A Desperate Wager (14 page)

Would this journey never end? Now she had told him she was aroused, he was a quivering mass of male frustration. Every step the horse took rubbed his groin against her pert little arse. She was injured and he was thinking of the ways he could bed her. He had even started a few fantasies which included some very strange positions and this damned horse.

“
Nathaniel?”

“
Yes?”

“
You do drink too much.”

Jesus! He was riding a horse through the gates of his estate, bareback, with an erection that was like iron and she wanted to talk about his drinking.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“
Have you always drunk too much?”

“
No. As a three year old, I hardly drank any brandy.” Sarcasm would not help either, he supposed.

“
I am being serious,” she said. He pressed his lips to the back of her neck, hoping to distract her. She made a pretty little gasping sound and moved her head, leaving her neck open for him to kiss up to her neck. Damn, he had only wanted to halt her train of thought. Now his train of thought had moved back to his groin.

“
Let us get you home—quickly.” He pressed his foot into the side of the horse and she began to canter. Sarah gasped, louder this time and leaned forward to hold the mare’s mane. “Shh, all is fine. I have you safe.”

“
Oh Nate, I thought I was all right, but this feels too fast.”

“
Relax,” he urged, pulling her back against him. She whined, a quiet keening noise. But she had to get over her fear. It was a case of being cruel to be kind. They cantered for some time as he allowed her to get used to the speed. He knew when she began to trust him and the horse because she relaxed against him.

He touched his heels to the mare again and she upped the place slightly.
“Nearly there,” he intoned. Sarah’s fingers now dug into his thighs and he winced. She was strong.

The house came into view and he turned the horse to take a shortcut over the grass lawn to the stables. He felt her grip on his thighs loosen and her body sagged once more against his torso. She had stopped resisting. Her own horsemanship skills were beginning to come to the fore. She was allowing the momentum of the horse to take the lead. Could she possibly learn to ride again? It would take some ingenuity and she may never be able to gallop, but she could get fresh air.

Perhaps she would also stop hounding him about his drinking if she had other things about which to think. That was why he had wanted to take her to Bath. To get a Bath chair—an invalid carriage which would give her more freedom.

Well that would now have to wait.

Sarah was just beginning to get into the rhythm of the horse’s pounding hooves when Nathaniel pulled on the reins and drew the horse to slow canter and then a walk. The animal reared its head and snorted as if annoyed that he had not given her a proper gallop. She couldn’t blame her. But on the other hand, it had been scary enough trotting bareback and astride. Though she did wonder why more women did not try to ride astride. It was so much easier and definitely felt safer.

A young stable hand came hurrying out and Nate tossed the reins to him. The young boy, who could not have been more than fourteen caught the ribbons deftly, frowning at the place where they had been cut and tied to shorten them, allowing the horse to be ridden rather than pulling a carriage. He then looked askance to where the saddle should be.

“There was an accident. Bellamy will be back later with the other horse and the carriage. Check this horse out properly. She was involved in the accident too and may have an injury I have not seen yet.”

“
Aye, Your Grace.”

“
Hold her mane while I slide off,” he said to Sarah quietly.

She did as he asked and he gracefully dismounted the horse, his hand remaining on her back, ready to catch if she fell, but she was secure. He flicked his hand at the stable boy, who quickly turned to look the other way. Sarah grinned. She was so used to being manhandled, that it never occurred to her to expect people to look away when she was at her most inelegant. She appreciated Nate’s concern.

He helped her down to a standing position and tugged at her skirts until they fell properly to her feet, then he scooped her up in his arms and carried her around the huge mansion and in the front door of the house.

He strode with purpose
, and she felt a thrill running through her. This was the stride he had used yesterday when he had been overcome with passion at the harpsichord. But he turned into the drawing room and deposited her on a chaise. Then he walked over to the drinks tray, poured two glasses of whisky from the decanter, one much larger than the other. He handed her the smaller one.

“
For shock,” he grunted. Then he lifted the glass to his lips and tipped it back. Sarah watched, astounded as he returned to the decanter and filled his glass again before tipping it down his throat.

“
Nathaniel, stop!” she said as he reached once again for the crystal.

He turned from her, decanter in hand and looked out the window, scowling.

“I thought for a moment that you were dead. I thought I had killed you.”

“
Killed me? Why would you think it your fault?”

He poured the amber liquid into his glass and downed it. She tried not to show her disapproval but her lips thinned despite herself.

“I should have checked the carriage before we left.”

“
Are you in the habit of checking over carriages before a short trip into Bath?”

“
No.”

