Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05] (20 page)

A
fter the incident in the park, Abigail tried to distract the boys, reading stories, playing games, and doing puzzles. It was difficult keeping them inside the house on such a lovely day, but Abigail wanted them near and in a place where she could feel safe.

She knew not to believe anything at face value, but
someone was trying to kill Lord Steele?
Fear gripped her heart every time she even considered the possibility, and her anxiety wasn’t calmed by all the comings and goings in the house. Lord Steele was closeted inside his study, and he seemed to be sending footmen to and fro on a host of errands. But she pushed aside her anxiety, instead focusing on the boys.

Finally it was time to help the boys prepare for bed. They complained about it, but she could tell they were as ready as she for the day to near its end. The sun had faded to dusk; the creatures of the night had begun their nighttime chant.

Standing over the boys as they lay in their beds and relaxed into sleep, Abigail envied the easy way their eyes fluttered closed and they released the day
into their dreams. She, on the other hand, could not stop thinking about the attack on Lord Steele and all its implications.

Gathering her courage, she decided that she could not rest until she knew more about the events of the day and how Lord Steele was faring.

Her feet invariably took her to his study door, where he was closeted within. But once there, she stood still, her hand poised to knock…yet she hesitated.

She didn’t want to presume an intimacy in their relationship that allowed her to check up on him. Would her concern be unwelcome?

Meanwhile, inside that very study, Steele stared at the other side of that same closed door, praying that someone would enter and give him a respite from his distress.

His shoulder ached like the dickens. But he was more concerned about the terrible emotions roiling inside his middle than any physical pain.

When he roamed the streets of London at night engaging the lower orders of man, Steele never tasted fear. He never hesitated out of concern for suffering bodily harm. He had an utter confidence of mind, body, and spirit. Ultimately, when it came to protecting himself, he had nothing to lose.

Seth and Felix were a different story completely.

They were mere boys, filled with laughter and mischievousness and innocence…They had so much to live for, so much potential. Steele could almost see the men they were to become, and he longed to help them be the best men they could be.

He understood that from this day forth he could no longer hand the boys back to Benbrook with a handshake and a smile. At a very elemental level, he was responsible for them.

Flat and simple: He cared.

Today’s attack had sent a shock rippling through his body, reminding him of the impotent terror he’d suffered when he’d lost his wife. He realized that the real reason he’d never gotten close to another woman since Deidre’s death was that he couldn’t face that terrible loss again. When she’d died, it felt as if his heart had been slashed to ribbons. The pain had been so acute that he’d stayed away from anyone who might make him subject to that agony again.

Yet somehow the boys had managed to change that. When it came to them, it wasn’t just about his heart or his hurt…He adored them, yet caring for them was wrapped in a cloak of
responsibility
.

Whoever was entrusted with Seth and Felix had to be reliable, smart, and think only of the boys’ best interests. That position of influence was sacrosanct. Steele knew that he would never breach that sacred trust, yet he knew enough of his fellow man not to trust just any other to such a critical task.

For the first time, he was humbled that his father-in-law had selected him to protect Seth and Felix. The enormity of Benbrook’s faith in him struck him like an arrow, piercing his overblown pride and shattering it into a thousand pieces.

He was ashamed of how quickly he’d relegated the boys to the care of another. He was mortified that he’d considered the investigation as a mental
challenge without fully considering the flesh-and-blood children who were at its heart.

Steele’s blood ran cold just thinking about what might have happened today.

The rock had struck just below Steele’s shoulder. A few inches lower and it might’ve hit Felix’s head.

Rising, Steele walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a hearty portion of brandy. He swallowed it so fast, his throat burned in protest and his eyes blinked with unshed tears. The flames licked all the way down to his hollow belly.

A knock resounded on the door.

“Come,” Steele called, squaring his shoulders and wincing with the pain in his back.

Miss West entered, her mien tentative, her golden brow pinched with concern. She dipped quickly into a curtsy, her gaze searching his face as if seeking answers.

Her worry warmed his heart; he couldn’t recall the last time a woman had looked at him with real concern in her gaze.

“How are you faring, my lord?” Her tone was slightly breathless, as if fearful of what he might say. Was he so standoffish that she feared rebuff?

He raised the glass. “Just fine now. Thank you for asking.”

Biting her lower lip, she seemed unconvinced.

He attempted a smile. “Truly. Matters are well in hand.”

Her keen gaze scanned his coat and her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t changed clothing since we returned to the house.”

“So?”

“Have you had anyone look at your injury?”

Turning away, he poured himself another glass of brandy and swallowed a hearty gulp. He coughed, wincing. “I’m fine.”

