Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) (3 page)

“As you know, Lord Devenham was wounded at Waterloo. I have no wish to offend you. Will you permit me to speak frankly? He has a deep saber cut in his upper right thigh, really just a few inches below his hip. He was very lucky that such a vicious cut did not break the bone. In fact, he was doubly lucky. He was wounded in the left shoulder covering the retreat from Quatre Bras the day before. He patched himself up and went on as if nothing had happened. I don't know why the damned fool didn't bleed to death after the second wound,” he added softly, shaking his head as if talking only to himself. Recovering suddenly, he said, “I beg your pardon, Lady Brodfield!”

“Pray go on.”

“He was fortunate enough to find a bed in Brussels, where he and Mullins have been these many weeks since the battle. He survived the fever from the infection, and his wounds seemed to be healing well, as I understand it. He believed himself strong enough to make the trip home. Unfortunately, the rigors of the journey have set him back. His shoulder is doing well, but the leg wound opened again, and he is back to the state he was in at Brussels, having only come this far on his journey.

“I have dosed him rather heavily with laudanum so he would not suffer too greatly the discomforts of this move. His dressings need frequent changing, and he needs constant attention to combat the fever. I will leave you some basilicum for his wound and some laudanum for the pain. You know that it is essential not to exceed the number of drops that I prescribe?”

Phoebe nodded.

“I regret to say that he is not a very cooperative patient.”

Phoebe smiled a genuine smile at that. “Do you not find that to be the case with most of your male patients, Doctor Fortens?”

The good doctor had the grace to return her smile. “Perhaps I should not say so, but I find the earl to be particularly stubborn. It seems only fair to warn you. The laudanum will be a helpful ally, as long as you are careful with it. It is essential that Lord Devenham be kept quiet and inactive. The blood loss and the ravages of the fevers have left him weaker than a newborn.”

The doctor paused and began to arrange on the table beside him a small collection of bottles. “I have no wish to frighten you, but you must know the seriousness of what you are undertaking. He is not altogether out of danger yet. I have told him this myself, but he does not seem to care.”

The doctor suddenly sounded tired and discouraged, and Phoebe felt sorry for him. At the same time, she heard in his words the sound of a challenge. If Devenham didn't care to get well, why had he bothered to put Edward and Judith to such trouble as to have him here?

She glanced at Mullins and for a moment their eyes locked. In his she thought she could read both hope and determination. Obviously, he cared, even if the earl did not. That in itself was interesting, something to be tucked away for later consideration. Meanwhile, she could be determined, too. No patient in her care would be allowed to languish if she could help it. She tried to convey that message to the manservant in her steady gaze and was pleased to see him smile. She did not have to like the earl to want to make him well.

***

The forces at work in the earl's body were every bit as much at war as the grim armies conjured up by his brain. The restless, tortured dreams from his fever mixed with otherworldly opium visions both fantastical and soothing in an ebb and flow that mimicked perfectly the varying tides of battle. He somehow knew that the dreamworld was of his own making; nevertheless, he could not escape from it.

He had been surrounded by flames—no matter which way he turned, he had faced walls of fire. Choking on smoke and nearly drowning in the sweat that poured off his body, he knew there was someone beyond the walls of flame—someone who needed him. Somehow he had to get through. Then, as he moved through the fire, the leaping flames had become horses pounding toward him and past him with wild, rolling eyes. French cuirassiers' blades flashed in the strange light.

He saw his friend Brownell riding through the smoke ahead of him, going the wrong way, he thought, but he couldn't go after him, for his own horse had been shot out from under him. So he shouted, lost in the dark chaos—shouted for Brownell, shouted for a horse, shouted for an end to the nightmare. And then before him he saw his friend Fitzmorris, pinned to the ground by a French bayonet, reaching his arms out for help.

Blood and sweat mingled as he cradled his dying friend. The dream seemed too real, for he could even smell the putrid odor of the smoke and sweat. Yet suddenly the grotesque dancing shadows around them were chased away by a flood of light, and a sense of soothing comfort came over him. He smelled rosemary, only it wasn't rosemary, for it was mixed with something else, a light, airy, delicate scent he couldn't identify.

He surrendered to it gratefully, exhausted, and for a moment he floated. He floated through clouds and looked down upon vast cities that appeared to be made of gold. Through their streets marched processions of great personages he thought he might know. His sense of relief was so great, he wondered if he had died. He saw eyes watching him—cool, gray eyes filled with sadness and anxiety. But then the clouds seemed to darken and roll in upon him.

