The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) (2 page)

“Right thigh, just above my knee.”

She ran her hand along his thigh, careful to avoid the hole in the fabric where he’d obviously been stabbed. He tensed and let out a laughing groan. “Better not touch me there.”

No doubt to hide his extreme pain. She grabbed the velvet ribbon from her hair, ignoring the sudden cascade of long, dark strands about her shoulders and down her back. She used the ribbon to form a makeshift tourniquet around his thigh, hoping it was tight enough to stem the flow of blood from his leg until her uncle arrived to properly treat him.

Her hands were beginning to numb. It was freezing outside, the grass hard and crunching beneath her knees. A cloud of vapor formed with her every breath. She’d given up her shawl and was definitely underdressed. “Where else?”

“My forearms are sliced up, but not too badly. My jacket sleeves absorbed most of the damage.” He studied her, as though noticing her for the first time. Really noticing her, a sign that he’d finally regained his full vision. He cast her a wickedly seductive grin. “There’s a hard ache between my legs.”

More injuries? All her fault. “Oh, dear! How bad? Show me.”

“Did I say that aloud?” He let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Gad, you’re innocent. Don’t look so stricken. The ache will disappear once you put on some clothes. Maybe.”

“What?” She was in a panic, her heart pounding through her ears, and he was tossing jests?

“Your nightgown hides very little,” he continued, as though needing to explain the meaning of his jest. “If you lean any closer, I’ll have a clear view down your—”

She smacked him. Then smacked him again for good measure.

“Bloody hell! Wounded duke here. Show a little mercy.”

She wanted to smack him again, but as he said, he was seriously injured. The folded shawl she’d applied to his waist was already stained through with his blood. He took hold of her hand, no longer smiling. She stilled, unable to draw a breath, for the first time realizing that he might not survive into the morning. “I’m so sorry, Ian. Just keep your mouth shut and I’ll stop hitting you. Much as I hate to admit it, I don’t wish you to die.”

He gave her hand a light squeeze. “Much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad it’s you by my side if I am to die.” He paused, the effort of speaking too much to manage. “I thought you’d returned... to Coniston with the rest of your family... all five thousand of them.” Those last words were spoken through shuddering pain.

Oh, God! Not you, Ian. You’re invincible.
She shook her head and tried to keep her voice steady. “They went on ahead.” But her voice faltered as she tried to hold back tears. “All five thousand of them, traveling north like a great horde of locusts, eating everything in their path. I stayed behind with Uncle George to help him close up the house and enjoy the blessed quiet.”

“Guess I’ve foiled your plans.” He sounded weak, his words even more strained.

She melted at his soft gaze. Ian, with his gorgeous gray-green eyes, had a way of melting female hearts. Good thing it was dark and she couldn’t clearly see the beautiful green of his eyes. That soft glance was devastating enough. “We were supposed to leave yesterday, but my uncle was called to a medical emergency. We had to delay our departure.”

“Must thank the poor, sick blighter.” His voice was weaker still. “I mean it, Dillie. If I’m to die tonight, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have beside me than you.”

There were times when Ian rankled her.

In truth, he always rankled her.

But not tonight.

“Keep breathing, you clunch,” she said in a ragged whisper, keeping tight hold of his big, cold hand.

***

Ian awoke in an unfamiliar room, uncertain how much time had elapsed since he’d been attacked. At least eight hours he guessed, for the morning sun was streaming in through the unshuttered window, glistening against the peach silk counterpane that covered the bed in which he lay. He recalled Dillie asking him about his assailants, but he didn’t know who had sent them, only that they’d done a good job of carving him up with their knives.

Where was he? Somewhere safe, of that he was certain.

He had to get word to the Prince Regent. He suspected those men were disgruntled agents of the now exiled Napoleon, seeking retribution for his dismantling of the French spy network that had flourished in England until recently. Ian and his friends, both of whom now happened to be married to Dillie’s sisters, had crushed the web of spies and exposed its leaders, some of whom had held prominent positions in the English government. Was this attack an act of revenge?

Or part of a more sinister scheme?