“Really.”

He turned to face her only when he was sure that the pain didn’t show in his features. “Yes.”

She crossed her arms and a defiant gleam lit her grayish-blue eyes. “Then why do you look like you just swallowed a cat?”

He waved a hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ve been hurt worse before.”

Her golden brow lifted.

“Ahh…golf!” he fudged. “It causes the peskiest injuries.”

She scowled, her eyes narrowing even further.

“I’ve seen that look before,” he quipped. “On Mrs. Nagel, the housemother at Andersen Hall Orphanage.”

“If she were here, she’d have you stripped and bandaged.”

Hmm. He sipped his brandy, savoring the smooth smoky flavor. Naked with Miss West wasn’t such a bad idea.

He shook his head, reminding himself that she was in his employ and he would never breach her trust in him. “Ah…pardon, what did you say?”

“I said, please let me call for a doctor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, his instinctive loathing of doctors making his tone sharp. He had little faith that anyone had better knowledge of his body than he. “I don’t need a doctor. It’s a silly little bump.”

He walked over to his chair and sat. The chair squeaked in familiar protest. He leaned back, and sudden pulses of pain radiated from his shoulder in agonizing sharpness. A sweat broke out on his brow and he clenched his teeth, knowing that it would soon pass.

Miss West was staring at him, her tongue stuck out the corner of her lips as if she was concentrating really hard. “Stupid, headstrong…
man
,” she muttered.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. I said that you’re a stupid, headstrong man.” She moved to the bellpull. “I’m calling for a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor!” he bit out, leaning his palms against the desk to ride out the nausea threatening his composure.

“Well, someone has to look at that injury! At least call for your manservant!”

He clenched his teeth. “Lambert is on an errand.”

“Someone has to have a look at it!”

She wasn’t wrong. And how the blazes was he going to get his coat off? The idea of asking for help made his pride burn. He hated showing weakness; he hated needing others. Yet for some reason, he didn’t mind Miss West’s presence. In fact, it was quite nice to have someone to grumble to.

Scowling, he asked, “You won’t let this pass, will you?”

With her lips set in an insolent glower, she shook her head. “No.”

“And I won’t call anyone to help. So we’re at an impasse.”

A staring match ensued. Those blue-gray eyes were filled with defiant purpose, and he had to admire the way she refused to back down. Secretly he prayed she’d win.

“This is ridiculous,” she murmured, her eyes locked with his.

“Then leave.” Although he sincerely hoped she wouldn’t.

“You must have someone look at that injury. Not to do so would be a negligence I couldn’t abide.”

“Then you come up with an alternative.”

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“You?” he scoffed, aggravated by a sudden pulse of pain but directing his anger at the pretty little target trying to order him about. “What do you know of such things?”

“I’m a governess, you idiot. I’ve tended lots of broken bones and scrapes.”

“Did you just call me an idiot?”

“Did that rock affect your hearing, too?”

Shockingly, he wasn’t remotely offended, but he was quite enjoying sparring with her. “Do you usually call your employer an idiot?”

“Only when he’s acting like one.”

His lips lifted in a smile, and a rebellious gleam lit her eyes. He was actually quite touched that she’d bully him so. Fancy that, he was enjoying being bullied! And by a woman!

He sniffed. “Fine. So long as you don’t call for the doctor.”

She nodded, but there was no triumph in her gaze, only steely determination. “I’ll go get my salves. I’ll be back in a trice.”

Spinning on her heel, she danced from the room, her bearing filled with urgent purpose.

He leaned back in his seat, groaning with the sudden pain that pierced his shoulder.

Bloody
,
bloody
,
bloody hell!

If she bothered to be so wretchedly bossy, she could at least stay and hold his hand or something. Wasn’t that what governesses were supposed to do? Why did she have to leave? Couldn’t she just look at it while she was here? Didn’t she understand that he
hurt
?

He gritted his teeth, wondering why he suddenly had no taste for suffering alone in stoic silence.

He exhaled through the pain, staring at the open door and willing Miss West’s speedy return.

Abigail felt as if her feet had wings as she raced up the stairs to her rooms. Quickly she threw open her trunk and yanked out the drawer in which she kept her remedies. Well, not actually
her
remedies, but those taught to her by Dr. Michael Winner, the beloved doctor of the children at Andersen Hall Orphanage.

In the past when she’d gone to this drawer, she’d had a quiet efficiency born of being in service.

But this time, a charge lit her movements. A thrill raced inside her chest, and she marveled at the excitement she felt in aiding Lord Steele.

“I can’t believe I called him an idiot!” she breathed to herself. But she’d had such utter conviction that he
was
being an idiot. And he had to be told in no uncertain terms that it would not do.

