The Lord and the Wayward Lady (10 page)

‘Nice.’ The frown lines between his brows vanished. ‘You would like me to hold you?’

‘Mmm. In your arms. In bed.’ Her eyes were growing heavy again and the room was drifting away, along with vague inhibitions. She shouldn’t ask that of him, she knew, but somehow she couldn’t quite recall why not. ‘I think I would feel safe then. I think I could sleep.’

Nell was almost asleep already. What he should do, Marcus knew perfectly well, was to pick her up, carry her back to her own room, ring for her maid and leave her.

And if she woke in the night, alone, in pain, worried that her attacker might return? That should not matter. All that should matter was decorum and propriety.

‘Well, be damned to that,’ he muttered, tugging off his boots and throwing his waistcoat and neckcloth onto the chair. He would stay with her tonight, and he would show her that it was possible for a man to be gentle, to touch a woman without an ulterior motive.

She was asleep now, honey-brown hair loose on the pillows, the rakish bandage incongruous around her head, no colour in her cheeks. He turned back the covers on the far side of the bed then lifted her across, settling her snugly, before sliding in beside her, still in his breeches and shirt.

It took some arranging to get his arm around Nell without touching her breasts or jolting her head, but he managed it at last, ending up with her left cheek on his shoulder and one arm over his chest. He suspected that his own arm was going to be numb by morning, but it was worth it to experience the soft warmth against him, the silky slide of her hair touching his neck, the cold toes curling confidingly against his stockinged feet.

‘Are you asleep?’ he murmured.

‘Yes,’ she replied, making him smile as she burrowed a little closer. ‘You are so warm, Marcus.’

‘And your feet are so cold.’ But then she was truly asleep, her breath whispering through the open neck of his shirt to tease the skin. He had never before lain with a woman like this, innocently. With innocent intent, he corrected himself. What he felt was not at all pure, and strangely, it was not the obvious things that were inciting the need to run his hands over her body, to kiss her, to rouse her to passion. It was those small, cold feet, the feel of her hip bone jutting against him, the dark shadows under the down-swept lashes that reminded him that she needed feeding up, resting. It was the things that reminded him that this was Nell.

He wanted to look after her, pamper her, indulge her. And make love to her until she forgot those damned men who haunted her and filled her life with ever-present fear, forgot everything but the feel of his body possessing her, the scent of his skin in her nostrils, the heat of his mouth on hers.

‘Oh, well done,’ he muttered into the darkness, contemplating the painfully insistent erection he had managed to conjure up.
Think about Salterton, think
about Father, think what you are going to do in the morning.
He settled Nell firmly against his side and willed himself to sleep.

Nell woke to the four soft
tings
of the little French clock on the bedside table and lay blinking in the light of the lamp Marcus had left burning. He was asleep, his right arm holding her against his body where she must have lain for hours, warm and safe.

The colour burned warm in her cheeks as she remembered asking him to stay with her, sleep with her. Hold her. She must have been almost feverish to have dared do such a thing.

He was still dressed. Her bare leg brushed against the heavy cloth of his breeches, her side was pressed to his shirt. She had trusted him instinctively and he had been gentle and caring, the antithesis of Harris, the opposite of what she had come to fear any man would be like.

He was frowning in his sleep, she realised, smiling at those sharp lines between his brows. She was becoming rather fond of that expression. It no longer seemed forbidding, more the sign that he was worrying about his family, worrying about her. Caring.

Nell shifted a little and winced at the stiffness in her neck and the jolt of pain in her bandaged head. Would he let her see his own wound, judge for herself how well it was healing? She thought not. Being injured appeared to be a physical affront to him, she thought with a smile, remembering his indignation at the pain, his own weakness. A weakness he had overcome through sheer, bloody-minded determination instead of allowing his body time to rest and heal.

She risked letting the tips of her fingers stroke across his chest. ‘Marcus,’ she whispered, her eyelids drooping again. ‘Love…’

T
he single chime of the clock beside him brought Marcus out of a dream of Nell, her hands drifting across his body, her lips warm on his skin, her hair flowing, murmured words of love on her lips…

He turned his head on the pillow. Quarter past four. It was important to wake up early, he knew that, but why?