“
Have you ever had reason to suspect someone was trying to kill you before?”

“
No, but they may not have been after me.”

“
Do you think someone is trying to kill
me
?”

“
I do not know. But I know that someone tried to hurt or injure one of us.”

“
And will getting foxed help you discover why someone would want to kill one of us or who they are?”

“
No, but it makes me feel better.”

“
It makes you end up with a wife you had no desire to marry. What will happen next time you are in your cups in a London gaming hell? Will you wager this house? This estate? Or will you choose to spend the rest of your evening in a brothel with painted ladies attending to your every whim?”

He rotated where he stood and squinted at her. The alcohol was already having an effect because he caught the sideboard to steady himself. She should say no more. But she was so angry. Could he not see alcohol was a problem? He was using it as a crutch
, and she had no idea why. He was irrational when he drank, and she knew that some men could violent too. She had not seen any suggestion that he would be violent but Sarah was not sure she wanted to take the chance.

He made a dismissive snort.

“What does a gently bred earl’s daughter know of whores in London brothels?”

“
I can read.”

“
Your father should have taken more interest in the material his daughter was reading and made sure it was suitable.”

“
I am not an imbecile. I am capable of choosing my own books.” How had this turned into an argument about what she read and the competency or otherwise of her father to raise her?

She also had to admit to being rather hurt that he did not argue against the suggestion he had been forced to marry her. He could have at least said that it had not turned out to be as much of a trial as he had first imagined. And he had not denied that there was a possibility he would end up in a brothel next time they were in London.

She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry.

“
Perhaps if your father had taken better care of you, you would not have ended up in this state.” He waved his hand again in the general direction of her legs. She gasped. Her father may have his faults, but he was not responsible for her falling from a horse and breaking her spine.

“
That accident was entirely my own fault. I pushed my horse towards a jump and the poor animal refused it. I knew it was too high for her, but I wanted to prove we could do it. So yes, in that respect, I was an imbecile. But I think you may agree that I have more than paid the price for one moment of folly. You, on the other hand, are continuing your folly.”

He stalked over to her and bent down. As he lifted his hand slowly towards her face, he hesitated, as if not sure what to do. For a moment, she thought he was going to cup her cheek and kiss her
. Instead he lifted her chin so she was looking into his dark brown eyes.

“
I am the master of this house. I am the master of you. And if I want to drink myself into a stupor, then I shall damned well drink myself into a stupor. Do you understand?” Sarah nodded, her eyes burning with tears. He closed his eyes momentarily as if considering whether to retract his words or not. “You are impossible,” he growled before stomping out of the room.

Sarah sat for a long time just watching the closed door. Her head was pounding and she was hungry. It must be past lunchtime by now. She eyed the glass of whisky still in her hand and shuddered. She usually liked the taste
, but somehow this glass of the nectar made her feel nauseated.

She looked around. She had no crutches no
r leg braces, and the bell pull was too far away to reach. Oh well. She had crawled across the floor before to get help. She would just have to do it now. It was not as if she had much dignity to start with.

She shivered as she remembered Nathaniel’s steely gaze, hard and hateful. But when he had closed his eyes, she knew he was regretting what he had said. She just had to work out how to get through to him.

Nate flipped through some letters on his desk, not really looking at any of them. If truth be told, he probably could not read them at present because he was seeing double. He swirled the liquid in his crystal glass, no longer aware of the smell or taste of it, just aware that his own misery seemed easier to bear when he had a glass in his hand.

Truthfully, it did not make him feel any less miserable or make his mistakes seem any less catastrophic. Crosby would not be resurrected by whisky, brandy or wine. He couldn’t take back the cruel things he had said to Sarah. He lifted up the letter opener and pressed in into a small hole in the wood of the desk. Curling his lip and gritting his teeth, he dug at the hole with the sword-shaped object, feeling a growing sense of satisfaction as the hole grew deeper.

A small voice inside told him he was being petulant—that he was destroying a century-old desk for no reason. He took another swig of his whisky as a knock came at the door.

“
Come,” he slurred.

A footman in Kirkbourne livery and a powdered wig entered carrying a large tray with a teapot, sugar bowl and milk
along with a dome-covered plate. He nodded, his head in as deep a bow as he could muster given the precarious tray.

“
Her Grace sent me in with your lunch, Your Grace. She said I was to tell you that you must eat.”

Nate frowned. She had cared to send in food even though he had been a brute to her. She knew he was capable of ringing for food himself if he wanted it. But she also probably knew that he would not have done so. He moved papers and other things out of the way and gestured for the footman to lay the tray on the desk in front of him.