The man needed someone who would speak to
him plainly, for clearly no one in this household was going to be straight with him any time soon. They were all too afraid of him. Well, not afraid, but…intimidated. And he could be quite daunting with his razor-sharp intelligence, coolly elegant manners, and no-nonsense mien. But Abigail wasn’t intimidated in the least.

She’d never felt so absolutely, confidently sure of herself when speaking to someone as she’d just felt with Lord Steele. It was quite shocking, actually. She almost felt as if she were another person, one similar to the black widow she pretended to be, one akin to the strict governess she often had to be…yet wholly different. It was almost as if she became…a new version of herself. A better, surer, smarter version of Abigail West.

“I’m thinking nonsense,” she muttered as she dropped her salve and bandages into the dry bowl on her washstand and lifted the bowl in one hand and the half-full pitcher in the other.

Abigail shook her head. “The man needs looking after, pure and simple.” For he hadn’t enough good sense in his head when it came to his own precious health.

With her heart racing and her hands shaking with urgency, she clutched her supplies to her chest and raced out of the room and down the stairs.

Nearing the study door, she suddenly feared that perhaps he’d left out of anger.

Or had asked another for help.

The idea made her stomach lurch.

She knew that she was being selfish, but
she
wanted to be the one to help Lord Steele. It wasn’t enough
that he simply recovered; she wanted to help be part of that cure.

Bracing herself, she swept into the room and almost smiled with relief to see that he was still sitting in his chair behind his desk.

His handsome face was washed in a gray pallor and his eyes were glazed with pain, pinching at her heart. But she forced her features to relax; impervious and professional were the only ways to handle Lord Steele’s awkward situation.

Placing the ointment, bandages, and pitcher on the desk, she moved to stand behind him.

“The door,” he bit out.

“Yes, of course.” Quickly she closed the entry.

“And get me another brandy!”

Her tone was acerbic. “Yes, my lord.”

He had the decency to look abashed. “Sorry. But it hurts.”

She immediately regretted her rebuke. But there was no point in making an issue of it now. The man needed her help.

Swallowing her last wisps of apprehension, Abigail stepped behind the viscount and reached for his coat.

A
bigail had never removed a gentleman’s coat before and hardly had a notion how snugly the blasted thing fit. Trying to slide one arm out of the sleeve was proving to be quite a challenge. So she yanked on the coat’s shoulder. All she got for her efforts was a groan from Steele.

She winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Stepping back, she scratched her chin. “There must be an easier way to do this.” Eyeing the garment like a puzzle to be sorted, she narrowed her eyes.

“There is. Step back.”

She did as he suggested and waited.

He stood. Then with some hesitancy born from obvious discomfort, he reached his arms backward and downward, as if his hands were stretching toward her.

Quickly she saw her opening, reached around to his chest as if hugging him from behind, and grasped the lapels of his coat. The garment slipped off with much greater ease.

He exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging.

“That was quite a neat trick,” she marveled, laying the coat on the table near the sideboard.

“I’ve done it a few times before,” he quipped.

“You must be feeling better if you’re jesting.”

He exhaled. “I confess, I’m damned glad to be out of that coat. I hadn’t realized how much it was bothering me.”

“Do you still want that brandy?”

“Yes, please.”

Quietly she poured him another glassful and waited while he drank. The color had returned to his cheeks, and she couldn’t help but notice that a shadow of fuzz grazed his chiseled jaw. He was so handsome, she had trouble pulling her eyes from him, but she forced her attraction down, knowing that not only was it improper, but that her attentions were not welcome. “You look better.”

He made a face as if pretending to be foxed. “You do, too.”

She took a deep breath, not quite knowing how to respond. “Now the shirt.”

Nodding, he looked around. “On the sofa.”

They walked to the brown leather chaise, where he sat, and she stood in front of him. The heat of his body billowed over her like a warm summer wind and she was suddenly achingly aware of how improper this whole situation was becoming. Her cheeks burned, but she pushed aside all notions of impropriety; the man had almost been murdered today and he needed her help.

Thinking about the thorny issue of the attempt on Lord Steele’s life diverted Abigail from focusing on the breadth of Steele’s brawny shoulders. Or how
the muscles of his chest pressed through his marcella waistcoat. Or how snugly his tan breeches encased his strapping thighs.

He smelled of
male.
Oddly, the masked gentleman came to mind.

Abigail told herself to stop being silly: Many men must have similar scents. Moreover, Lord Steele and the masked gentleman were the only two men she’d been close enough to recently to detect an odor, so the association had to be natural. Her wicked behavior flashed through her mind, making her skin feel singed by the memory.

