A Scandalous Connection, page 19
He ignored her and moved forward. His stockinged feet tripped over the broom handle. He swayed precariously, so Raquel left the broth and steadied him with her ungloved hands. The shock of warmth she felt had little, she knew, to do with his fever. But his skin was hot.
“Careless,” he mumbled, in a failed effort to be jaunty. He tried to retain her hands, but she shot him a smoldering look and removed them the instant his balance was restored.
Ignoring her bed edict, he stumbled into the room and blinked.
“Clean.”
“Yes, there was nothing to do yesterday.” How strange to be talking common places when there was a wealth of unspoken dialogue between them. She unpacked the cheeses and tried to ignore him.
“No cobwebs.” He was blinking rather stupidly.
“No. I hate spiders.”
“Marry me.”
So! She was ruined. She knew it, now, of a certainty. The rakish Mr. Endicott did not exactly strew his path with betrothals. If he offered for her, he obviously needed to. Raquel had never doubted his honor, or that he lived strictly by a gentleman’s code. The code that stated that if you bedded a lady, you wedded her, no matter how tiresome the outcome.
“I am betrothed already.” Too soon to tell him ladies had a code, too. She would not marry simply to assuage his masculine guilt. Further, she would not offer Demian spoiled goods. Besides, there could be a child. . . . She knew little of what happened between men and women, but she did know that. The dukedom of Darris would not—must not—be put in jeopardy because of her indiscretions. Oh, but how she wished she at least remembered those indiscretions! She scowled fiercely at the shadow on the floor. Mr. Endicott had discharged his duty by offering wedlock, but he should not come off scot-free by her refusal. She tried to think of some dire and wicked revenge she could wreak upon his person, but failed singularly.
What was worse, he was looking dizzy, so she took him firmly by the arm and led him back to the bed. It looked uninviting with just the horse blanket and no sheets, so she retrieved the remainder of her discarded underclothes, ripped them yet again—this time at their exquisitely stitched seams—and spread them over the middle part of the sturdy four-poster.
“Lie on the underclothes. They shall serve as sheets. I fear you have the fever, so I am going to nurse you.”
“Raquel—”
“Don’t you dare call me that. I am Lady Fortesque-Benton to you.”
He nodded, unusually docile.
“I am going to get you some of that broth. Drink it.”
“I am not hungry.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I eat the Périgord pies.”
“Drink the broth, too.”
“No, you are going to do that. And if you fight me, I am going to pour it down your wretched throat.”
Thomas tried to sit up. “You are angry.”
“Furious. It is not every day I lose my maidenhood on an unaired bed. My only consolation is that I cannot remember that particular pleasure. Salutary, I am sure, to a man whose amorous activities are legendary. Or so I am told.”
Raquel wondered how she dared say such a scandalous thing. Yesterday, she would have stood on nails rather than repeat guttersnipe gossip. But she was a different person from the ladylike creature she had been the day before. So, without waiting for a reply, or hearing the slight chuckle emanating from the makeshift bedclothes, she turned on her heel and stalked off.
Mr. Endicott, sick as he felt, had just time to glimpse a particularly excellently turned ankle as it stalked from the room. Her words had been a revelation to him. So the little minx had misconstrued their situation! She thought herself outrageously used. Part of him was coldly furious that she should think such a monstrous thing of him. The other grudgingly admired her ladyship tenfold, for he noted none of the hysterics that would have been perfectly well-justified if her belief had been even faintly founded in truth.
Moments later, feeling strangely bereft without her acerbic presence, he sank back into the discomfort of her torn and rumpled petticoats and found oblivion once more.
Seventeen
Raquel sat rigidly by the bed and watched him. She had carried in the chair with the smoke-blackened legs. It was still damp from its dousing but since it was now the only stick of furniture available to her, it sufficed.