When he adjusted his eyes to the thick, heavy darkness, he was in his father's stables, and now it was not Fitzmorris cradled in his arms, but a dog—the too-still form of a young spaniel who had failed to take his brother Jeremy's instruction. Jeremy was there, standing over them, the smoking pistol still in his hand. The weird, green smoke curled upward with a peculiar, twisting motion and seemed to illuminate the scornful expression on Jeremy's face.

“Do you want me to tell Father that you cried over a dog?”

Each word cut like a French saber.

“Do you want me to tell Father that you cried?”

The same words came out each time the apparition of his dead brother opened its mouth. “Do you want me to tell Father?”

Yet Devenham could not stop his tears—they flowed down and seemed to cover him all over. They were as cold as ice—as cold as the chill in his heart.

“Cried over a dog . . .” echoed his brother's voice, but the stable had faded, and now he saw eyes again instead—not just eyes, but a sea of faces. He saw his parents, looking at him with intense disapproval, and a dozen laughing young women with eyes as empty as the poor dead pup's. He saw Fitzmorris's face, and a dozen French soldiers, all dead, all empty eyed. He began to shake and to feel the anger inside that warned him he was still alive, in hell. He knew for certain it was hell when the darkness closed in on him again and he heard the sound of hundreds and thousands of wings, flapping all around him. Cold terror gripped his heart so hard it seemed to stop altogether, and for a moment he could not even breathe.

***

Phoebe had been awakened by her abigail gently shaking her shoulder.

“I'm sorry, my lady. Mrs. Hunnicutt says I'm to wake you. Goldie says it's the earl—seems he's worsening again, and his man is asking for you to help him.”

Phoebe pulled on the dressing gown the young woman handed her and pulled the sash tight in a decisive gesture. She lit her bedside lamp from the abigail's candle and carried it out into the hall, her mind already racing ahead.

“Ask Mrs. H to heat some of the milfoil tea I made for Lord Devenham, and have Goldie bring a large basin of cold water. I will need more linens and cloths, too, Mary Anne.”

She felt sorry that the servants would lose sleep, but she silently blessed the rigid hierarchy that required the footman to wake the housekeeper to wake the abigail to wake her mistress. She would need all of their help. She tapped softly at the door of Devenham's room and let herself in.

Mullins had been seated as close as possible to the earl's bed, obviously intent upon his master, until Phoebe entered. As she did, he jumped to his feet and came toward her with alacrity, showing a face haggard from exhaustion and worry.

“Please f'give me for disturbin' your rest, milady.” Mullins was small and dark, and looked to Phoebe about as un-English as a man could appear. It surprised her each time she heard him that he did not speak in the accents of an Italian or a Spaniard. He spoke instead with a broad, flat country accent.

She waved his apologies aside. “You did the right thing,” she assured him, feeling her breath catch in her throat as she approached the bed.

The major lay sprawled in the tent bed, to all appearances quite lifeless. The bedsheet was pushed down to his waist, and not a scrap of clothing covered the lean, muscular display of his upper body. Her gaze took in the curling hair that covered his chest and arms, and the angry red scar that marked the injury to his left shoulder. Every inch of his exposed skin was glazed with sweat.

Phoebe swallowed hard, trying to hide her shock. It was not so much the sight of his body that caused her to tremble. She had been married, after all. It was a sudden, tingling memory of touch—the excruciating memory of intimacies shared with Stephen, the only other man she had ever seen so exposed.

She tried to cover her reaction by adopting a detached, efficient attitude. “The next few hours will be critical,” she said, although she guessed Mullins already knew that. She hesitated as she bent to put a hand on the earl's forehead. She scarcely needed to touch Devenham to register how hot he was—the heat radiated from him in waves. In the face of such a fever, concern for propriety was quite rightly brushed aside.

“Have you been applying damp cloths to his skin?” she asked needlessly. On the floor beside Mullins's chair sat a basin full of damp wads of cloth. “I have sent for some fresh ones and a new basin of water.” She reached for a wad and, smoothing it out, spread it gently across Devenham's chest. “Let us apply another one to his poor head,” she told Mullins. “Although they are warm now, they are still cooler than he is.”

But even as Mullins handed her the second cloth, the earl began to stir and moan softly.

“'E's still havin' these spells o' restlessness,” Mullins said, “It's the delirium. 'E had it bad before, in Brussels.”

