasped to her lips in complete, unmitigated horror.
She had not dreamed about that delicious warmth that crept about her waist and trapped her to a masculine body in the most possessive and . . . and . . . scandalous of ways! A feverish exploration of her person revealed her buttons were half undone. She flushed deeply. A young lady of her elevated rank and station did not misconstrue such a circumstance.
She was ruined, and the object of her ruin lay sleeping like a newborn lamb, perfectly oblivious to the havoc he had wreaked. Oh, how handsome he looked, with his brow smoothed of all expression and his lashes curled gently over his cheeks. Then there was his chest, neatly clad in a starched shirt that was woefully tight. . . . Raquel’s fingers seemed to have a will of their own, for whilst she wanted to kill him, they wanted to explore the muscles that were almost visible beneath the flimsy fabric.
She flushed. She had never before felt so wickedly wanton. It would be an easy thing to climb back into the bed and shut her eyes, but fury battled with mortification and treasonous longing. She refused to listen to that alien creature whispering to her of disappointment and chagrin. If she had spent a night worthy of the scandal, she would at least liked to have remembered it. But try as she might, she could remember nothing. Nothing of his lips, or of his hands, or even of her struggle. She hoped that she had struggled, but there was no sign of it. Shards of glass about the bed or a blemish on Mr. Endicott’s intoxicating face would have been promising. But there was nothing. And when she had woken, his arms had twined possessively round hers. Not a good sign.
Now would be a good time to awaken him and demand an explanation. Perhaps she should boil some water and pour it over his illustrious physique. But no, the fire was out and she had not the heart. Perhaps she was bewitched. Certainly, the Honorable Lady Fortesque-Benton, diamond of the first water, cream of the bon ton, would undoubtedly have screamed herself hoarse by now. She owed it to her dignity, though she was a fallen woman.
But the shrieks never came. She wondered why, even as she wondered why there were tiny beads of perspiration on Thomas’s brow. Her own brow furrowed as she noticed that his soft breathing was interrupted, at times, by a hoarse coughing. He slept, but now, regarding him with the fullness of awakened faculties, she realized that it was not a natural slumber.
“Mr. Endicott!” How ridiculous that she used that name, when they had spent a night alone together! But there was no reply, even when Raquel gingerly pushed his hair from his brow.
“Thomas!” The coughing worsened, but he opened his eyes. Raquel was amazed at how relieved she felt, though she was ready to kill him with her own bare hands.
“You are a rogue and a villain! I am ruined! My father will flail you alive, which is less than you deserve, you . . . ”
But those dreamy blue eyes were misty, hardly seeing her.
“Thomas!”
Now, Raquel was seriously alarmed.
“Thomas! Wake up! Can you hear me?” But, apparently, he could not. Raquel took his hand. It was as warm as she remembered, but far, far too warm for the chilliness of the room. Raquel had little experience of such matters, but she was fairly certain he had a fever. Which was hardly surprising, when he had practically ordered her to wear his greatcoat and had trudged miles in the snow with nothing but a thin lawn shirt upon his broad back. If she had not been so selfish, or at least so self-absorbed, she would have worried earlier about such a possibility.
And now, he was seriously ill. Raquel did not stop to think of her future, which was now very different from that which she had mapped out for herself—was it truly only hours earlier? It seemed another lifetime ago.
Even if Thomas had not despoiled her, there was no gainsaying she had spent a night alone with him and in his arms. Her reputation was thoroughly compromised. There was no chaperon, no groom, and no spare, redeeming bed. She did not care.
This Lady Fortesque-Benton was a very different one from the proud creature who had scorned Mr. Endicott as common raff and scaff. This Lady Fortesque-Benton very much wanted him alive. The boot was on the other foot, too. For no matter what had occurred between them, passionate, romantic, scathing, conciliatory or not, it was she who was now the common raff and scaff. Her very name would be a mockery, whispered gleefully behind fans and held up as a lesson to silly little chits who were in danger of losing their heads to fortune-hunting rakes.
If Thomas survived, Lord Fortesque-Benton would demand satisfaction and very likely put a bullet through his heart. What a dreadfully foolish custom. It did not in any manner help her. She would still be cast out of society and branded a fallen woman. As for marrying His Grace . . . it was now out of the question. He would have to find some other willing heiress. A duchess-of-Darris-to-be did not spend unchaperoned nights with other gentlemen. Or not until after wedlock, in any event.
