by Aston, Alexa
“We need to get you back to bed,” she said breathlessly. Immediately, images of him naked in bed—with her—filled her mind.
“I don’t know if I can make it that far,” he admitted, his breathing rapid.
“Let’s try.” She turned him in the direction of the bedchamber. “Take a few steps.”
“No. Guide me to the settee,” he instructed.
They shuffled toward it and he collapsed. Phoebe merely stared at him a moment. While he had felt large and powerful as she’d been nestled in his arms, she saw the effort he’d put into their kiss had drained him of all his strength.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said. “Hot and strong and very sweet. You need it.”
She stoked the fire and put the kettle on, glad to have something to do. Though she longed to lose herself in daydreams of their kiss, it was better for her to keep busy. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she brought in the two remaining buckets of water and all the food which she’d purchased. She put away the eggs and then decided to soft boil a couple. Eggs would be good for him.
The kettle whistled and she prepared the tea, letting it steep as she took out cups and saucers and honey to sweeten it. Grabbing the broom, she began sweeping the water which had spilled from the buckets out the door. Whatever remained, she could mop up later.
After she completed her task, she poured out cups for them both, adding a generous amount of honey to Mr. Andrew’s and placing two raisin scones on a plate, along with the eggs. She put all the items on a tray and brought it to the table in front of the settee, looking at him for the first time. His face didn’t bear the strain she’d seen earlier. In fact, his color was good. She handed him the saucer and a spoon.
“Stir it well. It will take a few moments for the honey to dissolve.”
He did as told and said, “I’ve never had honey in my tea, only lumps of sugar.”
“I find honey gives the brew a pleasant taste. Plus, you don’t need to use nearly as much of it to sweeten your tea. If you drink it without, I’m sorry. I find when my strength is sagging, a shot of honey does the trick.”
He chuckled. “Then perhaps I should down your entire pot of it. It may speed up my recovery.”
The thought of him leaving saddened her. Phoebe had thought she wanted to be rid of him. Their kiss had changed her mind. She wished she could think of a way to keep him here longer.
“How long do you think it will take you to recover from your wound?” she asked.
One brow cocked up. “Are you already tired of my company, Mrs. Smith?”
“No, it’s not that,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve just never been around this particular problem. I have no idea what the recovery period involves.”
“I have. I saw plenty of gunshot wounds during the war. It varies.” He paused to sip the tea. “Ah, that certainly hits the spot. But as to your question, it depends upon where the person was shot. A gut wound usually kills its victim or they linger in agony for far too long before death claims them. If the lead shot hits bone, you must factor in the healing of both flesh and bone. Since only skin and tissue were damaged in this instance, I should begin to build my stamina now that the fever has passed. A week after being wounded, I will be up to half my usual strength. By the end of the second week, I will look and feel close to normal but it will probably take a third week to pass before I truly begin to function properly.”
“I see.”
Would he stay three weeks? Or leave in a few days? She was afraid to ask.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with all the spilled water. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I awoke and called out and you didn’t answer. When I made my way in here and you weren’t nearby, I began to worry about you.”
“I was running low on supplies. Eat your scones,” she prompted.
He bit into one. “Oh, my goodness.”
Phoebe grinned. “They are wonderful, aren’t they? The local baker is quite talented.” So talented that she wished she could hire him when she left the Falmouth area.
Mr. Andrew frowned. “Aren’t you having any?”
“I bought them for you.”
“I insist. Take one.”
“No, they are for you.”
“Then take a bite of one.”
He tore off a piece and held it up. Before she could reach for it, he touched it to her lips. She opened her mouth, accepting it, and shivered at the brush of his fingers against her jaw. It seemed quite intimate for him to be feeding her. She took a quick swallow of tea, hoping to hide the blush that heated her cheeks.
“Is town far from here? And where exactly is here?” he asked.
“This is Falmouth Cottage. We’re south of Truro but not quite to Lizard’s Point. Falmouth is the closest village and it is two miles from here.”
“You walked two miles and back again, lugging all those goods?”
“Yes. I’ve always enjoyed walking, even in my youth. I go into Falmouth a couple of times a week, especially for fresh eggs, bread, and fish.”
“You also brought fish?”
“I did and I stopped at the butcher’s, as well. I was going to put on a stew for dinner.” She sighed. “I may wait and save that for tomorrow. Frying up some fish will be quicker and easier. I prefer a stew to sit for a good while so the flavors blend.”
Phoebe had only learned to cook recently, when she’d leased the cottage. Her repertoire was limited. She hoped he would enjoy the simple fare she made.
“I adore fish, no matter how it’s prepared,” he declared. “I missed eating it during the war.”
“How long were you a soldier?” she asked, wanting to glean some information about him.
“Five years.” A shadow crossed his face. “I wanted to do right by my country but seeing men die on a daily basis hardens a man. Especially when they are your friends.”
She placed her hand atop his. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. I won’t mention it again.”
Realizing what she’d done, she withdrew her hand but he caught it and entwined his fingers with hers. She looked at him, puzzled by his action. Nervous. Thrilled.
“Sometimes, it’s nice to have human contact. Holding your hand brings me comfort, Mrs. Smith,” he explained. “I remember you held it when I was fevered.”
“I did,” she admitted.