Against his side, someone stirred, soft, warm, curling round his body.
You idiot, Carlow
. What the hell had he been thinking last night? Not thinking at all, he decided grimly, just going with his feelings and his instincts, which now, in the cold dark of dawn, were obviously wildly awry.

Nell was no dream; she was here, in his bed, where he had put her when she had been in no state to know what was right or wrong, when she was vulnerable. She was now, for all the utter innocence of their behaviour, completely compromised.

Or she would be, if she were a lady. But Nell was a milliner, a working girl. She was no less ruined for that, but his position was completely different. The son and
heir to an earldom did not marry a milliner, not if he had any care for the family name, for his duties and responsibilities to his inheritance.

But she was his responsibility now, more than ever. He lay there trying to think through all the ramifications of this. Getting her back to her own bed was the priority. Then removing all traces of her from his, making sure Allsop kept his mouth shut, finding an excuse for her head injury to satisfy his mother and sisters, explaining it all to his father, putting an effective guard on the house…

Hell. Double hell and damnation. What if she clung to him, thought that after last night he should—what? She wasn’t really ruined, not if no one knew. She was not a virgin after all. He mentally kicked himself for that thought.
Crass.
But a week ago he would have concluded, without a twinge of conscience, that a woman in her position should be grateful to be paid off. But this was not just any woman, this was Nell, and besides, a painfully stirring conscience was telling him that his previous attitudes were nothing to be proud of.

Against his side she moved, snuggling closer, disturbing the covers so the scent of warm, sleepy woman filled his nostrils like a drugging incense. It sent his body into a state of instant arousal that did nothing for his already guilty conscience. With a muttered curse Marcus slid out of bed, found her wrapper and threw back the covers.

‘Nell.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Wake up, you’ve got to go back to your own room.’ Slippers, had she had slippers? He found them, averting
his eyes from the sight of Nell cuddled in his robe, while she sat up rubbing her eyes.

‘Ouch,’ she complained, then seemed to realize where she was. ‘Oh.’ Her face was a picture. If things had not been so serious, he would have smiled at the combination of feminine embarrassment and the dissipated appearance of the lop-sided bandage. ‘Oh, dear.’

Marcus schooled his face into studious neutrality; she did not need him appearing to laugh at her. ‘Oh, dear, indeed.’

‘I should not be here.’

‘
Quite,’
he said, with some emphasis, controlling a quite inappropriate urge to grin. She coloured up. ‘Do you think you can walk or shall I carry you?’

‘I am certain I can walk, thank you,’ she said, her voice suddenly cool. ‘I had better put my own robe on.’

He handed it to her, turning away while she got out of bed. There was a soft sound as his own robe landed on the covers. Marcus turned round to find her pulling on her slippers. ‘Ready?’

‘I can go by myself, thank you.’

‘But your head—’

‘Aches. Probably as much as yours does.’

‘Mine?’

‘I assume you were drinking last night or I would not have ended up in your bed, my lord,’ she said crisply.

‘You asked to stay, Miss Latham.’

‘I had just been hit over the head,’ she retorted. ‘I think I was hardly responsible for my own actions at that point. You, on the other hand, had
not
been hit on the head. Who are you going to tell about this?’

‘That you spent the night in my bed?’ This was not
how he imagined the conversation this morning would go. This was certainly not the clinging, fragile young woman he had been braced to deal with.

‘No.’ The look she sent him was scornful. ‘About the intruder.’

‘No one except my father. Allsop is highly discreet.’

‘Excellent. I shall tell Miriam that I slipped last night and hit my head on the dresser.’

‘And bandaged it yourself without calling her?’ This degree of independent thought was beginning to rile him. Marcus reminded himself that he did not want a fluttering female throwing herself embarrassingly upon his chest and expecting goodness knows what from him. But for some reason cool rationality was decidedly galling. She had spent the night in his arms, for Heaven’s sake! Women usually expressed some appreciation after that experience.