Phoebe nodded, attempting to place the cloth as Devenham rolled his head on the pillow. “We
must
keep him cool. We may even need ice. When is he due for his next dose of laudanum? We could increase the dose by a few drops, to help calm him.”

“Not for another 'alf an hour,” Mullins answered, his doubts written clearly on his face.

Devenham was becoming increasingly restless. Even as his servant and Phoebe watched, he suddenly began to shout, flailing his arms as if warding off unseen assailants.

“This won't do,” said Phoebe, helplessly retrieving the damp cloths. “Sh-h. It's all right.” She hoped somehow her soothing tones might penetrate to her patient's fever-wracked brain. She glanced anxiously at the bottles of medicine on the bedside table. “If he moves too much, he'll disturb the dressings, or even reopen his wound.”

“Aye.” Mullins was wrestling with the earl, trying to get him to lie still again. His task was not easy, for Devenham was considerably larger.

“We will give it to him now,” Phoebe said decisively, moving to the table and picking up the bottle of laudanum. As she did, there was a tap at the door, and the footman they called Goldie entered with a basin of water, followed by Mary Anne with an armful of towels, her eyes as big as saucers.

“Thank you, Mary Anne. Would you see if Mrs. H would bring up the tea?” Phoebe wanted to get the young maid out of the room as quickly as possible. She had no doubt that a full description of the earl's appearance would soon be circulating among the younger women servants, between embarrassed giggles. “Goldie, would you stay? We may need another pair of hands.”

She measured out the dose of laudanum and mixed it with water from the decanter on the table. “Now, gentlemen. If one of you would hold down his arms and the other hold up his head, let us see if I can coax Lord Devenham into drinking this. I'm afraid we have another long night ahead of us.”

Chapter Three

Devenham had dreamed he was lying in a wind-ruffled field, watching clouds borrow worldly shapes as they paraded across the sky. The air teased him with the delicate, unidentified scent tinged with rosemary that was by now familiar to him, and nearby he had heard the sound of children's laughter, full of joy and innocence. He awoke to the featherlight touch of a hand upon his forehead.

With consciousness came the headache and lingering fatigue that plagued his waking moments. Despite the discomfort, he knew at once that the scent and the touch were real. He knew they were a woman's. He opened his eyes.

The hand withdrew instantly. All he saw above him were the generous muslin draperies of the tent bed in which he lay, surrounded by softly filtered morning light. He shifted his head on the pillow so he could see who was there.

The young woman had retreated several paces from the bed with an audible intake of breath. Was she afraid of him? As his vision slowly focused, he saw she was dressed in a sleeveless, dark gray morning dress with a deep square neckline; her arms and throat were covered by the gathered white fabric of her chemisette. A simple lace cap concealed only part of her dark hair. Her face was oval and small featured except for a large, fine pair of eyes. He could not make out their color, but he thought he knew what they would be.

“I won't bite,” he managed to mumble, “despite what you may have been told.”

She did not move any closer, but merely shifted the cloth she had been holding in one hand to the other. He felt gratified to see that at least she smiled. “You have been in no condition to, my lord, up until now,” she said in a soft, pleasant voice. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

He grimaced. “‘Thank you' would be the proper response, I am sure, but I suspect the dream world I have just been in was more pleasant, present company excepted.”

She did not seem to notice the compliment. A look of concern immediately crossed her face. “Are you in pain?” She glanced quickly at the watch pinned to the bodice of her dress. “'Tis nearly time for your medicine. Perhaps I could—”

“
No.
” The response came out more sharply than he intended. “If it is laudanum, I do not want it,” he added. He was in pain, but he would not admit it. Just being awake was precious to him, and being able to think was even more so. For now, he was willing to pay the price. In a gentler tone he commanded, “Come closer, where I can see you.”

She took one cautious step toward the bed. She was really quite lovely.

“It is only reasonable that we should study each other,” he said, pausing to gauge the effect of his words. “But you have had the advantage over me.”

She took another step closer, which brought her within an arm's length from the bed. Her eyes were gray—the lovely, luminous gray that he had expected from his haunted dreams. Finely shaped eyebrows as dark as her hair arched gracefully above them.

“I gather that we have been
companions
for some time,” he added with a mischievous inflection.

A tint of pink washed across her cheeks and her eyebrows drew down into a stern frown.

“I have been helping your man, Mullins, nurse you for the past three days, my lord, while you have been senseless with fever. That is all.”