Her back ached from sheer physical activity—she had never spent an hour—let alone several—scrubbing in her life. Not to mention chopping up firewood, for whilst Thomas had dutifully loaded the trap, the crucial wood had been left behind. Caro had thoughtfully included a small ax in the basket, so the remains of the furniture had been sacrificed to its blade. Enough heat for a day, probably, before they either froze or were discovered. Raquel could not decide which event she relished least.
Mr. Endicott breathed as if in pain. Occasionally, he gasped for air, so Raquel had to roll him gently to ease his position. Then she had to climb up on the bed beside him, and though he was too ill to make any further inroads on her dubious virtue, she could not help blushing at her proximity to his deeply fascinating torso. Consequently, she regarded him with wary eyes and treated him as though he were some scorpion ready to sting at any moment.
The scorpion never stung, but his sheer closeness seemed to prove fatal, for Raquel could actually feel those muscles that had mesmerized her in the coach. They were every bit as intoxicating as she had imagined. They worked like some annoying force pulling her to him rather than the reverse.
His sleep was uneasy, and occasionally he mumbled words that made no sense. Once she was foolish enough to think it was her own name he murmured. But then, he might, insufferable man, be riddled with nightmares. Raquel rather hoped he was.
It seemed like hours that she sat perched on that hard chair, staring at him, etching every aspect of his features in her memory. She had no idea why she felt so attracted to such an unsuitable man, but she did. This was probably her only opportunity ever to admit this to herself and take advantage of his weakened condition to enjoy him. For yes, she did enjoy him, despite being utterly ruined. Had he really asked her to marry him? Ordered, more like, except that he had practically swooned in the demanding. Not terribly convincing. When he woke, she would not remind him of it, but be as caustic and scathing as he deserved. In the meanwhile, he needed another cloth.
She rose, glad that she did not have to sacrifice her current petticoats. Whoever had provided the basket had also provided tooth powder, soap and washcloths. Raquel dipped two in the pail. One for his chest, and an especially wet one for his mouth. His lips were dry. He had fallen asleep before drinking the restorative broth, and he probably needed to drink, with the fever. But since he was sleeping, she would have to drop the water into his mouth, drip by drip. A time-consuming process, but that was one thing she did have at her disposal. Time. Time, in this strange state of transition, where her world was about to crumble around her but had not quite yet. She should either be horribly bored or fearful. She was neither. She just concentrated on her task and listened to the clock tick. It seemed in synchrony with her heart. Now and again, she pressed her ear close to his chest. Yes, his heart was beating still. She couldn’t think why she was relieved.
Her lips just touched his stark, white shirt. She felt a tremor run through him and raised her head quickly. His eyes were open, and there was a gleam of amusement in them that made her wonder how long he had been awake and just how much of this fever he had been shamming. But when he coughed and a look of pain crossed his features, she knew that it was only heroic effort that caused him to look at her so and not sink back into his pillows.
“You should be sleeping.”
“You make that difficult.” His eyes, bluer than ever, met hers keenly.
“Then I shall sit in the other room.”
“No!”
“No? Then close your eyes. Your fever has broken, I believe, but you might be suffering inflammation of the lungs. Are you having difficulty breathing?”
“Yes, but that may be from the sight of you in your shift. More delicious than I dreamed. I love you, Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton.”
“Don’t be flippant, Mr. Endicott.” Raquel would not let him see how his words affected her.
“I am never flippant when I am dying.”
“You are not dying yet, Mr. Endicott, though I don’t fancy your chances when you are recovered.”
“You mean, I recollect, a duel. I am an excellent shot.”
“How fortunate. But it is not pistols you shall have to face.”
“Rapiers? I—”
“Not rapiers either. I have no wish to see either my affianced or my father slaughtered in such a poor cause. Bare hands, Mr. Endicott. Mine.”
Raquel spoke conversationally, but there was a hard edge to her tone.
Thomas stared at her, then relaxed back onto the nonexistent pillows. His head hit something hard, so he cursed.
“Don’t curse when a lady is present. Common etiquette, but then, perhaps I should not expect you to know that.”
“You are very beautiful. Even when you are cross-grained and shrewish.”
“Save your flattery for unversed maidens.”
