A Marriageable Miss (25 page)

H
is head feeling as though it was about to shatter into a thousand fragments at any minute, even the soft click of the door handle was, to Richard, highly reminiscent of the deafening sounds of the British cannon on the field at Waterloo. Struggling to rise, but finding himself incapable of doing so, he flopped weakly back on to his pillows, having arrived at the conclusion that, although he was unable to recall the exact details, it appeared that he must have received a mortal wound. The throbbing pain in his head was such that, as far as he was concerned, only instant death could provide a merciful release. He had tried opening his eyes on several occasions, to find that the piercingly blinding lights—presumably blasts from the mortar explosions—made matters a thousand times worse.

‘Richard?’

He grimaced and let out a faint groan. Wasn’t it bad enough that he was lying here, dying in agony, without having to suffer the added anguish of imagining that he could hear Helena’s voice, calling to him from across the void?

Helena
? Impossible! Waterloo had long since passed before she had come into his life! Making every effort to marshal his chaotic thoughts into some sort of coherence, he struggled to rationalise the enigma.

‘Richard?’

Tentatively prising one eye open, he reeled back in disbelief as a pulsating flash of light exploded across his vision to reveal the ethereally white-clad figure standing at his bedside.
Dear God
, he found himself thinking, as a feeling akin to panic swept over him,
surely they haven’t sent down an angel to lead me there!

Helena, having observed that he was awake at last, reached out and took hold of his hand. ‘Please, don’t be cross with me, Richard,’ she began. ‘I know that it was very wrong of me to interfere with your papers, but—’

‘Papers?’

His eyes now closed tight against the invasive light and his head pounding fit to burst, Richard found himself growing more confused by the minute.
Did one actually need papers to be granted admittance into Heaven
? he thought in wonder, as he managed to croak out, ‘You must do whatever you think best, dear angel—the whole matter is entirely in your hands.’

Frowning slightly, Helena leant across the bed and laid her hand on his forehead which felt, as she found to her considerable dismay, decidedly damp and clammy. Since her experience of badly inebriated gentlemen was somewhat less than nil, she was at a loss as to the proper course of action. That the earl was in some sort of distress was obvious, but she could not decide whether to send for Shipman to deal with the problem or to ring down for another of Mrs Wainwright’s willow-bark remedies.

Her concern increasing, she lowered herself on to the bed beside her husband, her eyes quickly registering his pain-ravaged expression and the tight compression of his lips, both of which clearly denoted the torment that he was undergoing and, although she could not help but feel that he had no one but himself to blame for his present distress, she was unable to prevent the sharp wave of pity that ran through her. As she tenderly stroked his damp hair away from his forehead in an attempt to soothe away the worst of the pain, a tight lump formed in her throat and the hot sting of tears began to gather behind her eyelids.

The gently comforting feel of the cool hand on his fevered
brow came as utter balm to the still highly befuddled Markfield and it was not long before this most pleasurable sensation, along with the soothing murmurings of reassurance that accompanied the soft caresses, lulled him into a peaceful trance-like state, which had the effect of making him only too glad to lie back and entrust his deliverance to the tender mercies of this angelic vision of loveliness.

But then as, with a startled gasp, Helena became conscious that the earl’s free arm seemed to have found its way across her waist and was now tightening and pulling her more closely towards him, she saw that his eyes, far from being shut tightly as they had been earlier, were now wide open and staring—albeit with a slightly puzzled expression—deep into her own.

‘Unbelievably lovely,’ he murmured softly, as he turned his head and buried his face in the mass of unbound chestnut curls that had spread themselves across his pillow during her ministrations. ‘Who would have thought that an angel would be so accommodating?’ With which bizarre observation, his eyelids drooped and he gradually drifted off into a heavy slumber.