Somehow, she grieved less over this matter than over the other. She found, curiously, that she did not want Thomas dead. Something indefinable had shattered the golden image she’d always cherished regarding the nobility of rank. Which was just as well, of course, for such expectations could no longer be applicable. She could retire quietly to the continent, perhaps. Or hire a house in an unfashionable watering hole. Frankly, she couldn’t care.
What mattered was concocting some story for Lord Fortesque-Benton’s edification . . . and nursing Mr. Endicott through the fever. She knew if she could get it to break, he would doubtless recover his former jaunty self. And if he did. . . if he did, her father—and very possibly her betrothed—would be likely to run him through with a rapier.
They must be made to believe Thomas innocent of all wrongdoing. Perhaps she could fabricate some heroic story of chivalry, where he’d spirited her away from highwaymen and dueled with the devil himself for her honor. Raquel thought all this through as she tore the last of her hooped undergarments and dipped them in some of the fresh snow water she had dragged in yesterday.
She was still thinking as she reached the bed, rolled him over slightly and placed the cloth on his forehead. She sighed as she squeezed some of the water onto his temples. Highwaymen would still not explain why he had dismissed her maid and not turned back immediately for London. Toothache did not seem a very compelling argument in the light of day.
She wondered how long it would be before Demian discovered them. Why had he not come down himself? Why had he sent Thomas back when he must have known she would be compromised? It was a strange puzzle. Perhaps he worried about the propriety of hosting her himself. But Lady Caroline Darris would have lent them countenance.
Any situation must surely have been better than sending Thomas back, as he had. Demian must not be too damning: he had much to answer for himself. Raquel decided she would release him from his obligation at once, so that the task of defending her honor would not be one that fell to him. She’d heard disquieting rumors that His Noble Grace, the fifth duke Darris, was a crack shot with pistols. She would have been relieved to learn that Thomas had been his tutor, but of course, isolated as she was, this interesting snippet was out of her grasp.
But all this was immaterial. The cottage was freezing. If she did not find a way of lighting a fire very soon, they would most likely die of exposure, for the stone walls had trapped the cold inside with them. Raquel dipped the cloth once more into the melted snow. She must procure some more from outside. Thomas’s wide, berry-red lips looked alarmingly dry. She laid the cloth lightly over his mouth, taking care not to trail her fingers across the soft flesh as she would like to have done. She may be fallen, but she was not wanton. Not yet.
Sternly admonishing herself, she moved to the outer room, where she noticed, for the first time, the remnants of the fire. So that was the acrid smell hanging about her nostrils! She supposed she could have died. And Mr. Endicott had sacrificed a glorious coat—His Grace’s, she recognized it. So Demian did know of her whereabouts!
Raquel fingered it idly and focused on the trivial. What a waste! It was doubtless made from the purest of kerseymere, though the charred remains were no longer as enticing as the complete coat must have been. Then, since she could ignore the more important of the issues no longer, she found her mind wandering back to the fire.
So! She owed Thomas her life. How typical of him to be heroic. Raquel tossed her head crossly. He made it very difficult for a lady to loathe him as she strictly should. And look! A basket of goods. How annoying. It made her want to thank him rather than rant at him as surely any self-respecting person must. He had actually made it to the castle, then come back for her. To her.
She knelt over the basket and felt a rush of cold at her back, where her buttons were unfastened almost down to her lower spine. Raquel wondered whether he had even noticed. He must have. She hadn’t unfastened them. Ninety-nine buttons, she had chosen. Ninety-nine to annoy and confound him. He had looked neither annoyed nor confounded, tiresome man! Still, he had gone to the trouble to undo at least half of them. Her heart beat faster at the thought. What else had he gone to the trouble of, as she slept? Wicked thoughts crept into her mind unbidden. She scolded herself sternly. The man was near delirium. He must surely not have been thinking anything more lascivious than that she would catch her death. And so she probably would, if she did not slip out of the organdy soon. No point in them both succumbing to the fever!
