Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (10 page)

“Cow heels,” she said, struggling not to let him make her laugh again. “Pickled trotters, then. How would that be?”

“I confess, I have never met a foot I wished to eat.” Then his eyes flashed merrily. “Nibble, now …”

Rosamunde’s blushing toes—recognizing that they were being spoken about—curled. “Oh, don’t!”

“No? Your wish is my command, mistress. Until dawn tomorrow, I am yours. I will not touch you, top or toe, without your consent. And you, you are free….”

“Free?” she breathed.

“Free to do with me entirely as you wish.”

Rosamunde saw that he meant it and immediately had a vision of licking his naked body. Every inch of it. After a breathless moment, she stepped forward, and saw a welcoming, interested light in his eyes.

She was hovering on the brink, her mind filled with wicked longings of licking his naked body as he lay passive beneath her, she with all her clothes on, armored against him. Could she do to him what he’d done to her? Could she watch him dissolve?

His brows rose as if she’d spoken her wicked dream and a wave of heat flooded her. It really wouldn’t be that terribly dangerous to spend a little more time up here with him, would it? Millie and Jessie wouldn’t—

Then a sound broke through. Familiar, tinkling bells.

“Oh no!” she gasped, shocked right back to icy reality.

“What?” He surged from the bed, all fun discarded, immediately dangerous.

“My mother!”

He froze, then stared at her. “Your
mother
?”

“The bells on her pony’s harness. Butterflies and billhooks, I should have known!”

Racing to the window, she heard him echo, “‘Butterflies and billhooks’?”

She peeped around the corner of the curtain in time to see her mother’s one-horse chair jingle down the lane toward the front of the house. “She has someone with her, too!” She whirled to him. “What am I to do?”

He was almost helpless with laughter. “A
mother
. And a guilty daughter!”

“How could she know?”

He seized her shoulders. “Calm down, Lady Mystery. Perhaps she doesn’t. If she does, I’m merely your sick patient.” He looked her over quickly, even turning her to inspect the back, then pushed her toward the door. “Go. She won’t be able to guess what you’ve been up to.” But then he added, “Will she want to come up here?”

Rosamunde, already with the knob in her hand, gave a little moan. “If she knows about you … she
can’t
.” But Rosamunde wondered if Mrs. Yockenthwait might have thought a mother excluded from the secrecy. “If she knows I have a sick man here, she won’t think I’ve cared for you properly.”

“How little she knows you,” he said, with a toe-curling smile. “But if she’s going to come up, you need something to mask the smell.”

Rosamunde paused, absorbing the fact that the room smelled of sex. “Mercy!”

“Do you have any gin?”

“This is no time to get drunk!” But then she saw what he was about. “No. Wait!”

She ran into her own room, the one she and Diana had shared here since they were children, and pulled out a bottle of port. From a daring childhood pleasure, it had become a sweet tradition before bed.

Daring. They hadn’t known the meaning!

As she rushed back with it, the door knocker rapped.

Still naked, he’d opened the window wide and had clearly stirred the potpourri in the dish on the mantel. She didn’t know if it would be enough. She thrust the bottle into his hands, trying desperately to think of something to suggest.

He pushed her back out through the doorway. She ran down the stairs, then skidded to a halt at the bend and raced back up to lock the door. Her knees knocked and her heart thudded with all the panic she’d felt at twelve or so, involved in some terrible mischief, and about to be found out.

Terrible mischief, indeed. This capped them all!

What on earth would her mother say if she found out?

Rosamunde plunged down the stairs and into the drawing room just before poor overworked Jessie trotted through the hall to answer the door. Sucking in huge breaths, she pulled off her mask and stuffed it in her pocket. A glance in the mirror showed the pressure marks it couldn’t help but leave. With a mutter, she pulled it out and put it on again.

She had just sat down and opened a book, when the door opened.

“Hello, Rosie,” said her dumpling mother, bright eyed and cheerful. “We heard you were stuck here with some mysterious half-dead stranger on your hands, so we had to pop over and see.”

Chapter 7

W
e? Oh no
. Behind Mrs. Ellington was Rosamunde’s nosiest sister.

Still, she leaped up with what she hoped was convincing surprise and pleasure. “Mama! Sukey!

Sukey, six months pregnant, was already inspecting the markings on the bottom of one of the china ornaments. “Why are you wearing that mask, Rosie? It looks horrid.”

