“He doesn’t already have a bedroom?” Mr. Ackley asked. “Surely you chose bedrooms when you arrived.”
“Of course,” Mama said. “I—er—only meant...”
“That he might bleed on the bedding,” Genevieve said.
“Yes.” Mama nodded eagerly. “That head wound. It looks atrocious.”
“And he hasn’t woken up,” the younger Mr. Ackley said.
“That is worrying,” Mr. Ackley said. “I’ll make sure the doctor calls on him in the next days.”
“Splendid,” Genevieve said. “Please take him to the first room on the right.”
The younger Mr. Ackley lay him on the bed, then covered the duke with a blanket.
“Thank you. We are very grateful. But now you must leave,” Mama said forcefully. “You’ve been so kind. My son-in-law will be most appreciative when he awakes.”
If he awakes.
Genevieve’s stomach clenched, but she forced herself to smile brightly and say goodbye.
Mama closed the door, then stared at Genevieve.
“What did you do?” Genevieve asked. “You told them I was married to him!”
“They thought you were a lady of the night.”
“I’m sure there are other ways of clearing that fact up.”
“It was the first thing I could think of,” Mama said in an aggrieved tone. “You were being silent. Besides, they’re happy now, and they carried him to the cottage.”
“But—”
“No one will know,” Mama said. “The duke doesn’t live here. Once he wakes up he’ll be sure to want to desire to return to his manor house. He certainly won’t be in the mood for any swimming.”
Genevieve blinked. “That seems reasonable.”
Her mother gave a smug smile. “I may not have attended your much-adored finishing school with you, but I have some intelligence.”
“Clearly,” Genevieve said.
Her mother beamed. “Once the duke wakes up, he’ll be eager to leave. When Mr. and Mrs. Ackley return, we’ll simply say your husband had to leave on business matters. Men are always leaving on business matters. It will be quite believable. No one will suspect you’re not married to him. People don’t lie about such things.”
“And then I won’t be forced to be matchmaked with their son.” Genevieve smiled.
Her mother’s eyes no longer sparkled. “The younger Mr. Ackley didn’t seem like a horrible match, my dear. There are some advantages to being a bishop’s wife.”
“Nevertheless, I have no interest.”
Her mother appeared worried, but then she shrugged. “I suppose you should consider yourself fortunate that we have adopted a new name for this visit.”
“Yes,” Genevieve said reluctantly. She tilted her head. “If you want to share why we had to leave Cumberland...”
The novel nonchalant expression on her mother’s face shattered. Her face stiffened, and Genevieve regretted her question.
“I need to change his bandage,” Genevieve said. “And clean his wound.”
“Do you think he’s in danger?” Mama asked, a worried look on her face.
“I mean—” Genevieve stared again at the duke. “He’s unconscious. Normally, that’s a bad sign.”
“I wish we had some leeches,” Mama moaned. “No doubt, he needs his blood to be drawn.”
Genevieve nodded. Personally, she found putting leeches to draw blood from people an odd practice, but one could not argue with doctors’ insistence of its general helpfulness, and it seemed unlikely to cause harm.
“I wish we weren’t new here,” Mother said.
Genevieve agreed. If this had happened in Cumberland, she would know exactly what to do. She knew the name and address of the doctor, and she knew just who to send for assistance.
“Do we have any cloth?”
Mama sighed. “I have some material for making clothes. I suppose he can use it.”
“Good.”
Mama strode to a chest and lifted up the heavy wooden lid. Genevieve was accustomed to Mama having an entire sewing room, and her heart tightened.
This was not how things should be.
Mama picked up her sewing material. “Do you think he prefers calico or toile?”
Genevieve stared at the fabric. “Those are the only options?”
“I’m hardly going to give my best fabric to a man who will only bleed on it.”
Genevieve nodded. “In that case, toile. He might find the Frenchness adventuresome.”
He might also loathe it, but Genevieve hardly concerned herself with that.
After all, the whole point of binding his head was so he might recover with a minimum of infections. She rather suspected he’d fought in France and might be reluctant to have anything that might remind him of that time, as if the continued existence of French fabrics were a personal insult to their months or years of fighting.
Genevieve cleaned the wound, then wrapped Mama’s toile fabric over his head.
“It looks like he’s wearing a dreadful hat,” Mama observed.
“Perhaps it will ensure he continues to live.”
“Let’s hope so,” Mama said. “Otherwise, we’ll get questions on how he was allowed to die like that.”
An uncomfortable feeling settled in Genevieve’s stomach.
Mama was correct.
They couldn’t let him die. He was a duke. Questions were normally asked after dukes died, questions that no doubt they didn’t want to answer. The Duke of Sandridge was in his prime: no one expected him to die, and he didn’t have a convenient male son to seamlessly insert himself into his father’s role.
Death was always sad, even though Genevieve was not unaccustomed to it.
Her parents were both alive, but none of her grandparents were. Similarly, her great-uncles and great-aunts had long passed away, leaving Genevieve with memories of stern-faced wrinkled men with a fondness for pink tailcoats and similarly stern-appearing women who inched about the house in wide-hemmed dresses that differed from the simple, classical lines her mother favored.
