Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6

by Scott, Scarlett

  Clara glared at him. Her settlement was a handsome sum, but it wasn’t two hundred thousand pounds. “Let me go, you brute. I’m sure my father hasn’t settled the funds with so much haste. I’ll tell him everything. He’ll understand, help me to annul the marriage.”

  “No.” He wasn’t about to let her go. Not ever. He’d seen to it that there was no worm hole through which she could slip. “The transaction has already occurred, legally and binding, so too our marriage contract. It’s all done. Don’t look so distressed, little dove. We are two of a kind, you and me, selling ourselves for perceived gain. I’ve been at this business far longer than you, however, and I know the cost better than anyone. No one truly wins.”

  She pursed her lips and flattened her palms on his chest, attempting to dislodge him. “Forgive me for thinking it would rather appear that you’ve won, my lord. You secured yourself an heiress. Great sums of money are at your disposal, all your problems solved. It must have been so effortless. Good Lord, I came to you. And then you plied me with charm, worked your rakish ways on me, and I fell into your snare as surely as any hare.”

  Of course he’d won. Miss Clara Elizabeth Whitney, American heiress and unworldly innocent, was his along with a tidy sum. He wouldn’t lose his homes. He wouldn’t have to worry over the futures of his sisters. He would no longer have to endure snickers in polite society, rumblings over his penury and his means of staving off ruin. He could hire a bloody housekeeper and maids who didn’t fornicate with footmen in the library. But she was staring at him now not with the low-lidded desire he’d come to expect from her but the full-fledged loathing of someone who had been duped.

  He’d been duped before. He knew the feeling, like a blow straight to the gut. Lottie had seen to his education. Still, there was something about Clara that made a protective instinct roar to life in his breast. Something that made him want to gather her up in his arms, breathe deeply of her essence—musk and sunshine—and tell her that all would be well. That he was not a perfect man by any means, but he would never hurt her, treat her with disrespect, or ill use her.

  He wanted to whisper reassurances to her now, to kiss her wayward brow, to promise he would be the best husband in his power. But instead he looked down at her upturned face, guileless and wounded, and lost all the pretty words he longed to say.

  “You’ll not leave me,” he said instead.

  But she was rebellious to the last, as proud as any queen as she stared right back at him. “Yes I will. I’ll not be your wife, Lord Ravenscroft. Nor will I share your bed.”

  Chapter 9

  Clara had not yet fallen asleep. She had not joined the earl’s sisters for dinner that night. Nor had she left her chamber since he had escorted her to it in the wake of their virulent row. For what must have been the thousandth time since stepping over the threshold and slamming the door in Ravenscroft’s too-handsome face, she paced the room. According to the mantel clock, it was well after two in the morning.

  He had not come to her. Instead, he’d left before dinner. She’d watched him step out from her window, dark and debonair. Perhaps off in search of his club or some other form of amusement. Not a mistress, she hoped, though she had no right or reason to keep him from indulging his hedonism. His departure rather stung, much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  She detested the weakness within her that missed his presence. He was vital, a man who simultaneously sucked all the air from a room and yet breathed all the life into it. She wanted to rail against him, berate him, dress him down. She wanted to make him suffer and make him pay for deceiving her. But she also wanted him to kiss her. To knock at her door and appear, leonine and seductive, ready to strip away all her protest.

  Somewhere during the course of her hours of reflection, she’d realized that part of her thrilled to the notion of being the earl’s countess. And not just in name only. He had awakened her body. He had charmed her. He’d listened to her, appeared to value her thoughts and opinions. She couldn’t believe his every action had been a ruse. Some men were too facile of tongue, creatures who never listened to a word a lady said. Others listened too much, pretending to care in an effort to use their feigned interest to their advantage. Ravenscroft was neither of those sorts of men. He was, she hated to admit, a law unto his own.