“Of course.” He treated her to his infamous lopsided grin. Ladies usually found that devastating. “That is precisely what I was referring to. Coming from a man in my condition, what else could I possibly have meant?”

She blushed, and that response sent a little thrill of victory through his feeble body. Dealing with this woman was going to be quite pleasurable—a welcome distraction since, apparently, he was going to live.

“Madam, you are a delight. I must confess that although I am certain we have been properly introduced, I must not have been sentient at the time. Could you find the kindness in your obviously warm heart to tell me who you are? Perhaps you would also enlighten me as to where the devil I am, if you'll pardon my expression?”

***

The expression on Devenham's face conveyed an innocence that did not match his tone, Phoebe noted. His voice was deep, rich, and expressive, easily conveying first his suggestive playfulness and then, by subtly shifting tones, a certain cynicism followed by the slightest hint of impatience.

Oh, he was skilled at this game. In such a brief exchange of words, he had already managed to compliment her, embarrass her, and plant suggestive thoughts in her mind that she was not altogether sure she had needed his help to produce. How could he look so innocent?

She decided that his impatience was the most honest of the feelings she had detected, however, and she felt some sympathy for him. Guilt followed quickly. Here she was bristling at a man who could have easily slipped through death's door in the last few days. How could she be so unfeeling?

She smiled and dipped a curtsy. “I am Lady Brodfield, Lord Devenham. You are in the home of Sir Edward Allington and his wife.”

The earl's lopsided grin appeared again for a moment, this time even broader than before. “Ah, Edward. I knew I could rely on him. Old friendships are more precious than diamonds, Lady Brodfield. Too many in the world fail to learn that.”

He paused, as if searching his reserves for more energy. “New friendships, of course, are golden. Shall we be friends? I am honored to make your acquaintance, albeit under these rather regrettable circumstances. I must thank you for the time you have already given to my care. Will you forgive a sick man's curiosity if I ask if you are related to Sir Edward?”

She nodded, clasping in both hands the damp cloth she had used earlier to wipe the perspiration from his face. “Sir Edward's wife is my sister,” she said simply. She preferred not to volunteer any further information.

Lord Devenham rolled his head back on the pillow to his original position and closed his eyes.

“Our conversation is tiring you,” Phoebe said in alarm. “It is time anyway for your medication. You must rest.” She thought it just as well, for she was uncomfortable with the personal direction of their conversation.

The earl opened his eyes again. “My dear woman,” he said, “by your account I have just spent something like seventy-two hours sleeping. I do not wish to rest any more right now. What I do desire is to sit up.”

Phoebe hesitated. The doctor had emphasized the importance of rest. Furthermore, she doubted that the earl could sit up by himself. “I do not think that is a good idea, my lord.”

“What kind of nurse refuses to assist her patient?” He raised himself up onto his elbows and glared balefully at her from under a dramatically lowered brow. She almost laughed.

“I see I shall be forced to exhaust myself doing this without your help.” He raised himself higher and began to pull his body up beneath the sheets.

Phoebe could see the effort it cost him. His arms shook, and perspiration trickled down his temple. “If you would just wait, I can get Edward or a footman.”

“That is not necessary. Would you at least be kind enough to reposition my pillows?”

With a sigh of defeat, Phoebe closed the distance to the bed, depositing the cloth on the table that stood beside it. She reached rather stiffly for the earl's pillows and placed them up against the headboard. “All right, my lord. I will try to help you, but I have not the strength that is really required.” She hesitated, her hands suspended, for she truly did not know quite how to begin.

“Do not try to pretend that you have been my nurse for three days without touching me,” said the earl.

Phoebe was embarrassed to feel the betraying tingle of a blush creep up her cheeks for a second time, which of course only intensified her reaction. When the fever had been at its worst, she and Mullins had needed to bathe Devenham's entire upper body, clothed now so properly in a shirt. She knew all too well that the golden hair just visible in the earl's unfastened neck placket covered most of his well-muscled chest with downy softness. But touching him now, while he was awake, seemed quite different than touching him when he had not known she was there.

Lord Devenham grinned at her. “Don't pretend either that you are missish, for then you would never have been given the job of nursing me. I promise you it will require only a moment.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“All right, then, just put your arms around me.” He seemed to take great delight in her discomfort. “Put one arm behind my back and the other around my chest. When I say the word, try to help me slide up. I will push with my good leg.”

