The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (7 page)

She laid there in James’ whisky-scented bed, tired, drained, defeated. Too weak and limp to move.

Eventually, she heard the door open and close. He had left.

Chapter Five

With the sound of the door closing still echoing in his ears, James closed his eyes.

His heart hammered his chest wall. Each beat rocked through his whole body, shocks of desire radiating down to where a second heart seemed to be centered in his cock.

God.

He could still taste her mouth.

And her kisses were just as sweet as they had been that evening years ago. Sweeter, for she had thrust her hot little tongue so fervently against his, with an intensity of sensual response he had never, ever experienced before.

The feel of her breasts, soft yet firm, still seemed imprinted on his chest—the feel of the hardened peaks brushing his flesh as she struggled in his hold, their fullness crushing against him. It was as though torrents of blood suddenly rushed into his already throbbing erection, feeding the pulse of that pounding, insistent heart’s beat that was lodged there. His flesh pressed urgently against his trousers. He had never been so painfully hard.

In the bed, he had greatly feared he wouldn’t be able to subdue Sunny before his baser instincts overcame his self-control. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and so he had administered a spanking.

He opened his eyes and stared at his open palm. He fancied it still tingled with the sharp sting of making contact with that luscious, gorgeous, broad round arse of hers.

Devil take him. He did not like feeling like this. As though he had no control over his own emotions. As though he’d been living in a tempest since the moment he’d seen her again, bent over the roses, glassy-eyed.

Since that moment, he’d also had the uncanny sense that he’d walked into one of those dreadful novels about old castles, ghosts and deadly secrets.

Yes, Freddy was the ghost, but none of the rest of it made much sense. Sunny should be more recovered from the shock of—no, wait, there hadn’t even been any shock to Freddy’s demise. She had married a dying man.

Her voice had been so full of despair and horror, he had been chilled to his bones. And she appeared to have been drugged so deeply—that too had chilled him.

He walked over to the wardrobe and took out a fresh cravat. He wrapped it about his neck then jerked the crisp cloth into a simple knot. Well, he was going to have some answers. Before sunrise, he would hear the truth about what was happening with Lady Catriona Blayne.

****

“How dare you storm your way into my bedchamber!”

Aunt Frances shouted the words stridently, yet there was a quiver to her voice and she clutched her elegant claret-colored wrapper to her neck. With her hair in rag curlers, peeking from beneath her lace-trimmed white cap, and her skin unadorned with rice powder, she looked much older than she normally did. Vulnerable.

She sat on her bed, lifted her chin and glowered up at him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Explain to me exactly what is going on with Catriona.”

“Here? Now?” Her voice rang with outrage.

James fixed her with his sternest commander’s glare. “Yes, here and right now, tell me everything.”

Her eyes widened. Well, he had never before directed such a tone at her. But perhaps it was high time he started doing so. Standing over her, James placed his hand on his hip. “I am waiting.”

Anger sparked in her brown eyes. “Now see here, boy, just because you’ve inherited the title does not give you the right—”

“I have every right. Now I’ll have the truth.”

The door creaked open. He turned to see Grandmother Blayne enter the bedchamber, dressed in a ruby colored velvet dressing gown. “What’s all this banging on doors and shouting voices? It’s half-past two in morning!”

Aunt Frances drew her chin up and glowered at him down her elegant narrow nose. “Lord Blayne seeks to know all there is to know about Catriona’s condition.” She spoke in a regal, dry English accent.

“It’s no’ a fit discussion for mixed company.” Grandmother’s voice resounded with indignation.

“I don’t care. I will hear it,” James said firmly.

Aunt Frances directed her gaze at the old woman. “Leave us.”

Grandmother Blayne settled into a wing chair close to the hearth. “The day I take orders from you is the day you’ll be calling the undertaker.”

Aunt Frances compressed her lips. Then she turned back to James. “Why didn’t you ask about all of this at a more civilized hour?”

“Once I heard what Catriona had to say, I didn’t care to wait. Such a horrific accusation cannot wait to be answered.”

Aunt Frances’ eyes seemed to almost bug from their sockets. “You saw Catriona? When? Where?”

He realized his mistake. “Earlier. Before I reached my chamber.” The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. “She claims she is being held here against her will. That this physician you’ve hired to treat her is abusive to her in some fashion.”

Aunt Frances narrowed her gaze, then leaped to her feet. As she approached him, James frowned, then continued. “What she said, it did not make complete sense. I’ll have the truth from you, now.”

“Your face.” Aunt Frances reached up.

He jerked back. ”What the devil?”

She touched his cheek. “Just have a look at this, Agnes.”

Grandmother Blayne gasped loudly.

He leaned away from Aunt Frances’ touch. “What about my face?”

“She raked you!”

The scratches.

Christ.

He had forgotten.

Now it was as though he’d left his trousers unfastened, or maybe this was worse than even that. Those feminine nail scrapes were glaring, damning evidence of the intimacy he and Sunny had recently shared.

Yes, worse, definitely worse than being caught with his fall open.

“This—” he pointed at where, now that it had been called to his attention again, his flesh did still sting a bit— “this is…well, it’s not—”

His immediate thought had been to blame the scratches on some other woman, but he couldn’t say that to his aunt and grandmother. He scowled. “It’s not from Catriona.”

What else could a gentleman do but lie to save a lady’s honor?

“Now don’t lie to me, boy,” Aunt Frances said. “You didn’t have those when you arrived here today.”

“I was out for the evening.” He deepened his frown for effect. “I don’t think I need to explain my—”

He let his voice trail off, hoping they wouldn’t require further enlightenment as to what a gentleman’s nocturnal jaunts entailed.