With a shaky laugh, Rosamunde took it off. “Just being silly. I thought strangers were coming.”

“Very silly,” said her mother, sitting down. “If they were strangers, you wouldn’t let them in, would you? Anyway, it’s time you accepted that your scars are not bad enough to curdle the milk.” But then she shrugged, for she’d said it before. “So, dear, tell us about this invalid. Mrs. Yockenthwait seems to think he’s a brigand.”

“Like a highwayman?” Rosamunde queried lightly. “He wouldn’t get far in that trade when he was clearly tossed from his horse.”

“Is that what happened?”

Nervous Jessie bobbed a curtsy. “Would you like tea, milady?”

“Yes, thank you,” Rosamunde said, hoping that might stop the inquisition. “Tea would be lovely.”

As soon as Jessie left, however, her mother asked, “So, who or what is he, dear?”

She had to lie again. “I have no idea. He has no tools or goods with him. Nothing at all, in fact, apart from the clothes on his back and a handkerchief. He either drank it all, or had his pockets emptied for him.”

“Doesn’t he know who he is?” Sukey asked, turning from an inspection of a row of books. As well as being nosy, she was very shrewd and could winkle out a secret in a moment. Rosamunde prayed there was no evidence of her wicked morning, and that for once in her life she could hold to some untruths.

“He was unconscious through the night,” she said in an uninterested manner, “and he seems confused still.”

“Or likes the enjoyable bed he’s landed in,” Sukey pointed out.

Rosamunde felt her face flame again, and smiled brightly to compensate.

“Where have you put him, dear?” her mother asked as Jessie hurried back with a tray loaded with china, teapot, and cakes. Rosamunde welcomed the chance to leap up and help her.

“In a bedroom upstairs.”

“Rosie!” Sukey exclaimed. “You soft-hearted numbskull.”

“I didn’t see why not. He’s not a vagrant.”

“How do you know?”

“His clothes are decent.”

“Perhaps he stole them.”

Rosamunde had never thought of that. “He speaks like a gentleman. And he doesn’t have a working man’s hands.”

“Then he’s a wastrel.”

Since Rosamunde basically agreed, she couldn’t think of a retort.

“Stop bickering, girls,” their mother said. “I don’t suppose Diana will mind Rosie putting her charity case in a good bedroom—unless he has lice.”

“Of course he hasn’t,” Rosamunde protested.

“So, is this paragon of innocence up to receiving visitors?” Sukey asked, coming to sit near the tray. “What does he look like? Is he dashing and handsome?”

“When puking?” Rosamunde asked.

“Is he puking still?”

“No, and he’s handsome enough.” Rosamunde doubted she’d get Sukey out of the house without a glimpse so there was no point in lying.

“Balding?”

“No.”

“Squint?”

Rosamunde stared at her sister. “No!”

“Bad teeth?”

Rosamunde almost snapped out another no, but caught herself. “I don’t think so.”

“In that case,” said Sukey, licking cream from her fingers, “he’ll count as an angel in these parts.”

“I don’t recollect any of those flaws in Harold,” Rosamunde pointed out, referring to her sister’s husband.

Sukey took more tea. “But I always said I married an angel.”

“So,” interrupted their mother, sipping, “when is your angel likely to take wing?”

“Tomorrow, I hope. I want to be home.”

“Of course you do, dear.” Her mother nodded, gray curls bobbing under her plain hat.

Rosamunde felt suddenly defensive. “Digby isn’t expecting me. He won’t be worrying.”

“Of course not, dear.”

Rosamunde expected her mother to offer to send a message, and when she didn’t, she stiffened. She’d thought Mrs. Yockenthwait might have suspicions, but surely such notions would never cross her own mother’s mind! She was not one for looking at the underside of things.

“So,” said Sukey, draining her teacup and rising briskly, “let us ascend to heaven to visit the angel.”

Rosamunde had expected it, but she tried to resist. “Why?”

“You haven’t had Dr. Wallace in. If the poor man’s been vomiting and is still abed, you maybe should. Mother and I can give our opinion.”

“He’s doubtless asleep.”

“Then we’ll have a quiet look. Does he have a fever?”

Rosamunde stared at her sister resentfully. Getting Sukey out of the house without a glimpse was as likely as ascending to heaven on the spot. Still, she was struggling for a way when her mother dabbed her lips with her serviette and rose to head out of the room.