Realising that it would be impossible to extricate herself from his hold without waking him, especially since several locks of her hair were still tightly pinioned beneath his head, Helena resigned herself to staying where she was—at least until her sleeping husband chose to change his position which, she reasoned, he was bound to do at some point. Apart from which, she had to admit that the warmth of his arm slung loosely across her back was rather comforting and, after such a long and tiring day, she could not help feeling that it could do no harm just to lie back and close her own eyes for a few minutes…

Several hours later, just as the first pale streaks of dawn were beginning to light up the morning sky, Helena awoke from the most refreshing sleep she had experienced for some time. Stretching languidly, she rolled over, recoiling with a sudden shock as her fingers encountered the satiny soft nakedness of her husband’s arm draped in careless elegance across the pillow next to hers. She
was horrified that she had not only allowed herself to fall asleep in his arms, but had also—or so it would appear, given the tumbled state of the bedclothes—actually snuggled down beneath the covers right next to him! Desperately hoping that her hasty movements had failed to disturb her husband’s tranquillity, she edged her way cautiously off the bed, tiptoed across the floor towards her own room and unlocked the adjoining door, pausing only momentarily before extracting the key and thrusting it resolutely into the jewellery box on her dressing table.

In future, I shall be the one who decides on the locking or unlocking of that door
, she vowed as, sliding between the far less welcoming sheets of her own bed, she lay shivering in the early morning chill and cast her mind back to her husband’s final words. Surely, he could not have been so utterly foxed that he had mistaken her for that ghastly Cummings woman, she reflected moodily, as she waited for sleep to overcome her.

Having woken with a crippling headache only to discover that—contrary to what he had been happy to believe the previous night—his soul had not been wafted into Heaven by an angel bearing an uncanny resemblance to his new wife, Richard was obliged to concede that the highly erotic vision of a semi-clad Helena lying asleep in his arms, which had seemed so incredibly real at the time, had to have been yet another example of those frustratingly tormenting dreams with which he had been plagued every night for the past week or so. And, rather than suppressing his emotional fervour, as had been his intention, it would seem that the time-honoured standby of drowning his sorrows in an overindulgence of spirits had actually exacerbated the problem—as well as having presented him with the most diabolical hangover he had ever had the misfortune to suffer! Pressing his fingers against his eyes in an attempt to shut out the faint streaks of daylight that were already beginning to light up the room, he swore to himself that—in addition to steering clear of strong liquor for the foreseeable future—he would need to make sure that he kept himself well out of range of Helena’s spellbinding influence.

Concentrate on his work! That would surely do the trick, he decided firmly, as he reached out and pulled at the bell-cord to summon his valet. Get those colts ready for sale and, by God, yes! He would enter all three of his racing thoroughbreds in next week’s Epsom stakes. Having held back from getting involved in any of the actual racing this early in the season, he had put all his effort into increasing the strength of his fledgling stud but, as it now occurred to him, putting his thoroughbreds through their paces now would certainly draw a lot of useful attention to their finer points and might well encourage potential breeders to approach him—not to mention necessitating his absence from the estate for several days at a time.

Entering the dining room in a far more cheerful frame of mind, he was decidedly put out to find his wife already ensconced at the table, contentedly spreading butter on her third slice of toast.

A slight flush spread over Helena’s cheeks as he came towards her and, whilst she prayed that he would make no mention of last night’s occurrence within hearing distance of the butler who was hovering at the doorway, she could not help hoping that the earl would pass her some sort of private sign to indicate that he had not failed to register her presence during at least one of his moments of lucidity.

Rather to her disappointment—not to say mortification—Richard halted at the threshold and, with a strangled, ‘I beg your pardon—please excuse me!’ he turned tail and made at once for the door that led out to Westpark’s stable area.

For several moments, Helena was too shocked to do anything other than but stare at the now empty doorway, in a transfixed silence. But then, as a growing sense of affront gradually began to dawn upon her, she thrust back her chair, leapt to her feet and started after the earl, intent upon taking him to task for having treated her in so discourteous a manner.

Halfway down the hall, however, she hesitated and came to a halt, with the sudden realisation that, given the severe depth of his intoxication, any recollection of last night’s events that Markfield might retain was likely to be decidedly hazy. That being so,
it would hardly be in her best interests to do anything that might jog his memory. Far better that she put the matter out of her mind and kept out of his way for a while.