So Raquel slipped off her gown and the remains of her torn-up undergarments. She could not regret their demise, for the crisp linens and calico had been put to excellent use, and, now that it was daylight, she could see that the room was spotless from her labors. There was no longer more than a single, spindly cobweb in sight. This she dealt with ruthlessly before inspecting the basket.
Underclothes! She could hardly believe her luck as she searched about for a new gown of sorts. None. Suppressing disappointment, she hung the organdy out to freeze—still maintaining a vestige of humor!—and donned the crisp shift. Clean and serviceable, but not stylish, or even frivolous, as she was accustomed. She supposed, with a wry smile, she had to hope Mr. Endicott did not recover too quickly. Or, at least not until the organdy had dried.
The candles and flint lifted her spirits, but when she started unwrapping and unpacking the pies, the cheeses, the sweetmeats and the ale, she positively glowed. She may be a fallen woman, but today, at least, she would eat like a queen. She had half resigned herself to starving as a suitable punishment for her sins.
What sins? She couldn’t remember a thing about the pleasures of the previous evening. And doubtless, if Mr. Endicott had practiced half the sensuous charm upon her that he had unwittingly done on their fateful carriage ride, she would have remembered. Or should have remembered. She felt that strange warmth creeping over her again at the very notion. Ha! This scandalous immodesty must surely be counted as a sin in itself. Raquel, suddenly flushed, conceded so.
She tried scolding herself, reminding herself that she was compromised, fallen, foolish, and all manner of unpleasant things, but still there remained that incredible lightning of feminine spirit, that soaring of sentiments that was so at odds with her situation. She had never expected to see Mr. Endicott again, and she despised him. But he moved her. And he had come back.
It was unlikely that anyone would brave the weather to save her virtue. Whoever was up at the castle seemed to think it perfectly acceptable to send down smallclothes, but no physical help whatsoever. Curious. Unless they thought Mr. Endicott himself help enough. Curiouser still.
Her mother would doubtless await a politely penned missive describing the tedium of the carriage trip, but she would not worry unduly if this was delayed. The weather was notorious. So, for a few precious days she was probably safe from the inevitable pandemonium. Raquel threw on her half boots, laced them lightly and opened the door. The icy air almost stifled her breathing, but resolutely, she checked the well. Still useless.
Sighing, she fetched in more snow for water, then slammed the door tightly shut behind her. Thomas must be made to eat and drink. She rummaged in the basket for the vegetables she had glimpsed, regarded them dubiously, then set to work on a barley broth. A fascinating experience, for not only was she sadly short of cooking implements, but she had actually never performed so menial a task in all of her life. Still, she had learned the basic principles, as all delicately nurtured young ladies must, so she now applied them gingerly.
Lighting a fire from the ruins of the grate was probably the hardest of the tasks, her plain but pristine underclothes taking a fine smudging, but once done, matters progressed nicely. The broth simmered invitingly in a cast-iron pot that Lady Caroline had scrubbed the previous day. By the time an encouraging smell emerged, Raquel was inspired enough to steal some of the meat from the pies to add body to the brew. The crusts she ate herself, and was amazed by her unladylike hunger.
She was just licking her fingers and wondering what on earth she could do to break Thomas’s fever, when a shadow fell over the slate floor and she knew at once, from the giddying rush of her pulses, that that gentleman was now awake.
She turned, but he was leaning against the doorjamb and looking very different from the arrogant, dictatorial gentleman it was her particular curse to be acquainted with. So her embarrassment and anger waned at once, leaving her tongue-tied with concern, and a whole plethora of other confused emotions she did not quite care to define.
“Get back to bed! You look shocking!”
Thomas tried to smile. “Touché. I might say the same of you—though delightfully so.” He devoured her ensemble with a wolfish grin that was sadly lopsided. Raquel blushed, but it was too late to run for the damp organdy. She was ruined, anyway. She didn’t think Thomas’s eyes upon a bundle of ash-soiled petticoats could make much difference. At least they weren’t the pantalets.
“Bed.” She said it as firmly as she could, without flushing, though her eyes dropped to the floor and she stirred the broth as though it were of some particular interest, rather than merely barley, vegetables and purloined scraps. She had glimpsed the beads of sweat on Thomas’s brow and the way his hand clutched at his chest. She wagered it was painful.