  But what of his motivation? If it was only her dowry he’d been after, he should have been all too happy to see her off to Virginia, depositing her on the nearest docks. He didn’t require her—as he’d pointed out, the marriage settlement was already in his possession. Why then, did he want her as his wife? Did he merely want to bed her? She hardly thought so, for much as she hated to concede it, he likely could have bedded her at any point during their fortnight of courtship if he’d merely pressed her enough. Her resistance was that weak.

  Still he hadn’t done so.

  Even in the carriage that day, he’d put his hand up her skirts, touched her most improperly. But the moment she’d pushed him away, he’d respected her wishes. He could have arrived at her door, could have barged straight through it, at any point between the moment she’d slammed it in his face and now. He had not.

  The Earl of Ravenscroft was a dichotomy. He had spent much of his life in sin. He was a wicked voluptuary. But he had also personally seen to the preparation of her chamber. During her many rounds of pacing, she’d begun to notice small details.

  This chamber, unlike the rest of the house, was not threadbare or outmoded. Its wallpaper was crisp and new, its carpet well-padded and sculpted in a grand design. A corner bookcase possessed an assortment of volumes that were all of interest to her, from a treatise on the female vote to the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. A hand-colored lithograph of a whip-poor-will, a picture of Richmond, and some engravings of the verdant Virginia countryside ornamented the walls.

  He had recalled their conversations, had tried hard to make a space for her that would appeal. It hardly made sense. But then, the man himself scarcely did. Was he gilding her cage? Attempting to win her over? Why had he not come to her? Why had he not made her his wife in deed as well as name?

  Clara stilled as she heard a sudden commotion in the hall. Voices, loud and tight with worry, carried to her. Footsteps sounded, then the crashing open of the door to the earl’s chamber just next door. Something was amiss.

  Heartbeat kicking into a rapid pace, she donned her dressing gown, knotting the belt at her waist. In two steps, she was at the door adjoining her chamber to his, throwing it open to reveal a grim scene. Her mouth went dry as she spotted Ravenscroft’s limp form being carried by the butler and two footmen. His head lolled, his midnight hair and beautiful face drenched in blood.

  Dear God.

  She raced across the chamber, not having a care for her state of undress, and supported his head as the men gently laid him upon his bed. Blood coated her fingers, warm and sticky. A violent wave of nausea hit her. He looked like a corpse. She pressed a bloodied hand to his chest, absorbing the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

  Not dead, thank the Lord.

  But all that blood.

  Her mind spun. “Call for his physician at once.”

  “It is already done, my lady,” said Osgood, the butler.

  “What happened to him?”

  “His lordship was attacked outside after he returned from his club.” If she’d thought him grim before, Osgood was positively funereal now. “Fortunately, the vagabond was scared off before he could do further damage.”

  Attacked.

  Misgiving assailed her. Someone had viciously beaten Ravenscroft outside his very own home. He was a large man, capable and muscled. His assailant must have approached him from behind. He wouldn’t have had a chance of defending himself. Who would do such a thing?

  But her questions would have to be answered later, for now, Ravenscroft needed all her focus and energy to be on tending him. She had never dealt with such an injury. Panic snaked through her. She gripped the earl’s lifeless hand, squeez
ing. “I’ll need clean cloths,” she ordered the butler. “Hot water as well. Bring the doctor to me as soon as he arrives.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  And then he was gone, leaving her alone with her unconscious husband and the ever-growing knot of fear within her.

  * * *

  Clara kept vigil at Ravenscroft’s bedside after the physician had gone. By the time Dr. Redcay arrived, the earl had begun regaining consciousness, making it necessary for the doctor to administer chloroform. She had held Ravenscroft’s hand as Dr. Redcay examined, cleaned, and stitched his wound. Had held her breath as she awaited the serious man’s final diagnosis.

  “Fortunately, there doesn’t appear to be a fracture of the skull, my lady,” the doctor had said. “His lordship’s brain is severely concussed, but I see no reason to attempt trepanning at this juncture. Should he suffer seizures or sudden fever, call for me immediately. I’ve left you some bromide of potash should you require it, but his lordship is generally a strong and healthy man. Change the wound dressing daily as I’ve shown you, using antiseptic. He must rest for several days but he should be back to himself in no time.”