“Rest assured, I shall.” Thomas glanced at her from under long, twining lashes. If she knew no better, she could swear his words had some significance. Some flirting, caressing meaning that escaped her just at present. She was no maiden any longer. And though she was unversed, Thomas did not—could not—know that.
“Good. Then we understand each other. Just as soon as you are well enough, I shall have my revenge.”
“Why bother waiting for me to be well? You have a much better chance, if I may say so, of wringing my neck when I am as weak as a lamb.”
“Some people play fair, Mr. Endicott.”
Raquel removed the cloths and handed him the waiting bowl of broth. It was cold, but she did not offer to reheat it.
“Drink that. I believe it might do some good.” Then, with her nose in the air and her bearing as proud as if she were wearing a ball gown of shimmering sapphire, spangled at the front with pearls and complemented by tasseled Roman sandals—which she might have been, had she actually made it up to Darris Castle—Lady Fortesque-Benton left the room.
She did not see the sudden anger blazing in Thomas’s eyes at her insinuation. Contrary to any prejudiced opinion on her part, he did play fair. Which is why she was still unkissed, never mind unbedded. He wondered how often she would throw his supposed sins up in his face before realizing this obvious fact. He wanted to laugh at the irony. Her murderous intentions were founded on a quite ludicrous lack of substance. But he did admire her! And he had compromised her.
He had compromised her on the first day, when he had dismissed the maid. He had compromised her by setting off knowing full well they were chasing the weather. Foolishness! Sane, rational gentlemen would have remained on in London. But he had the image of her pearl-white back, not to mention her intriguing décolletage, to spur him on. He had been acting from pique, not from chivalry. As for doing Demian favors. . . ha! Demian would not thank him for his interference.
Perhaps the Lady Raquel was justified in her parting remark. He had not raped her, as she intimated, but he had ruined her for Darris. He had forced her to fall in love with him. That was just as bad.
Thomas was honest. He knew all the signs of women in love, and Raquel had them. Tenfold. She trembled as she touched him, she nursed him, she threw pots at him. One day, she would kiss him. He hoped it would be soon. Confound it, there was still Demian. He prayed, as he had never truly prayed before, that the lovely Miss Amy Mayhew was all Caro claimed she was. A broken betrothal could mend faster than a broken heart. But then, Demi’s heart had never been involved. Neither, he fancied, had the lady Raquel’s. She would not have flaunted herself so consciously at the ball if it had been. She had been like a taut string under his amused scrutiny. From the very start, there had been an unspoken attraction. Only, Thomas had been experienced enough to recognize it for what it was. Lady Fortesque-Benton, on the other hand, had proven a mere green girl. For all her proud posturing. Thomas silently thanked the heavens for it.
He leaned forward and sipped the broth. The pains were still there, but he fancied they were subsiding. If he could live without being murdered, he might survive. The soup was terrible. And the vixen had given it to him cold.
Amid a chorus of protests, the ladies had been shown their quarters. Mrs. Corey raged and ranted, her great bosom heaving in indignation. Her dresser, already shivering in the antechamber, echoed her sentiments and pointed indignantly to the cheval mirror that had been brought in for their use. Eight ladies and one mirror! It was abominable!
Never mind the turrets and gargoyles and stained-glass arches—all very well, they were, but useless without common amenities. Then there were the porcelain wash stands adorned with nothing but common pitchers and water lugged up from the kitchens; the chimneys were smoking from disuse; and great clouds of pitch tar were soiling all the open portmanteaus and trunks. And the chairs! They were scant and hard, only two had any padding to speak of, and though they were in the fashionable Egyptian style, some of the gilt was chipping off. In short, they were sadly lackluster.
Some of the ladies shrieked when they viewed the chamber. They had to share—actually had to share—the bedchamber! Miss Bancroft had ordered four pallets to be made up. These, an astonished Miss Oliver announced, were actually intended for their use! She could understand if they were for the maids, but the maids were evidently to be quartered with the Darris servants. “These . . . these . . .”—she could splutter out neither “pallets” nor “beds”—“are intended for us.”