He tried to move his hand and realized someone was holding it. Someone with a soft, gentle touch. He glanced down and groaned. Dillie, primly dressed in a morning gown that hid all her good parts from view, was perched on a chair beside his bed, her slender body slumped over so that her head and shoulders rested on the mattress beside his thigh. Her dark hair was loosely bound, flowing down her back in a waterfall of waves. Her lips were partly open and she snored lightly.

Hell.
She looked adorable.

What was she doing here? He glanced around and realized he must be in her bedchamber, the one she’d shared with her twin until last month. There were two beds, two bureaus. Matching sets of everything.
Bloody hell.
He had to get out of here fast. But how? His arms and legs felt as though they were weighed down by blocks of granite. He’d lost a lot of blood and knew he was as weak as a damn kitten.

“Dillie,” he said in a whisper.

She responded with a snore.

“How long have I been here?”

Not wishing to wake Dillie when she failed to answer, he tried to move his free arm. A mistake, he realized at once, suppressing a yelp as a lightning bolt of pain shot from his waist, straight up his arm, and into his head. His temples began to throb and his heart began to thunderously pound against his chest.

It wasn’t only pain making his heart pound. Dillie was temptingly close. He had only to reach out and...
better not.

Why had he been settled in Dillie’s quarters? He recalled being carried into the Farthingale townhouse and up the stairs by a team of footmen. What had Dillie said shortly before he’d blacked out? “Put him in my room, Uncle George,” she’d insisted, explaining that the rest of the house had been closed up for the winter, the beds stripped of their linens and the mattresses put out to air.

Her uncle would never have agreed to the arrangement otherwise.

Ian let out a breath as the pain to his temples began to fade and then looked around the room again. The feminine, peach silk bedcovers and peach and white drapery suited Dillie. Sweet summer peaches was her scent, refreshingly light and fragrant.

The furniture seemed a little young for a girl her age. Dillie was nineteen or twenty years old by now, and of marriageable age. He frowned. No doubt the family expected her to marry soon and leave the household. The other four Farthingale daughters were already wed and several had children. Dillie’s identical twin, Lily, had married only last month. Dillie wouldn’t last another season. She was too beautiful to remain unattached for very long. And clever. She’d marry well.

Just not him.

That was for damn sure.

He wasn’t the marrying sort, didn’t want a woman in his life making demands on him. Cheating on him.

Dillie let out another soft snore, revealing she was still soundly asleep. How long had she been sitting by his side? Clinging sweetly to his hand? He liked the gentle warmth of her hand and the way her fingers protectively curled about his.

Felt nice. Too nice.

He carefully slid out from her grasp, but instead of drawing away from the dangerous innocent, he allowed his fingers to drift over the glistening waves of her dark hair. So soft. Unable to resist, he buried his hand in her silken curls, caressing the long, thick strands that fell over her shoulders and down her back.
Bloody hell
. She felt nice.

Too nice,
he reminded himself again.

He stopped, desperate to climb out of bed before he did something spectacularly foolish, such as pulling her down atop him and kissing her rosy, lightly parted lips into tomorrow. No, not just into tomorrow. Into next week. Perhaps into next month. No woman had ever held his interest longer than that. He preferred it that way. Easier to remain unattached. Easier to remain free of messy obligations.

Perhaps that was why Dillie always referred to him as an idiot.

He was one, but not for the reasons Dillie imagined. He was an idiot because he couldn’t seem to get
her
out of his thoughts. Going on two years now. No doubt because she, unlike all other women, found him completely unappealing. Where others would shamelessly proposition him, would flirt, swoon, scheme, or find any reason to gain his attention, Dillie usually cringed when she saw him coming.

She was a challenge, a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed challenge. Where others succumbed, she resisted. But he knew better than to take up the gauntlet against Dillie. He wasn’t certain he could win. She was different. She was dangerous. One look at the girl and all blood drained from his head to amass in a hot pool between his thighs.

He couldn’t think straight when his loins were on fire. Could any man?