  Clara had nearly swooned with relief at the proclamation, for she’d gotten a good look at the instruments inside Dr. Redcay’s medical case. Thank the Lord he hadn’t used the insidious looking trephine upon Ravenscroft’s skull.

  She would not be made a widow on the second day of her marriage. No, he was not dead. He would survive. Now if only he would wake, she thought, watching him through eyes that burned from lack of sleep. The effects of the chloroform should soon wear off, she hoped.

  Ravenscroft remained in his evening clothes, his form troublingly still. His skin had acquired an unusual pallor, undoubtedly from the blood loss he’d suffered. His hair was damp from her ministrations, his perfection sullied only by the bandage wrapped about his head. Her heart hurt for the pain he must have suffered. How could someone have visited such violence upon him?

  Perhaps more importantly, who?

  The unkind thought occurred to her that perhaps his assailant was a cuckolded husband from his past. Swiftly, she swatted it from her mind. Her first instinct had led her to believe it could have been a cutpurse, but he appeared not to have been robbed of his valuables—he still wore his gold signet ring, wedding band, a pocket watch tucked into his waistcoat. No, a cutpurse likely would not have aimed for such a grave wounding. Whoever had done this to the earl had meant to kill him. She grew more certain of it by the moment.

  Her stomach clenched, bile in her throat. She feared she would vomit, worn down by the aftereffects of shock, lack of sleep, and the realization that someone intended to murder her husband. She stared at his still form, willing her nausea to abate.

  One breath, two breaths, three. She would not lose her nerve now. She focused on him. A fourth breath. A fifth. No, she would not cast up her accounts. Ravenscroft needed her to remain calm. His evening finery disturbed her. For the sake of his comfort, she really ought to remove it. His manservant had fled the chamber long ago, squeamish at the sight of all the earl’s blood.

  And who else should do it, after all? Clara was Ravenscroft’s wife. No, not Ravenscroft, she thought for the first time, but Julian. She squeezed his long fingers again, as if with her mere touch she could force him to wake unscathed. Her anger with him for his clever manipulations could wait. The sight of him, bloodied and unconscious, being carried by servants, had undone her.

  She meant what she’d said to him that day during their walk in the park. She liked him. Far more than she should. In fact, as she watched him, helpless and laid low, a stern protectiveness filled her breast. How dare anyone hurt him? For all that he had a black reputation as an unrepentant sinner, a strong vein of good ran through him.

  Clara released his hand and stood, moving to the foot of the bed. She had no experience in divesting a man of his clothing, and the notion of touching him so intimately made her cheeks go hot and a strange sensation unfurl low in her belly. It was a necessity, she reminded herself. And it was perfectly acceptable now, given their married state. She could tend him at his sickbed without turning into a featherhead.

  She removed his fine leather shoes first, then his silk stockings. Even his large feet possessed an elegant refinement in keeping with the rest of him. They were perfectly formed, not at all ugly as one might expect of a man’s feet. Next, she moved back to the head of the bed, working on his loose-fitting black jacket. His arms were heavier than she’d expected, corded with muscle that her fingers found cause to linger over a moment longer than necessary. His waistcoat proved more difficult to remove, so she settled for undoing the buttons. His crisp white shirt was bespattered with blood. She pressed her hand over his heart, feeling the steady thump and the warmth he radiated.

  Suddenly, he moaned, shifting beneath her hand as he came to.

  * * *

  Julian became aware of his body in stages. His brain felt as though it had swelled three times its normal size and now sought to escape his skull. Pain reverberated through his head. His scalp was pulled tight. Dizziness washed over him, his mind a confused hodgepodge of questions. He was wrapped in a fog, experiencing all sensation with an odd detachment.

  What the hell had happened? He struggled to open his eyes, an act that sent a fresh onslaught of pain hammering into him. The interior of his bedchamber swam before him, the sharp delineations of familiar objects blurring like melted wax from a candle. He was at home then. Thank Christ.