Amelia Corey decided this would be a very good time to have hysterics, so she consequently opened her mouth and proceeded to wail. Not to be outdone, Miss Daphne Murgatroyd followed suit, though her hysterics were more pitiful, for they were accompanied by several gushing tears. They rolled down her cheeks and were allowed to drip upon the faded carpet. The cacophony was appalling, especially since all the young ladies, encouraged by their graceless chaperons, were inclined to follow suit.
“Where is Lady Caroline? I must see her ladyship!” Mrs. Murgatroyd bellowed at poor Betsy, who had been delegated the unenviable task of settling the party, stoking the fires and collecting up the crushed traveling garments so that they could be cleaned, dried and pressed in the duke’s kitchens.
“Don’t touch that, you stupid girl! It is made of the finest oriental silk! Put it down at once!”
Betsy tried to explain, but was brushed aside by an infuriated Mrs. Corey, who took up the gown, but in her agitation, caught it on a hook protruding from the bare wall. There followed a ripping sound, then shrieks of fury from the Corey dresser, Mistress Amelia and her mama as all three lunged for Betsy and shook her.
Amy, quietly coaxing one of the fires, lost her patience. She set down the leaden poker and glided past an army of females. They were all watching with interest and in relative degrees of swoons, ashen pallors and imminent hysterics. Without a word, she separated Betsy from her tormentors and delivered three sharp slaps. One on each startled face. None, of course, on Betsy’s.
“Ladies! I have never seen such an unedifying display in all my life! You shame me and you shame our class! Is it no wonder no self-respecting lord or lady will give us the time of day or leave their visiting cards in our neighborhood? You ladies gristle all day about this unsatisfactory state of affairs. If I had the smallest choice in the matter, I would not acknowledge any of us either. We may all be wealthy, but we are neither courteous, civil or remotely noble. We should be ashamed.”
“Well!” Mrs. Corey placed a hand on her pudgy cheek. It was still burning, for Amy had strength, if not the delicate pouches of puppy fat that were considered ladylike in some circles.
For once, Mrs. Murgatroyd stepped forward and echoed Mrs. Corey’s tone, if not her words.
“Fancy!” She said in failing accents that nevertheless contrived to be spiteful. “We have raised a viper in our breast! I can assure you, Miss Mayhew, that you shall never grace our invitation lists again! I am sure Ermentrude Worthing must always be welcome, for there is no doubt that dear Froversham is worth a fortune, but you! My dear Miss Mayhew, were you heiress to ten times the sums you are, you will never darken my door again. And I have it on the best authority that though you are an heiress, your fortune is not so large as Ermentrude would have us think! I am perfectly satisfied that I speak for all the young ladies present when I say you are a snobbish little brat, with not an ounce of dear Daphne’s—or even Amelia’s—gentility! And if you are, indeed, Lord Dalmont’s daughter—though who can ever be sure of such things?—you do not do him any credit at all! You do not dress with any degree of superiority and you are generally held to have your nose in a book. I am sure Lord Dalmont could not have wished for a bluestocking daughter. And don’t look so regal, miss! If Dalmont’s family had even recognized you, things might be different! Then we might consider you worthy of our notice!”
Amy paid no attention, though her eyes flashed at Honoria Murgatroyd’s vulgar aspersions on her ancestry. Still, they were not worth defending to these people. So she gently took the ripped gown from Betsy’s shaking fingers, bestowed a kiss upon her forehead, and bade her return to the kitchens.
Miss Fletcherson was tittering. “He was only a second son. Mama says that is nothing to give yourselves airs about!”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Corey bestowed a plump, rather stately smile upon Miss Fletcherson. She approved of simpering girls who echoed her own, jealous opinions. Then her eyes narrowed as Amy made some small movement.
“Where are you going, girl?”
“I am going to fetch my purse to reimburse you for your precious frock, Hyacinth. I don’t trust you not to demand recompense from that poor little wretch.”