Unfortunately, Dillie managed to set him ablaze every time she looked at him. Didn’t have to be much of a look, just a glimpse was enough. Sometimes the mere sound of her voice got him hot. He even knew her scent, that refreshingly sweet trace of peach blossoms wafting in the air.

When it came to Dillie, he was like a damn bloodhound, able to recognize her presence even amid the heavily perfumed odors that permeated a room. He didn’t know why the girl had that effect on him, for she wasn’t the sort of woman who usually gained his notice. He liked elegant, more worldly women. He usually sought out the married ones who were bored with their husbands, for such women were interested in mere dalliances and expected no promises.

Dillie required faithfulness and heartfelt promises.

Dillie demanded everlasting love.

She disapproved of his scoundrel ways and never hesitated to tell him so. She didn’t give a fig that he was a rich-as-Croesus duke. She wasn’t impressed by his wealth or title.

She wasn’t impressed by him.

Ian moaned.

Dillie must have heard him, for her eyes fluttered open. Those big, soft blue eyes that stole his breath away every time she looked at him.

“Ian, you’re awake. Thank goodness.” She cast him a beautiful, openhearted smile.

He closed his eyes and sank back against his pillow, drawing his hand away before she noticed that it had been buried in her luscious hair. “I feel like hell.”

She laughed lightly. “You look like it, too.”

“Ah, I knew I could count on you for compliments.” He opened one eye.

Her smile faded and she began to nibble her lip. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.” As though to prove her point, she leaned forward and ran her knuckles along his chin, gently scraping them against his three-day growth of beard. “If it’s any consolation, you look wonderful for a man who’s spent that much time fighting at death’s door.”

“Was I that bad?”

She nodded. “Let me feel your forehead. You were running a very high fever.” She placed that same hand across his brow. “Oh, thank goodness. No longer hot.”

He was hot. She wasn’t looking low enough.

“Have you been by my side all this time?” Both his eyes were now open and trained on Dillie. Her morning gown was a simple gown of gray wool, its only adornment a velvet ribbon of a slightly darker gray trim at the sleeves. Her hair was long and loose—as he well knew, since he’d just run his feverish fingers through it. She had a sleepy look in her eyes, slightly tousled hair, and a smile as beautiful as a moonbeam.

She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever set eyes upon.

He wanted her badly... naked and in his bed.

It was one thing to have those desires, but another thing altogether to act on them.

“Yes, I’ve been beside you most of the time,” she replied, unaware of the depraved path of his thoughts. “Uncle George had to tend to that important patient of his, so he hasn’t been around much. He left me in charge of you. Fortunately, the stab wound to your side was the worst of it. And it was bad, if you wish to know the truth. The blade missed your vital organs by a hair’s breadth. You wouldn’t have pulled through otherwise.”

The notion seemed to distress her. It felt odd that she should care whether he lived or died. No one in his family did.

In truth, he didn’t either.

“I never lost faith that you would survive. You’re strong. And Uncle George is the best doctor in all of England,” she said with noticeable pride. “He cleansed your wounds thoroughly and stitched you up. Your arms weren’t slashed as badly as we’d feared, and the stab wound to your leg wasn’t very deep.”

She sounded efficient, as though she were taking inventory. Suddenly, she paused and there were tears glistening in her eyes.

Surprised, he reached out to run his thumb along the thin trail of water now sliding down her cheek. He winced as a painful jolt shot from his fingers to his brow. He’d braced himself against the expected pain, but it hurt like blazes anyway. One of those assailants must have sliced through muscle. Perhaps cracked one of his ribs. The mere raising of his arm would not have caused him agony otherwise.

No matter. Dillie was worth it.

“How silly of me.” She shook her head and let out a delicate laugh. “I don’t know why I’m crying now that you’re better.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Disappointment?”

Her smile faded. “How could you even think such a horrid thought? Of course I’m not disappointed. I would have been shattered if you’d died. In my bed, no less!”

“Right. Nobody likes a dead duke in their bed.”

She was frowning now, but made no move to remove his hand, which was once more caressing her cheek. Her blue eyes still shimmered with tears. “It would be especially difficult to explain away to the authorities.”