Nell unwound the bandage and lifted the pad cautiously, wincing as it pulled on her hair. ‘I will sponge my head with one of my handkerchiefs; that will be quite gory enough to satisfy her that I doctored myself. And as for managing by myself—why, my lord, I am unused to living in such style and hesitated to disturb the maid at a late hour.’

‘You will rest in bed today.’ Marcus reined in his rising temper and the urge to throw Nell over one shoulder and take her back to her own room before she came out with any more cool, calm, sensible remarks.

‘That sounds more like an order than a suggestion, my lord.’ Nell smiled, obviously fully intending to set his teeth on edge. ‘I have no intention of causing Lady Narborough any concern. I will see you at breakfast.’
She paused at the door. And this time the smile held no touch of acid. ‘Thank you, Marcus, for looking after me last night. You were very gentle.’

And then she was gone, leaving him feeling as if he’d been slapped and then had the weal tenderly kissed better. He looked at the clock. Half past four. The youngest scullery maid would be creeping about soon, riddling the grate in the kitchen range and laying the table for the staff breakfasts. He would go down and have her make him a pot of coffee; somehow he did not think he would get any more sleep this morning.

Lord Narborough looked quite revoltingly alert to his heavy-eyed son when he followed Felling and the laden breakfast tray into his lordship’s room.

‘That will be all, thank you, Felling.’ The earl waited until the valet was out of the room before raising one eyebrow at Marcus. ‘And why have I woken up to find my window broken and your valet in my dressing room?’ He peered more closely. ‘And why are you looking as though you’ve been up most of the night?’

Marcus walked over to the dresser and picked up the length of silken rope. Nell’s nightcap, as plain an object as a Quaker maiden might wear, was lying in the corner. He retrieved it and pushed it into his pocket.

‘You had a visitor last night by way of the wisteria.’ He tossed the rope onto the bed.

‘And there I was, sound asleep after one of your mother’s famous soporific cordials and missing the excitement. I could sleep through a thunderstorm after a dose of that.’ Lord Narborough peered across the room at the small pane of glass. ‘That wouldn’t have made
much noise. I might well have slept through it in any case. Who raised the alarm?’

‘Miss Latham happened to be passing, on her way for a midnight ramble in the Long Gallery. Apparently your tales of the house made her restless to explore.’

His father put down his coffee cup with a rattle. ‘Miss Latham confronted the rogue?’

‘In the dark. He knocked her across the room, fortunately just as I was passing on way to my bed. She has a sore head, but nothing more serious, thank God—she is telling Mama that she fell and hit herself. Near enough to the truth, and we don’t want to worry the others.’ Marcus shot his father an assessing glance. He was taking these revelations very well. ‘He had a knife, she thinks.’

‘Had he indeed? For my ribs, do you suppose?’ The earl sounded quite cheerful about the idea.

‘I doubt it. He seemed easily routed for a man on a lethal mission. No, I think his intention was to alarm us, to leave the rope.’ Marcus got up to look out of the window. Through the ancient panes, the garden seemed strangely distorted, just like his thoughts. ‘I thought by moving out of London we would wrong-foot him, but he seems as at home here as on the streets.’

‘If it were just us, we could make it easy for him, lure him in.’ The earl put his tray aside and got out of bed, walking barefoot in his nightshirt to join Marcus at the casement. He studied the broken window. ‘But not with a houseful of women.’

‘I agree. Defence it is then. I’ll speak to the keepers and the gardeners, arrange patrols around the grounds at night.’

‘Doesn’t solve the problem of who and why though.’ His father pulled thoughtfully at his ear lobe.

‘True. We are certain it is connected with the Wardale matter,’ Marcus thought out loud as he went to sit in the armchair, leaving his father to get back into bed with his cup of coffee. ‘We need to think who it might possibly be.’

‘A relative of Wardale is the most obvious,’ the earl said, spooning sugar into the cup. ‘The son, of course. The other two children were girls—I suppose they could have married. The Hebden’s baby son died soon after the murder. His wife, Amanda, married again, some country gentleman. There are stepsons I fancy—but why would any of that family bear a grudge in any case?’

‘I suppose,’ Marcus ventured cautiously, ‘that there is no possibility that Wardale was working with someone else?’