  A small, feminine hand lay atop his chest. When he would have turned his head to identify the hand’s owner, nausea churned through his gut with unexpected violence. He slammed his eyes closed again. The darkness was a comfort, a delicious void into which he could lose himself. His head pounded. Who was in his chamber?

  Lottie? He groped blindly for the presence at his side. His fingers tangled in soft, billowing fabric. No stiff boning kept him from feeling the lush flesh just beneath the garment.

  Not Lottie. Recognition sifted through him like awareness, small grains of sand collecting into a greater conscious. The scent of oranges and musk traveled to him then, mingling with the copper of blood. Clara. His wife. Sweet little dove. He wished he hadn’t plucked the wrong name from the recesses of his aching brain, for he’d never confuse Clara with Lottie. The two couldn’t have been more opposite.

  His hand curved around her waist where it belonged.

  Yes, he recalled now. He was a married man, and his countess had not been pleased to discover his duplicity. They’d rowed. He’d gone to his club, hadn’t he? He’d intended to give her time and space to see reason. He remembered dining at his club. He’d given in to temptation and downed a whisky. The ride home had been ordinary, nothing of note to remark upon. After that, his memory was as blank as a night without stars.

  “Julian?”

  He forced his eyes open again, pleased to at long last hear his name in her buttery drawl. No defiant “Ravenscroft” or “my lord” this time. A worried bite made her tone almost harsh. She was a blur of colors for a moment as she came into focus. Her blonde hair fell unbound in a mass of burnished curls. Half moons darkened the creamy skin beneath her blue eyes. Her lovely face was a study in worry. Blood stained her dressing gown. His blood.

  “Little dove.” He tried to smile in reassurance, but even flexing his facial muscles into a semblance of cheer gave him pain. “You look as if you’ve been to battle.” Even his words emerged slowly at first, as though his mind were a pump that needed priming after the blow he’d taken.

  She looked down at herself, snatching her hand away from his chest and pressing it over the smears on her dressing gown. “I feel as if I’ve been to battle.” Her voice gentled as her gaze snapped back to his, drinking him in or so it seemed. “You gave us all a fright. How do you feel now?”

  He gingerly lifted a hand to touch his head, finding a bandage there. The devil. “I feel like hell. What happened to me?”

  Clara fr
owned. “I was hoping you would remember. Someone attacked you, my lord. You’d just returned from your club. Your driver saw only a fleeting shadow of a figure running away. No other servants were about.”

  Jesus. He forced himself to think again about the drive home. He recalled debating whether or not he would knock on the door joining his chamber to hers. Weighing the merits of drawing out his seduction of her until she was mad for him or simply barging over the threshold and seducing her in one night. Then, the carriage had come to a halt and he’d alighted. He had a vague recollection of taking a few steps, but he couldn’t be sure what, if anything, had occurred beyond the moment the sole of his shoe had touched the ground.

  “I was attacked,” he repeated, feeling fuzzy as he tried to comprehend the knowledge that someone had intentionally wounded him. And from the grinding pain in his cranium, it would seem that his assailant had meant to cause him serious injury. Perhaps even to kill him. A chill of foreboding passed over him. “I recall nothing.”

  “I feared as much.” She caught her luscious lower lip in her teeth, pausing for a beat. She seemed to struggle for words.

  As for him, he most assuredly wasn’t dead yet, for watching her work her lip made his cock stir to life. “Something troubles you. What is it, little dove?”

  “Who would wish you ill, my lord?”

  He made another attempt at a grin. “Damned if I know. I’ve fashioned any number of enemies over the years. None that I’d imagine would stoop to braining me from behind just outside my residence.”

  The temerity of the bastard filled him with an unholy rage. It was his wedding night, by God. He was not meant to be lying abed, half clothed, with his virginal wife tending to him like a bloody nurse. He should have been in her bed, his head between her thighs, making her spend. He would find whoever was responsible for this travesty and feed him his teeth.