“I’ll make certain our patient is doing well.” Mama exited the room.
Genevieve stared for a moment through the window, taking in the sight of the consistent ebb and flow of the waves, the exact angle varying slightly each time, but the force always unmistakable.
She shivered, conscious how easily the duke might have succumbed.
CHAPTER SIX
“HE’S MOVING, MAMA!” A high-pitched voice sounded beside Sebastian’s ear, and he shifted irritably.
Whoever said children sounded like angels had been mistaken.
Footsteps plodded through the room, as if a miniature elephant were roaming about it. Perhaps one of his friends had brought a foal or other animal into his house. It wouldn’t be the first time one of his friends from the now-defunct Hades’ Lair had decided to play a prank on him.
No doubt, there was no small child here either. Just one of his friends, testing his falsetto abilities.
Sebastian grudgingly opened his eyes. He blinked. Normally, when Sebastian opened his eyes, he gazed upon a particularly naughty French painting: Venus in Repose. The white plaster before him was an imperfect replacement. Sebastian rather missed Venus’s soft, rounded curves and the manner in which her skin glowed on the silky strands of verdant grass the painter had depicted her on.
Where on earth was he?
His head ached. Pain ripped through it, accompanied by an odd pounding, as if some tin miner had crawled into his head and had decided to dig his way out, armed solely with his hammer and chisel.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Well, the horrible pain rather explained things. Obviously, he’d managed to get absolutely drunk last night.
He scrunched his forehead together. Clearly, the public house needed to improve the quality of their spirits. They must have sold him firewater, at a potency that even he couldn’t be expected to drink unscathed.
&nbs
p; He would have to speak with the manager immediately.
He nodded. If his head pounded in such a ferocious manner, then others’ heads must also pound in a ferocious manner. It was only polite to inform them of where they were going wrong.
This bed, certainly, was imperfect. It was lumpy. He wriggled in it. Yes, it was decidedly lumpy. Clearly, they hadn’t changed the feathers in years. What sort of establishment used old feathers? He shook his head. Obviously, this place lacked standards.
“Mama! Mama!” the boy called. “Genevieve!”
Sebastian frowned. Was this public house run entirely by females?
No doubt, this person’s mother was simply a servant here.
Footsteps approached him.
Sebastian didn’t bother to turn his head. Turning his head would be painful, given his outrageous hangover.
“Can you please bring me some coffee?” Sebastian asked.
“See? He’s talking,” said the high-pitched boy again.
“How marvelous,” said a female voice.
Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Most of his friends said Sebastian was always quick to take an opportunity to brag, but he wondered whether he might have met someone even quicker to give him compliments than himself.
Talking was an activity he’d mastered by the time he was two, and he’d just been increasing the frequency of his use of multi-syllabic words since then. Perhaps Sebastian hadn’t given himself enough credit for that achievement, and he flashed a beatific smile at the maids who approached.
There were two of them: both had blonde hair, though their ages varied.
He gazed at them sternly. “I want to speak with your manager.”
“Manager?” the older maid said with a bemused expression on her face.
Sebastian nodded firmly, then grimaced. “I have a hangover.”
The two women glanced at each other, then the little boy pressed his round cherubic face at him.
“What does hangover mean?” the little boy asked.
Sebastian shifted his legs, and an odd embarrassment passed through him. He didn’t seem to be wearing much. Had he had a woman in here last night? He definitely had a hangover now if he couldn’t remember her.
“A hangover is something adults have,” Sebastian replied, answering the boy’s question.
“I want a hangover!” the child exclaimed. “Mama, can I have a hangover?”
“No, Billy.”
“Please? Pleeeeeeeease?”
“You don’t want one,” Sebastian told him quickly. “It hurts.”
The boy scrutinized him and wrinkled his brow. “Like a bellyache.”
Sebastian nodded, then winced. “And like a headache.”
The boy’s mouth fell open, evidently horrified by the description, and Sebastian turned his head to the women.
“Please fetch me some coffee,” Sebastian said, then removed his gaze from them.
Movement sounded, then one of the women pressed a cup of coffee to his mouth.
Sebastian drank it eagerly.
“You must think it strange to be here,” the younger woman ventured.
He stared at her.
The woman was strikingly pretty. Cerulean eyes looked at him shyly, and her peaches-and-cream complexion seemed a particularly ripe shade of peach, as if she were uncomfortable in his presence.
“You needn’t feel shy,” he said generously.
“Very well, Your Grace.”
He blinked. “Oh, I’m not a duke.”
The women looked at each other again.
“Not that I want to disappoint you.” Sebastian gazed at the pretty woman. No doubt, she’d been hopeful at meeting a duke. Though there was nothing particularly special about being a duke, he supposed people thought it slightly more interesting to meet a duke, than just, meeting a man with blond hair. Plenty of men had blond hair. In fact, everyone in this room had blond hair, including the child.
“My second cousin is a duke though,” he said. “So I have met a duke before. If you think that’s special. In fact, I’m on my way to visit him now.”
