Carnal Pleasures (31 page)

Griff’s knees wavered as he stood in the foyer with the Bonne Vista butler. More so, when he grasped the possible unfavorable import he heard from the servant. “Lady Dulcie is ill? My God, when did this happen?”

“Only lately,” the man replied. “Now, come with me, Mr. Spencer,” Sommers said, leading the way into a side hall. “Allow me to show you into the blue salon. I will tell the countess you’re here to see her stepdaughter. I believe she is at luncheon, but I know she will want to speak with you.”

The butler flung open the double doors and ushered Griff inside the tastefully decorated room. A fire blazed in the polished gray marble fireplace, and Griff realized he was glad of its heat. He was still plagued with chills from time to time, and today was no exception. He strode toward the ornate mantel. Over it hung a painting of a middle-aged man. It must be Dulcie’s father, he thought. He remembered the portrait of Dulcie’s mother hanging in the London town house.

“I’ll order you refreshments, Mr. Spencer.”

“No, thank you. Nothing for me except a brandy,” he replied. “Er, what is your name?”

“Sommers, sir.” The old servant poured a generous dollop of brandy into the snifter for Griff then left him to alert the countess of a new arrival.

Griff was in a quandary. He was not anxious to confront Agina here and now. Especially, after he learned that Dulice wasn’t well. He prayed she suffered nothing serious.

Entering the dining room on the main floor, Sommer said rather hesitantly, “Madam?” He knew the countess hated being interrupted at table. “Forgive me, but Mr. Spencer is here to see Lady Dulcina. I’ve put him in the blue salon.”

Agina’s gaze flew to Trent’s face and their eyes locked.

“Ah,” she said, finally. “Dulcina’s long-lost fiancé has arrived.” She patted her lips with a serviette. “We have just begun our meal, Sommers. See that he is made comfortable, and tell him I will see him shortly.” Agina again locked eyes with her lady’s maid.

“Shall I have something sent into him, Madam? A cold collation?”

“I think not.” Agina replied, and coolly dismissed the butler.

Sommers was uncomfortable with the countess, as were the rest of Bonne Vista’s servants. He and the staff wished she and her abigail would leave and return to London. Meanwhile, they were worried sick about their young mistress.

Sommers tapped on the door of the blue salon and went inside. “Countess Eberley wished me to tell you she will see you after she finishes her noon meal. Can I get you anything else?”

Griff frowned.
The witch! She’s cooking something up, knowing I am here, and is keeping me waiting in order to concoct some new, vicious scheme.

“No, thank you, Sommers. I would like to see my fiancée.”

“I was told, Mr. Spencer, that you must speak with the countess first.” He bowed and left, closing the oak door behind him.

Griff took a long draught of the brandy. It warmed the blood, at least, although nasty forebodings streaming along his nerve endings hadn’t calmed him down one bit.

He was suddenly reminded of when he lay in bed in the hospital. There he had talked at length with the Nurse Potts, and Dr. Johnson. Several medical questions had bothered him and he was quite curious, so he asked. One was the use of aphrodisiac potions and their reaction on the human psyche—both male and female. When the question came up, Annie excused herself from the discussion, blushing the color of beets. Both men laughed. Afterward, Griff garnered the best information he could from the middle-aged physician, who bluntly asked with a disapproving scowl, if Griff was planning to use it on his bride.

Griff vehemently shook his head. “God, no,” he stated. “I would never put her through that again, even if she
were
a cold fish!” Hearing the admission he blurted out to the physician, he had the temerity to color up. He went on to describe to Dr. Johnson what happened to him and Dulcie, but he didn’t reveal his idea on who had given them the secret doses.

Having listened to Griff’s stories of his early libertine escapades, the physician took an opportunity to outline the dangers of tupping street whores. One venereal disease, better known as the French Pox, was rampant on the Continent as well as in England. Smoking opium was thought to cure or possibly delay its debilitating onset, but Johnson didn’t give it much credence in the medical community.