“Are you all right?” Steele asked. “You suddenly look flushed. I can probably examine it myself if you get me a mirror.”

Shaking her head, Abigail pushed away all thought of the masked rescuer. “No, no, of course not. I was thinking of something else. And a mirror will not help you, since the injury is on your back. Besides, I want to help you.”

“Are you sure? This really is beyond the call of duty.”

Blinking, she met his gaze. His coal black eyes were filled with respect, as if whatever answer she gave was well and good with him.

For all his authoritarian airs, Lord Steele was the most sincerely considerate employer she’d ever had.

“You really are quite nice,” she murmured.

“Pray don’t tell anyone, or my reputation will be ruined.”

They shared a smile, and her heart warmed. When he smiled, his eyes wrinkled at the corners and his
whole face softened. He was more breathtakingly handsome than Abigail had ever seen him.

She forced herself to look away, afraid he might notice her attraction. “I really do want to take a look at your injury and make sure that you’re all right. I couldn’t sleep knowing that you required help but didn’t get it.”

He nodded. “I can’t very well be responsible for an exhausted—”

“And ill-tempered,” she interjected.

“—and ill-tempered governess. The lads wouldn’t be too pleased with me.”

“You must be jesting! After today you couldn’t displease them if you tried! You took them to Gunter’s, for heaven’s sake!”

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“It was glorious.” She sighed, suddenly sad as she thought of the fun that had been shattered and the fright that had followed. “All good things come to an end,” she muttered.

“You’re right there.”

She looked up, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud. Unsettled that she and Lord Steele could be feeling so many of the same sentiments, she moved to stand before him, businesslike once more. “Let us see the damage, now, shall we?”

As she reached for the knot of his cravat, her heart began to hammer and her cheeks to burn. But she forced herself to breathe calmly, not wanting the man to know how deeply he affected her.

He raised a hand. “Let me do it. A mirror would help, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll be faster this way.”
Slowly she wrestled with the knot of his cravat. After a few moments, she was exasperated enough to mutter, “It’s like a noose.”

“For some, the fancier the knot, the more fashionable the wearer.” He lifted his hands. “Please allow me.”

“No.” She gritted her teeth. “I refuse to be bested by a silly piece of cloth. I’ll get it.”

Steele’s coal black eyes were fixed on her face as he lowered his hands. “Very well then.”

She could not meet his gaze, instead focusing all her attention on his garments. She prayed that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

After some struggle, she managed to loosen the knot and slip off the long winding material.

He exhaled, sending warm, brandy-scented breath wafting over her. “Thank you.”

She nodded, satisfied. “You’re welcome.”

A gap under his collar exposed a patch of clean, smooth skin at his neck. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for the button at his throat. She fumbled with it, then unfastened the clasp.

A line of red rimmed his throat where his shirt collar had been. She frowned. “That was terribly tight.”

“You get used to it. I’m sure many of the garments you wear are less than comfortable.”

Her eyes flew to his, and a flash of heat seared her belly and warmed her to her core.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, ripping away his gaze and undoing his waistcoat and shirt. “That was inappropriate of me. This is awkward as anything and I’m not helping.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s a strange situation, but I’ve cared for others before.” Granted they usually weren’t taller than her shoulders, and none of them had ever inspired the glorious heat that sizzled in her belly and had her longing for this man to be masked and naked…

Masked and naked!

Stop it
,
you ninny!
she screamed in her head, mortified and furious with herself.

She exhaled shakily, stepping behind him to make sure he couldn’t see her face. “Ah…” she breathed. “Let us have a look.”

Feeling in control of her idiotic musings once more, she told herself,
An injury is an injury. Imagine you’re a doctor
,
like Dr. Michael Winner
. Just thinking of the man who’d helped at Andersen Hall for so many years brought a certain level of calm.

Abigail reached over his broad shoulders for his shirt and pulled it off. The pale golden glory of his muscled shoulders and back were marred by an angry red gash just below his shoulder blade. She couldn’t help the gasp that broke from her throat.

“That bad, eh?” he asked.

She swallowed. “You should have told me sooner. This must hurt like the dickens.”

Looking over his shoulder at her, he raised a brow. “I should’ve told you sooner? What would you have done?”

“I don’t know…tea and sympathy?”

She felt his mirth as if it were a pulse radiating from his skin, and it pleased her more than it should. “I’m so glad I can amuse you at a time like this.”

“At a time like what?”

“You were nearly murdered, for heaven’s sake!”

His tone was teasing, “Is that like
nearly
being with child? The ‘nearly’ makes quite a difference to the outcome, I assure you.”