He beamed, glancing again at the pretty woman.
“You think we haven’t met dukes before?” the woman asked in a strange voice.
“Have I offended you?” He furrowed his brow. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“How does your head feel?” the older woman asked.
His head throbbed like the devil, but instead of detailing his agony, Sebastian forced himself to give a bright smile. “I’m quite well.”
For some reason, the women looked skeptical.
Damnation.
“I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself last night,” he said.
“A fool?”
He shrugged. “Insisting people gamble with me, attempt to stand on my head—though the latter activity might explain my head’s current discomfort, and whatever else a person might do when inebriated.”
Please don’t say that I was sick.
There were some things that were rather too mortifying
“So, you don’t remember yesterday?” the younger woman asked.
Sebastian shifted his legs on the bed. “Of course, I remember.”
He certainly wasn’t going to admit that he’d been so drunk that he couldn’t remember. He sighed and stretched his arms. “Well, I should get moving.”
The women cast nervous glances at each other. He’d never met two more skittish maids. Most maids didn’t even interact with him, preferring to come to clean after he’d left his chambers. He appreciated it when a maid came in to light a fire in the morning, but this was summer, and a quick glance of the room ascertained there was no fire.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to rest,” the older maid suggested.
“Rest? Me?” He chuckled. “That’s not a word people tend to associate with me.”
“I believe it,” the younger maid said drily.
He turned his head toward her, enjoying the manner in which light beams darted from the window, scattering her body in a warm golden glow. She wore a plain navy muslin gown. Evidently, this wasn’t the sort of establishment that required their staff to wear uniforms. The quality of the garment was good: perhaps she’d worked as a servant at some fine house before. Certainly, he doubted this posting inn paid well. The paint peeled from some corners of the room, the poor quality perhaps amplified by the moisture swarming in the nearby English Channel.
“I like you,” he announced.
The woman’s pale blue eyes widened, and she drew back. The navy fabric of her dress tightened as she moved, revealing a delightful, feminine curve.
He wouldn’t mind undressing her, and he winked. “Perhaps you can show me around Cornwall.”
For some odd reason, her face whitened, and a horrified expression sailed over her face, like the Spanish Armada appearing on the horizon for the first time.
He frowned.
Most women, when he acted flirtatiously, giggled. Some of them swept their hair behind their ears, some of them smoothed their dresses, and some of them fluttered their lashes as their cheeks pinkened.
None of them shot him horrified expressions.
Damnation, again.
A knock sounded.
“Ah, what do we have here?” a deep baritone asked from behind the door.
The two women looked appalled. Their backs tensed, and their fingers quivered. Sebastian had an odd urge to hold the younger woman’s hand and reassure her.
The door opened, and two people strode into the room. Both sported gray hair.
“Please wait in the drawing room,” the older maid said.
The newcomers stiffened.
“It’s quite fine,” Sebastian said in a reassuring tone. “I don’t mind, at all.”
The older couple beamed, and Sebastian smiled. He wasn’t going to relegate anyone to another room. Not if they didn’t want to be there.
“Are you the proprietors?” he asked them.
The newcomers wid
ened their eyes.
“Of what?” the man finally asked.
Sebastian frowned. These people were behaving oddly. What other establishments were there besides this?
“My husband is a vicar,” the older woman said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the vicar said.
The two women seemed stricken by the vicar’s words. At least, their backs tensed, their hands quivered, and they pasted tight smiles on their faces. Perhaps they hadn’t been attending church with sufficient regularity, and the presence of the vicar disquieted them. Perhaps they were uneasy, anticipating the vicar or his wife might speak about the uncomfortable warmth hellfire caused, and their likelihood of not enjoying an eternity of avoiding pitchfork brandishing demons.
He sent them a sympathetic gaze.
“I’m afraid these two women have been occupied with caring for me,” Sebastian said. “So that’s why they haven’t been at church.”
The younger woman jerked her head toward him, and he winked at her. For some reason, the action seemed to cause her hands to tremble further.
Perhaps winking at her was overly forward. Once these people left, he would see to it that he spoke to her in private. Then, he’d tell her she was beautiful, inquire if she were married, and if not—Heavens, he hoped the answer was no, he would inquire if she wanted to spend the day with him.
“You had quite a nasty accident,” the man said.
“I did?” Sebastian furrowed his brow.
The man stared at him oddly. “Don’t you remember?”
Sebastian was silent, but his heart pounded more.
He hadn’t been swimming here. He would have remembered that.
“It’s a good thing we spotted your wife,” the man said. “She wouldn’t have been able to carry you up without our help.”
Sebastian blinked. “My wife?”
“You seem surprised by that statement,” the vicar said.
The older woman gave an odd laugh. “Naturally, you have a wife. The poor man truly has hit his head.”
“But I don’t have—”
The older woman pointed at the pretty blonde. “That is your wife.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“ARE YOU SAYING,” THE duke said, “that I’m married to her?”
A Duke Never Forgets (The Duke Hunters Club, #3) Page 5