“Thank you, McNeil.”

“
Will that be all, Your Grace?”

“
Yes… no… I mean, where is Her Grace?”

“
I believe she is resting abed for an hour or two. After the accident an’ all.”

“
Right of course. That will be all.” He nodded as if he had known all along that was where Sarah would be. Good God, what kind of man was he? He had abandoned her in the drawing room. How had she even summoned a servant? The poor thing had been sitting far from the bell pull when he had stormed out.

He watched with growing self-loathing as the footman bowed, properly this time, and exited.

Nate lifted the silver dome and found a plate of cold meats and cheese and bread. There was a bowl of fruit at the side. He poured himself a cup of tea and devoured the food as if he was a starving man who had not eaten in a month.

Whisky always made him hungry. His head still spun, he still felt absolutely vile, but a little flame seemed to have ignited within him, spreading warmth. She had ignited it—Sarah.

His Sarah.

With one simple act of kindness
, she had eased the oppressive darkness of his soul and reminded him that there was good to be found in the world.

Sarah, whom he thought had died today. It had only been a few seconds but it had been a few seconds where his life had disappeared.

He drank more tea while considering, despite his addle-pated state, who would want to kill him… or her.

Sarah was a threat to no one.

Perhaps it was one of Crosby’s family now wreaking revenge for his part in his friend’s death. Perhaps it was an unhappy tenant. He had not been the most conscientious of landlords lately, but his man of business was top-notch and Nate trusted him implicitly.

He finished his tea and stood. The room spun viciously
, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself.

Devil take it. He was most certainly in his cups. But he wanted to see Sarah. He needed to check she was all right. He had been a complete horse’s arse to her. But he needed his damned head to stop spinning. Surely if he took his time he would be fine.

He let go of the desk, sticking his hands in front of himself to ensure he stayed upright. Taking a deep breath, he lurched for the door. He grabbed the handle and steadied himself before opening it and bouncing out onto the corridor, the jamb of the door making a painful imprint into his shoulder.

“
Ouch!” he yelled. “Bloody door,” he muttered. He must see his Sarah. She had sent him lunch. She cared.

“
Your Grace. Can I be of assistance?” It was McNeil again. He was standing to attention but looking at Nate with concern. Damn. It would not be the first time in the last year that a footman had helped him to bed and poured him into it. “May I escort you?”

“
I need to go to my bedchamber.”

“
Yes, Your Grace.”

“
But you cannot come in. My wife is there, you see.” Damn, his tongue was not working properly.

“
I understand. I can make sure you arrive at the door safely.”

“
I had a little nip of whisky. Damned strong stuff, McNeil.”

“
Indeed, Your Grace.” McNeil took his arm and began to guide him down the corridor where their bedchamber was situated. A few times the footman grabbed him around the waist, pulling him into a slightly more upright position whenever he seemed to sag to the side.

“
McNeil, who do you think would want to kill me or my duchess?”

The footman paused and cleared his throat. Nate looked at him. He was a thin chap—still quite young, with mousy brown hair and an intelligent look in his eye
s. He was roughly the same height as Nate himself. He looked askance at his employer.

“
I am sure I would not know, Your Grace.”

“
Surely you must know of someone who hates me.”

“
No, I do not.”

“
Do you have any family living?”

“
I have a mother and a younger sister, Your Grace.”

“
Where do they live?”

“
In the village.”

“
Would they know of anyone?”

“
I do not believe they would.”

“
Hmm, it is a mystery. Well keep your ear to the ground McNeil. Any farmers who have had a bad crop or whatever.”

“
Your Grace, it is still spring. There are no crops as yet.”

“
Ah yes, good point. So who would want to kill Sarah? I mean her ladyship. No, Her Grace. Damn!”

“
She is not from these parts, Your Grace.”

“
No, her father’s estate is in Kent.”

“
I am sure no one would want to harm her.”

“
True. Must be me. Hmm, might have to think my way through my old conquests eh?” He nudged his footman in the ribs and the young man grunted slightly. “But I was always careful,” he mused. “Never any innocents or women who didn’t know what they were doing.”

“
Mmm. Here we are, Your Grace. Your bedchamber.”

“
Ah yes. You are not coming in McNeil. Her Grace maybe in a state of undress. One can only hope.”

The footman maintained his silence and let Nate go. He realised just how much McNeil had been steadying him once he was on his own. It seemed he was rather foxed after all. Nate located the door handle and pushed himself into the
bedchamber, lurching to the side and battering his other shoulder off the door jamb. He stood for a moment, eyeing the wood, then turned to grin at his beautiful wife.