With that thought in mind, she sped up the stairs to her room, hurriedly collected a bonnet and, was soon making her way across the lawn towards the river path, intent on getting to Markfield Hall well before his lordship even had time to saddle his mount.

This plan would have been perfect, had it not been for the fact that Jem, having been made aware of Markfield’s unexpected fall from grace the previous afternoon and, being well acquainted with the earl’s requirements when he was out of sorts, had taken the precaution of saddling the highly spirited Titan several minutes before his grim-faced master strode into the stable yard.

‘Good man!’ exclaimed Richard, as he relieved the groom of the reins and leapt into the saddle, inwardly cursing at the searing explosion of pain that the sudden movement brought about. He was about to swing his mount towards Westpark’s main gate, in order to take his usual route to the Hall, when he checked and, looking down at the groom, enquired, ‘The footbridge—did the men manage to repair it, do you know?’

‘Good as new, sir,’ Jem assured him. ‘I used it to fetch Titan over yesterday afternoon—made a fine job of it, did Mr Standish’s men.’

‘Excellent!’ replied the earl, wheeling the gelding around. ‘That’ll save a good few minutes every trip.’

Lifting his crop in farewell, he set off in the direction of the riverside path, doing his best to ignore the spasms of pain that every jarring step seemed to bring about. Slumping low in his saddle, he slowed his mount to a gentle walk and kept to the grass in order to alleviate the throbbing ache in his head, vowing that he would never touch another drop of liquor if he lived to be a hundred! Although, how the hell he was going to be able to keep his hands to himself for the next few days without some sort of diversion, he was hard pressed to imagine. Even with all the extra work he was about to take on, he knew that there was still a limit as to how much time he could spend in the stables and, even if he
were to arrange to have his meals brought over to him, he would still be obliged to return to Westpark to sleep.

Sleep! The very idea brought a wry grimace to his face. How was he supposed to sleep when such irresistible temptation lay practically within touching distance of his bed? Especially now, when he was actually starting to believe that his dreams had become reality, he was not at all sure that he could trust himself to stay away from her!

Realising that they were approaching the footbridge, he raised his head, only to have his heart thud to a sudden halt, as his eyes fell on Helena’s trim figure strolling gracefully up the path scarcely ten yards ahead of him. Clearly unaware of his presence, the grass having muffled the sound of Titan’s hooves, she had removed her bonnet and was swinging it by its ribbons, humming softly to herself as she walked.

Straightening up in his saddle, he gave the reins a brisk shake and, edging his mount over on to the stony part of the path, he urged him into a slow trot.

The sudden and unexpected sound of an approaching rider caused Helena to let go of her bonnet strings and leap for the safety of the hedgerow.

‘You idiot!’ she gasped, as Richard drew up beside her and started to dismount. ‘Now see what you’ve done!’

Ignoring the earl’s warning shout, she ducked under Titan’s head and dashed over to the riverbank, in a vain attempt to prevent the breeze lifting her straw bonnet off the grass and tossing it over the edge.

‘I dare say that’s your idea of a joke!’ she exploded, as she turned back towards him, her eyes flashing with fury. ‘Did you really need to creep up on me so furtively?’

‘I was not in the least furtive!’ he retorted as, cursing under his breath, he strode past her and stared down at the rushing waters below. Helena’s bonnet, as he was soon able to ascertain, had not sailed off with the current, but had snagged itself against the roots of one of the willow trees, some ten feet or so below them.

‘And, it was quite my favourite, too,’ she murmured sadly,
coming to stand next to him. ‘Now, I suppose I shall have to return home and get myself another before I can go on.’

It was her unforeseen use of the word ‘home’ that finally decided him. Unbuttoning his jacket, the earl shrugged it off and, tossing it to one side, started to clamber down the sloping bank towards her errant headpiece. ‘No problem,’ he ventured stoutly, his fingers clutching at a clump of reeds, as one of his boots sought for some sort of toehold. ‘I believe the bonnet is within my reach.’