* * * *

Griff had been deep in thought, pacing the small room as he finished his brandy, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He strode to the door, opened it, and peeked down the empty hallway and its unoccupied foyer. The manor was designed with a wide, central staircase leading to a sizeable landing and which branched to the right and left. Griff knew, having grown up in a similar country manor, that sleeping chambers were situated on the second level at the far end of the upper hallways. He started up the stairs. He was puffing when he reached the second level. Which way? he wondered, uncertain. Well, dammit! If he had to, he would stick his nose into every room on either corridor until he located Dulcie.

He encountered two rosy-cheeked housemaids as he walked the hall. “I am Lady Dulcina’s fiancé, here to surprise her. Shh,” he whispered. “Can you point me to her room?”

The two looked at each other and blushed. Then they giggled. Finally, the taller of the two pointed to a door three doors away.

Griff shushed them a second time. “No need to tell anyone.”

“Oh sir,” the other one blurted, “just now we left Lady Dulcie sleeping. Should you be going in there? Is it proper without the countess to accompany you?”

“She sent me to Dulcie,” he lied. “I’ll be very quiet, I promise. This is a birthday surprise.”

The maids giggled again.

Turning away, Griff strolled to the door they indicated and paused in front of it.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dulcie knew she was in the middle of a vivid dream. A wonderful dream, because Griff Spencer stood next to her bed. He looked worried, his face so thin and haggard that her heart bled at the sight of him. His jacket hung strangely loose, not tailored to the inch the way she recalled, thinking back to the fine fabric molded to a robust, Adonis-like physique. Oh, she wanted this dream never to end. If only she had the strength to sit up, open her eyes, and see him standing there in reality.

She had tried so hard to get well, fight what was happening to her, and keep the babe alive, but it wasn’t easy. During the last few days, she felt her limbs twitching on their own as she lay in bed. She barely had strength to move, let alone sit up. Yet whenever she thought of eating, her stomach roiled, and she vomited up a disgusting bile. All she wanted was something to drink, anything, to quench her unfathomable thirst.

It would be grand if Griff had truly returned to England—safe and sound. But he left months ago, and was far away … on the Continent. She wondered vaguely if he ever thought about her and the pact they made. She sighed softly, her eyes closed, and sunk deeper into wishful dreaming. Surely, the war would end soon. She prayed every night that it would. When he came home, she would have to tell him about the baby.

* * * *

Griff was devastated when he entered the room and looked down onto Dulcie’s slender form lying supine in the big four-poster. She was a shell of the girl he remembered in his dreams. What bloody, vicious scourge had invaded her body and left her without strength enough to open her eyes? Had a physician diagnosed what could be done to alleviate her distress and make her well?

She moaned again, and he jerked forward, sinking onto his knees next to the bed. Not wanting to startle her, softly he called her name. “Dulcie? Dulcie, dearest, can you hear me?”

Oh, Simon, I can almost hear him. But of course, I am dreaming, but thank God, he is all right. Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness…

“Dulcie, won’t you wake up? Please!” Griff reached for one of her hands lying atop the coverlet. It felt as cold as a block of ice.

She doesn’t react to my touch. Bloody hell! Am I losing her?

Just then, Simon nudged his elbow, hard, with a broad, wet, black-nosed muzzle. Griff wasn’t even aware the dog was in the room he’d been so stunned when he saw Dulcie’s appearance.

“Ah, good lad, what’s happened to her, Simon?” He patted the dog’s shiny head, gazing into the soft brown eyes. “How did she become so terribly ill?”

Griff quickly laid Dulcie’s unresponsive hand back on the coverlet, and stood up. Simon gazed up at him, his tongue hanging out of his jaws, panting heavily. Saliva dripped from his mouth. If the animal could talk, Griff was sure he could give him the answers he wanted and needed.

Suddenly, he knew what he suspected days ago but couldn’t believe. Yes, Agina
would be
that greedy and that vile. “Was it the step-witch? Did she do this to Dulcie?”

“Ruff! Ruff!”

That was enough of an answer for Griff.

The door to Dulcie’s room flew open. Standing in the doorway was the countess and her lady’s maid. “How dare you sneak up here to my stepdaughter’s bedchamber?” She blasted Griff with an icy glare. “You were told to wait belowstairs! I’ll see to it you are removed from this house!”

Sommers and two rather large footmen in gray and blue livery hovered behind the two women.