‘No sign of it at the time.’ Lord Narborough frowned. ‘There will have been a file, of course. We were reporting directly to John Reeves, who was heading the Alien Office at that time, and John King, who was under secretary at the Home Office. Veryan was King’s junior confidential secretary in those days; he’ll know how to lay hands on things.’

‘I’ll write to him.’ Marcus got to his feet, restless, glad of something positive to do. He wanted action. If truth be told, he wanted violence. ‘And I will speak to the keepers.’

‘Leave the letter to me,’ his father said as he tugged at the bell pull.

‘Then I’ll take it to the receiving office.’ A ride was what he needed. A flat-out gallop. Something physical. His shoulder gave a protesting twinge as he closed the door. He ignored it.

Nell sat in the deep window seat in Honoria’s bedchamber, her eyes on the park sweeping away towards the river, less than half her attention on the Carlow sisters and Diana Price. Her headache had settled to a dull background thud and she had managed to persuade Lady Narborough that the lump did not require dressing.

Verity was bent over the desk, sucking the end of her pen, writing, so she informed her sister, to Rhys Morgan. ‘I haven’t heard from him for at least two months,’ she complained. ‘I hope he is all right.’

Honoria turned from her excavations in the clothes press. ‘Are you still in love with him, Verity? He won’t do, you know.’

‘No, I am not,’ Verity responded with dignity, somewhat spoiled by her indignant blush. ‘I grew out of that
years
ago. He’s another of Lord Keddinton’s godchildren,’ she explained to Nell. ‘I used to think I’d like to marry him—when I was little—because I thought he looked so handsome in his uniform, but now we’re just friends. I write to him.’

‘Verity writes to everyone,’ Honoria teased, emerging from the folds of a riding habit she had pulled over her head. She made a futile attempt to button it. ‘I simply cannot get into this habit any more. My bosom has grown.’

‘We could have it taken out,’ Diana remarked, turning back the bodice to study the seams.

‘I never liked the amber colour much.’ Honoria wriggled out of it and went in her petticoats to Nell’s side. ‘It would suit Nell though. Do you ride, Nell?’

‘Yes,’ she said, then realized that riding was hardly
a common accomplishment for a milliner. ‘But not for more than ten years.’

‘Oh, one never forgets,’ Honoria said airily. ‘Do try this on and if it fits we can go riding later.’

It seemed easiest to do as she was asked. At least no one could expect her to make conversation while struggling into voluminous skirts and complicated bodices. ‘You need a habit shirt underneath,’ Diana said, extracting one from the pile.

What would Marcus say, seeing her masquerading as a lady on horseback? He would be less than happy, Nell decided sadly, if his cool demeanour that morning was anything to go by. She had woken to the lovely warm glow of being cared for, the tingle of excitement of his closeness, only to have that dashed by the wariness in his eyes, the chill in his voice.
Indeed. Quite.
The clipped syllables were like tiny slaps as she recalled them.

No doubt, in the cold light of day, he regretted the kindly impulse to take her in his arms and help her through the night. He probably expected her to make demands, have expectations. Or perhaps his suspicions had come back in the night; her explanation of what she was doing at Lord Narborough’s door must seem highly circumspect.

‘…if they fit you.’ Honoria was holding up a pair of boots. ‘I’ve just remembered them. I’ve had them years and I am sure your feet are smaller than mine are now.’

‘I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering.’ Nell pulled on the boots and stood there trying to smile at the image in the mirror. Even in the days when they were living in a modest rented villa, Mama had encouraged her children to ride, although the hired mounts became more and more elderly
and sluggish as the money diminished. Now, seeing a Nell who had vanished more than ten years ago, she half expected Mama to appear and tweak her skirts into order, tut-tut over a split in her glove, warn her against jumping fences. ‘Thank you.’

She bent to pull the boots off again, when Miss Price remarked from the window, ‘It looks as though Lord Narborough and Lord Stanegate are riding. See, the groom is leading Corinth out.’

‘Wonderful, we can all go. I’ve finished my letters.’ Verity scrambled out of her chair and joined the companion to peer down at the drive below. She tugged the bell pull.