Aunt Frances’ mouth twisted and she shook her head. “You never could fool me, boy.”

She cut her glance to Grandmother Blayne.

“Oh,” Grandmother Blayne said, nodding with a grim expression. “Oh, he’s seen her, all right. She must have been in a fine form.”

Aunt Frances and Grandmother Blayne exchanged another long glance, a certain knowing passing between them. That look turned to something bleaker.

Maybe even despair.

“It’s starting again.” Frances’ voice held a hopeless note.

“At least her taste is improving,” Grandmother Blayne said dryly.

“You would jest about this?” Frances asked.

“It’s better than crying, eh?”

James looked from woman to woman. “What is this about?”

Aunt Frances frowned. “It is a very delicate matter.”

“Delicate? You keep saying that. What the devil do you really mean?”

“Delicate nerves,” she said with much dignity.

“Ha! That’s no’ what they called it in my day,” Grandmother Blayne said.

“What did they call it in your day, Grandmother?” James asked.

She gave him a long, hard stare. “You were soft on Catriona.”

Her voice carried equal parts accusation and sympathy.

His mouth went dry. Had Grandmother Blayne actually seen his softness toward Catriona?

Had anyone else?

Did Catriona herself guess at what the depth of his affection for her had once been? With that thought, it was as though he had been stripped bare, clean down to his heart. His soul.

But no. Surely, Catriona herself had not guessed.

It had been the one scrap of pride he had been able to hold onto in his darkest moments—that she would never, could never know how badly he had ached over losing her.

Grandmother Blayne and Aunt Frances were watching him. Closely. Intensely.

He said nothing.

“You will no’ want to hear this,” Grandmother Blayne said. Her voice was full of compassion.

“Just speak plainly,” he said, struggling to keep all evidence of how shaken he suddenly was out of his voice. “What did they call it in your day?”

“A fondness for footmen.”

“A what?” he asked, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. He couldn’t help it. It was simply too ludicrous to imagine.

“You asked for plain speaking,” Grandmother Blayne said.

“I didn’t ask for a jest.” He flashed his grandmother a censuring glare. “A jest made in very poor taste.”

Grandmother Blayne shook her head. “I knew you would no’ want to hear the truth, even when plainly spoken.”

“Oh, never mind her.” Aunt Frances’ tone held exasperation. “The doctor called it hysteria.”

“Hysteria?” His voice stalled and he had to swallow against a constricted sensation in his throat.

Both women seemed frozen, as though they were holding themselves so still that they didn’t dare draw breath.

Waiting for his reaction.

He frowned. “Is Catriona hysterical?”

He didn’t want to believe it. Yet, that wildness in her eyes…

No longer frozen, Aunt Frances leaned closer to him, her gaze never wavering from his. “She has had her moments. It has not been easy to watch over her.”

“Does she really require watching over?”

“Yes. If only to keep her from bringing shame on our name.”

“The solution is another husband, I have told you that,” Grandmother Blayne said.

“Dr. Meeker says she will be unsuitable for courtship or marriage until she is cured of her dependency. She would be unable to do anything but bring shame on herself and us without the cure.”

“Dependency? What kind of dependency? Opiate dependency?”

Frances shook her head. “No, that is the only thing keeping her under control.”

“What dependency?” He demanded.

Frances’ eyes grew larger and a flush brightened her cheeks. She stepped back.

He turned to Grandmother. “Will you tell me?”

Grandmother Blayne glanced down at her lap, making a great study of her folded hands.

“Well?”

“As Frances says, ‘tis a delicate matter, Jamie.”

“You said she had a…” God, he could scarcely form the words. “A fondness for footmen?”

Frances waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, she could be a little flirtatious.”

“Bah, any warm-blooded lass wed to Freddie would have been tempted to kick over a few fences here and again,” Grandmother added.

“Kick over a few fences?” James asked.

“After the fever, the doctors said that Freddy’s heart was too weak.” Frances looked down as she spoke. Her cheeks flaring with color again. “Too weak to risk being a…proper husband.” She practically whispered the last two words.

“And you say that Sunny flirted with footmen?”

“Well, at first we thought…you know how friendly Sunny always was. It seemed a natural, if highly inappropriate, progression of her cheerful, kind demeanor.”

“Perhaps it was,” he said. Yes, maybe it had all been kindness on Sunny’s part that these sour old biddies had misinterpreted.

“The lassie did a lot more than flirt, Jamie,” Grandmother said. Her tone was filled with sorrow, as though it hurt her to impart this knowledge to him.

“I’ll handle this,” Frances said.

James turned his attention back to her.

“After Freddy died, Sunny fell into a state of despondency. She certainly didn’t do any flirting then. She would not eat, she couldn’t sleep. We had to send for Dr. Meeker.”

“That’s when the opiates started?” he asked, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice.

At his tone, Frances scowled. “She must have the opiates, else she shall lose all control.”

“I think she deserves to be able to think clearly for once. Then we shall see just how out of control she really is or is not.”

“You don’t understand. You weren’t here. At first it seemed she just needed a little something to help her sleep. To bring her appetite back.”

“Then what happened?”

Aunt Frances just stared at him, looking a little lost. Quite pale, her expression strained, shoulders drooping. She didn’t look like her typical fire-breathing self, but appeared a good ten years older. She walked to the bed and sat again. More aptly put, she collapsed onto it.

“Jamie, lad, I think your aunt could use a little wine,” Grandmother Blayne said.