Griff stood his ground next to Dulcie’s bed. “What is wrong with her, Countess?” he roared back. “My fiancée is dreadfully ill. Has a physician been called to bleed her? I demand to know, dammit!”

“You demand! Hah! You are the last one to make demands. You, Griffith Spencer, have no right to invade this house, nor this room. Not after you left your betrothed behind, bringing on what you see here—her rapid decline into ill health. This is all your doing, and I will not have you in this house, do you hear me?”

The countess spun around to face the footmen and gave them a signal. They stepped forward though the doorway and approached Griff. “You will now leave, Spencer, or I will have you thrown out!”

Coming out of her stupor briefly, Dulcie heard voices, but couldn’t discern who was arguing. She was lost in bewilderment, swathed in murky darkness, fighting without sufficient air to breath. She panicked, fighting her way up off the mattress, until she had to slump back against it and embrace the waiting arms of the black void of unconsciousness once again.

Had Griff the strength and the wisdom to know what was ailing Dulcie, he would have wrapped her up in his arms and carried her off with him, seeking medical help immediately.

However, all things being equal, he did his best to carry himself in an heroic manner and stalked out of the room, down the grand staircase, collected his coat, hat, and gloves, and left in Rand’s carriage.

Meanwhile, Simon stretched beside Dulcie’s bed, his brown gaze locked on Agina. When the countess started toward him, his lips curled. No warning rumbled from his throat, but his lips pulled back to display his ivory fangs. The countess seeing the movement, backed off, spinning away into a swift revolution. “Get rid of that dog,” she commanded, glaring at the butler, and swished out the room with Trent close behind her. “He’s a menace.”

* * * *

Griff had time to ruminate as Rand’s vehicle rumbled toward London. Something was dreadfully wrong with Dulcie. As the carriage traveled across the English countryside, he attempted to solve the puzzle, but without success. He could only presume, after the vague innuendo the countess shouted at him, that Dulcie was with child—his child. And that was the reason for her debilitated condition. He knew nothing whatsoever about a woman’s condition after being ravished, nor of what trials she might endure while awaiting the birth. He’d never had siblings. Neither had he any offspring of which he was aware. He’d always pulled out of a woman’s body before he spilled his seed, even during his earliest days of whoring. He knew of only two instances when he did not; the last time was the night he left Dulcie and sailed for the Peninsula.

The countess had railed at him at Bonne Vista
,
cursing at him that he
alone
was the cause of Dulcie’s extraordinary condition. He’d planted the seed that made her sick. If she and the child survived, Griff vowed he would never stick his polluted cock inside a woman’s body again.

Meanwhile, he would make certain Dulcie was given the best of medical attention. He would call on Dr. Johnson on the morrow. He was the physician who pulled Griff through his own ordeal. Now Griff sorely needed additional medical advice and help. He knew without any semblance of doubt that haste was of the essence if Dulcie were to survive.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The countess and Trent left Dulcie’s sickroom and retired to Agina’s chambers.

“The chit manages to hold onto a fragile thread, milady,” Trent commented. “She hasn’t asked for tea for several days and drinks only plain water. And she hasn’t tossed up her accounts, either, since I checked her chamber pot. Perhaps, if she can still sit up, we should add a larger dose of sugar and order the tea tray, make sure she swallows the tea in front of us. Her twenty-first birthday is approaching the deadline. We can only hope she expires soon.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, Trent,” the countess said, pinching her bottom lip between a thumb and index finger, a habit of hers when she was scheming. “Best we put our heads together, or we will be in the suds if she is still alive and breathing on the twenty-third of November.”

* * * *

Griff was allowed to enter his physician’s inner sanctum. A weary Henry Johnson looked as if a cat had dragged the man into his office by the scruff of his neck. He slowly waved Griff into a straight-backed chair. He then pulled a decanter of brandy and two glasses toward him. Nodding at the second glass on the tray, Griff accepted the offer from the red-eyed physician. The two men saluted one another and swallowed.

“Well, now,” the physician said, his brows lifting to his forehead. “Are you feeling all right? Should I be of additional help?”

Griff’s smile was thin-lipped, but he replied, “No, I’m fine, thanks to you, sir. But you look as though you haven’t slept a wink in a week. More casualties?”