Her lips quirked, and she appreciated how he’d lightened the mood. Still, she felt he needed a little scolding, so she boldly chided, “You really must try to be more careful.” Moving over to the basin, she dipped the cloth and squeezed it out.

A laugh broke from his throat. “You act as if I had anything to do with it! I certainly didn’t invite that rock to hit me.”

Stepping behind him, she set the cold cloth on his back. He stiffened, and bumps suddenly rose on his skin, yet he did not make a sound. He was brave and strong-willed. “No, but you’re the Solicitor-General of England. You must have known that the job came with certain dangers.”

Abigail went over to the desk and opened the stopper on the salve. The familiar scents of olive oil and calendula flowers teased her nose, reminding her of her brother. He’d gotten into so many scrapes as a child that she’d gone to Dr. Michael Winner and asked him to teach her how to make his special liniment.

And now her brother was mixed up with Lucifer Laverty. The name alone caused a terrible lurch in her belly

“What’s that salve?” Lord Steele asked.

Abigail pushed away all thought of her wayward brother. She couldn’t do anything to aid him right now, and Lord Steele needed her help. “Dr. Michael Winner’s secret recipe.”

“I smell olive oil and something else…”

“Calendula flowers.” Exhaling, she moved to stand
behind him and removed the damp cloth. “But that’s all you’ll get out of me. I’ve been sworn to secrecy about the rest of the ingredients.”

He tensed, the muscles on his back rippling.

She frowned. “It won’t hurt. But I’ll have to touch you to put it on.”

“I don’t mind.”
Idiot!
Steele couldn’t believe he’d said the words aloud and prayed that she wouldn’t take them as he’d meant them, unconsciously of course. Being half drunk and half naked in front of the lovely Miss West was loosening his tongue in ways that were less than gentlemanly. Steele chided himself to behave more like the man he was pretending to be, not like the knave he’d been born.

“Ah, sorry, I was only jested…jesting,” he stammered, trying not to sound as soused as he was feeling. Or mayhap she’d forgive his transgressions if she thought he was foxed? The idea was tempting, but he dismissed it as too immature. He took ownership of his actions, come hell or what may. “I do mind, but your intentions are good. They are, aren’t they?”

Peering over his shoulder, he couldn’t miss the sympathy in her slate blue eyes, the tiny crease of concern marring her brow.

I’m wallowing in it
, he realized,
hoarding her caring like a miser stashes his gold.
He loved how she’d scolded him. Cherished how she was cosseting him. He felt like an idiot, but had no inclination to stop—it felt too good.

She nodded. “Of course.” Overturning the bottle, she poured the salve into her palm.

Steele inhaled, preparing himself for pain.

Surprisingly, her touch was feather-light, her
circling motions soothing. She rubbed the oil on his injury, but also on the whole of his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he relaxed with a sigh. This was heaven.

It was over too soon for his liking, but all good things were.

Miss West moved over to the desk and collected bandages.

She returned and stood before him. “Ah, I’ll bandage it, to keep the ointment in place and protect it from getting bumped.”

Reaching around him, she wrapped the cloth across his shoulder like a toga. She was so close, he couldn’t help but surreptitiously lean forward and smell her golden hair. Heather and woman. He wondered,
If I dare to touch it
,
would her hair be as silky soft as it looks?

He chided himself for being so self-indulgent. She was counting on his integrity; he couldn’t breach that trust. He forced his face to be impassive, praying that she couldn’t discern his reprehensible thoughts.

She looked into his eyes. “It’s not too tight, is it? Your jaw is clenched. Are you unwell?”

“Ah, no. I’m fine.” He moved to stand, and she quickly stepped back. He needed to get away from Miss West before he’d do something they’d both regret. Stepping over to the sideboard, he grabbed the bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass.

Turning, he sipped, fortifying himself with the familiar burn. “Ah, yes, well, ah…thanks.”

Miss West’s cheeks were glowing pink, her lush
breasts rising and falling with quick intakes of breath. Clearly she was disconcerted by his rude behavior. “Can I do anything else for you?”

Fantastic images of Miss West doing things for him rose up in his mind. He choked on his brandy.

“Are you all right?” She stepped closer.

“Yes.” He coughed, waving her away. He needed to escape, fast! “I should take myself off to bed.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Oh
,
dear Lord in heaven!
It was too much!

To his great shame, he practically sprinted from the room. “Another time perhaps!”

Rushing out the door, he wanted to knock himself over the head for his stupid reply. Another time? Wishful thinking, he knew.

There would be no other time as far as he and Miss West were concerned. In another life perhaps.

Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad after all?