“Has he a cough, dear?” her mother asked, climbing the stairs in a no-nonsense manner. “I heard he was soaking wet when you found him.”

“That’s true.” Rosamunde hurried after, speaking as loudly as she dared in case he needed warning. “But as far as I can tell, he’s escaped consequences.”

“They could still come. Lungs are tricky.”

“Not without a fever, I don’t think,” Sukey said, and Rosamunde realized that this investigation wasn’t entirely nosiness. Sukey was three years her senior and had two children, and their mother had given birth to eight and lost two. They both knew a great deal more about nursing than she did.

“He was sick in the night, but not since,” she told them.

“Drink will do that,” said Sukey, “and getting rid of the poison does them good.”

Rosamunde wondered if there were aspects to Harold Davenport that she hadn’t guessed.

“He had a terrible headache,” she volunteered. “I gave him a powder. The headache one. It seemed to help.” She fumbled as much with the key as she dared.

“Locked, dear?” asked her mother.

“Can’t be too careful with strangers.” Rosamunde offered a brief prayer and opened the door.

The curtains were drawn, throwing the room into dimness, but the window was wide open, so they billowed a little. Birdsong trilled in, along with fresh summer air. In the room, Rosamunde’s twitching nose mainly detected potpourri and port, though she thought other wicked aromas lurked underneath.

Her secret lover was tucked firmly in the bed, eyes closed.

“Oh my,” whispered Sukey, tiptoeing close. “Not quite an angel, but plenty handsome enough for a mortal man.”

Rosamunde saw the corner of his lips twitch and prayed harder—that he be able to control himself.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said her mother prosaically, opening the curtains a crack to give more light. “The good-looking ones are usually nothing but trouble.” She came over and picked up a corner of the sheet to inspect a purple stain. On the table nearby, the bottle of port stood empty alongside a used glass.

“What possessed you to give him more drink, Rosie?”

“Hair of the dog?” Rosamunde suggested weakly.

Her mother shook her head and laid her hand on his forehead. “Cool, as you said. And his color’s good. I don’t think there’s any cause for concern as long as you keep him away from drink. We’d best go before we wake him.”

“Is he naked?” Sukey whispered as they retreated to the door.

“He hardly dumped himself by the roadside with a nightshirt in his pocket.” Rosamunde got them out of the door and shut it, knowing he had to be fighting laughter.

“I’m sure Mr. Yockenthwait has a spare.”

“Seth Yockenthwait’s six inches shorter and half as wide.”

“So, they say angels don’t have a—”

“Hush!”

“Sukey Davenport,” said Mrs. Ellington, shaking her head, but eyes twinkling, “sometimes I wonder at you.”

Sukey just laughed. “Someone stripped him out of his wet clothes and into that bed.”

Rosamunde locked the door and headed back downstairs. “Mr. Yockenthwait and Tom settled him in the bed, but Mrs. Yockenthwait and I stripped and dried him. I’m hoping the story won’t get out. People do talk.”

“Indeed they do,” said her mother. “We won’t gab of it, and Hester Yockenthwait only told me because she thought perhaps a mother should know.”

Know what? Rosamunde wondered faintly.

Her mother kissed her cheek, perhaps a little bit more firmly than usual. “Take care, dear.”

“So,” said Sukey, brushing a kiss against her cheek, “is he an angel?”

“He’s just an ordinary man,” Rosamunde said firmly as she went with them to the door. “Nothing more.”

And that, she thought as she waved them on their jingling way, proved that she was becoming an excellent liar.

Once the chair had disappeared round a bend, she blew out a breath and slumped against the wall. In all her planning, she’d never imagined having to deal with her mother in her house of sin! She wanted to rush upstairs because …

Just because.

Smiling, she acknowledged that she wanted to laugh over it with him. An angel, indeed. But first, he deserved a good meal.

She was checking with Jessie as to what could be provided in a hurry, when the kitchen door was opened. She turned with a start, thinking her mother and sister had returned, but it was Diana, Countess of Arradale, who swept in. Dressed in a magnificent burgundy riding habit braided in gold, she slapped embroidered riding gloves against her palm with a jeweled hand.

“Good day, Jessie,” she said to the suddenly flustered maid, but then she turned a stern eye on Rosamunde. “I want to speak to you.”