Phoebe did as he said, her face burning. Her breasts were pressed against his upper arm. The flame of her embarrassment seemed to race through the rest of her body. Thank God they would be done quickly.

She waited for his signal, but he said nothing. His eyes were closed. His face showed only a hint of a smile. Was he summoning his strength or savoring their highly improper contact? Under any other circumstances she might have slapped him, but as she debated, he opened his eyes again. “Now,” he said.

She pulled, and he pushed, and between them they managed to get him into a position that was close to sitting upright. She withdrew hastily.

“Your shirt is soaked,” she observed, straightening the dampened sleeves of her chemisette.

“Yes, it is. I should like very much to change into a fresh one.”

That was too much. “Well, I am afraid you will have to wait. Mullins sat up with you all night, and he is sleeping now. I will not wake him before it is time.”

“I see.” The earl seemed to ponder this, and then he said, “I suppose it will do me no harm to take a chill while I sit here in wet clothing, waiting, while he sleeps.”

“It is a warm day.”

“Nevertheless, I feel chilled.”

“Then perhaps you should lie down again.” Really, the man was insufferable! “I am not your valet.”

“No, but you are my nurse. Is not my welfare supposed to be your interest?”

“Not at the sacrifice of all modesty and propriety.”

“I would be happy to debate that.” Phoebe heard his reply, even though Devenham uttered the words softly under his breath. When she stiffened, he looked at her and smiled wickedly. “It seems to me the nursing relationship is a very intimate one. Would you not agree, Lady Brodfield?”

“My lord, you go too far. I will summon a footman to assist you with your shirt and sit with you until Mr. Mullins is awake.” She knew it was all a game to the earl, but truly there were polite limits, and he had most definitely exceeded them.

“Please stay.” The contrite sound of his voice made her hesitate at the door. “I apologize.” As she stood still, debating his sincerity, he went on. “I am sorry I was disrespectful. You have been nothing but kind and generous to me, and I am grateful. If you knew the high regard I have for Sir Edward, you would know this is true. You are his sister-in-law. I just have bad habits that are hard to break, especially in the presence of a beautiful woman. Apparently even illness such as I have been suffering is not enough to break them. Please say you forgive me?”

Phoebe turned and took a few wary steps back toward the bed. “Can we leave off playing this game?” Would she have to weigh the sincerity of everything he said?

“Perhaps you would be willing to read to me? That should be innocent enough.”

“All right.” Phoebe sighed with relief. A number of books were stacked on the bedside table next to the earl's bottles of medicine. Edward had selected them from the bookroom himself and brought them in only the previous evening. As she looked for a suitable choice, the earl said, “How long until Mullins returns to his duty?”

Phoebe glanced at him and realized from his hunched position and the way the sheets were drawn up around him that he really must feel cold. Perhaps she had been unfair, attributing motives to him that were not really there. Now she was the one feeling contrite. “I suppose your bed linens and everything are soaked, besides your shirt. But it is more than I can do to change them without help. Perhaps I can find a blanket to put around your shoulders.”

“A dry shirt would suffice until Mullins gets up,” Devenham said quietly. “But I will confess I fear a footman's rough hand in assisting me with the task. My shoulder is still quite stiff from being injured. I have aggravated it a little by sitting up.”

Phoebe's first reaction was annoyance, like a parent confronted by a child who will not give up what he wants. Then she wondered again about her fairness. She had rather forgotten about his shoulder. She sighed, resigned to a second defeat. “Very well. But I hope to heaven no one comes in while we are doing this!”

Devenham chuckled, and she found the sound annoyingly pleasant. “It will look no worse than if they had come in before.”

She found a clean shirt in the earl's trunks. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, she proceeded to help him remove his wet one.

“You can close your eyes if you truly object to seeing me,” he said as he eased his right arm out of its sleeve.

“That wouldn't be very helpful, would it?” she replied matter-of-factly. She had to lean closer to work off his other sleeve, for he could not raise his left arm high enough. When finally she was able to lift the shirt off over his head, she swallowed nervously at the fine display of his chest and broad shoulders. She fought the urge to touch the angry red scar below his left collarbone.

Surely she must be the most wanton-hearted woman who had ever borne her family name. This man had merely to show himself, and she was already conquered, without his uttering a word. But she would die before she would ever let him find it out. Quickly she snatched up the fresh shirt from the bedclothes where it lay and pulled it over his head, reversing the process they had just completed. She was careful to slow down and proceed gently as she worked again with his arm and injured shoulder.