He smiled and her heart skipped a beat. “I am sure it helped see me through the worst of it.” He hesitated. “It helps me even now, talking about the ugliness of war.” He squeezed her fingers slightly.
“I am sure I could never comprehend what you went through, Mr. Andrew. I do thank you for your service to our country, however.”
He continued holding her hand as he finished his scone and the eggs and drank the rest of his tea. Then he yawned.
“You are tired,” she said worriedly. “I had wanted to come home and heat water so you could have a bath.”
His eyes twinkled. “I would probably fall asleep if submerged in warm water. You’d have to come and save me all over again.”
Phoebe giggled. “I fear I am too tired to do that, Sir. Why don’t we try again to get you to the bed? You can sleep for an hour or two. By then, I’ll have dinner ready for you.”
She pulled her fingers from his grasp and took his saucer and plate and placed them on the tray. He pushed himself to his feet and she slipped her arm about his waist. Together, they slowly made their way to the bedchamber. Funny how she’d forgotten he was naked to the waist as they talked over tea. She guided him to the bed and he sat.
“You should take your breeches off after I go,” she suggested. “I’ll bring your food to you so that you might remain in bed. I believe you’ve had more than enough activity for one day. Tomorrow, I will see to your bath. You’ll feel a world of difference after that.”
“Very well.”
She went to the door and started to close it. She’d already seen him completely naked once and didn’t plan to do so again.
“Mrs. Smith?” he
called out.
“Yes?”
He gazed at her a long moment and she worried he was going to bring up the kiss. She didn’t think she could talk about it with him or she would turn red to her roots. She didn’t know what had gotten into her. It certainly wasn’t something that should be repeated. It was best that neither of them acknowledge it had occurred. Best to sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened.
“I was wondering if it might be possible . . . that is, oh, never mind. I will see you shortly.”
Phoebe wondered what he was going to ask of her as she closed the door.
Chapter Ten
“Oh, bloody brilliant, Andrew,” he said under his breath as he watched the door close.
He’d wanted to ask what her Christian name was. After all, once you’d kissed someone the way they had kissed each other, it was only fitting to be on a first-name basis. Something told him, though, that the lovely Mrs. Smith didn’t want any mention of the kiss, despite how she had responded to it.
He’d known almost immediately that she’d never been kissed before. Or at least not how he had kissed her. It made him even more curious about the deceased Mr. Smith. How old he’d been. How and when he’d died. What their marriage had been like. It certainly hadn’t involved much kissing because she did it like a virgin. Somehow, that appealed to him greatly. His beautiful angel almost untouched by a man. Andrew was glad he’d been the one to introduce her to proper kissing and couldn’t wait to do it again with her.
If she’d let him.
She’d been incredibly shy when they’d started. As she’d warmed to him, she became braver. Bolder. She mimicked what he did and it had rocked him to his core. Andrew was used to experienced women, ones where kissing had almost become passé. Mrs. Smith made him feel like a schoolboy again, discovering the sweetness and joy and passion of simply kissing. He longed to spend hours with her doing just that. He’d pull her into his lap and devote a good afternoon to kissing her.
Of course, he wanted more than her lips to touch his. He wanted to kiss the long, elegant throat. Feel the pulse jump there. Kiss her nape. The shell of her ear. Her bare shoulder. The back of her knee. He wanted to spend a good hour on each breast, dining on them as if they were a meal. He wanted to kiss her delicate feet and work his way up her calves, all the way to her core. Once there, he would plunge his tongue deep inside her, tasting her essence. He knew instinctively that no man had ever made a foray there. He would be the first—and last.
Now, he just had to convince her to marry him.
Andrew could be proud at times and this was one of them. He wanted the delightful Mrs. Smith to want him—not the Duke of Windham. He wanted to win her as himself, not as some title he still had a hard time believing was his. He wondered how long it would take. Days? A week or two? How long would she allow him to remain so he could press his suit?
He sighed and stood, unbuttoning his trousers. It was much easier to push them down and work them over his feet than it had been to struggle pulling them up. He almost left them crumpled on the floor but remembered there was no valet to come along and pick them up, much less clean and press them. Because of that, Andrew lifted and folded them neatly. He leaned and tossed them onto the chair. Thankfully, they hit it perfectly and stayed in place.
Leaning back, he stretched out on the bed, remembering to capture the bedclothes and tug them up to his waist. It wouldn’t do to have the almost-virginal Mrs. Smith come in with a supper tray and find him sprawled atop the covers, bare as the day he was born. He closed his eyes, thinking of how he could convince her to cast aside her own clothes and come to bed with him. He believed he had sparked need within her. Awakened a sleeping giant of passion that was eager to come out and play.
All he had to do was discover what it would take to persuade her to join him.
He dozed and then came to, smelling the fish she’d promised to make. His mouth salivated at the thought of it. Andrew prepared himself for her visit, slipping his pillows behind his back and sitting up against them. Then he closed his eyes and relived the never-ending kiss. If he’d had his way, it might well have gone into tomorrow—but his damned legs had betrayed him. He was still far too weak and hadn’t wanted to go tumbling into the water that covered the floor, taking her with him. Although the thought of a wet, slightly bedraggled Mrs. Smith appealed to him immensely. It would mean stripping the wet garments from her and taking his time to dry her. He could picture her in nothing but a towel, her ivory skin smooth, the swell of her breasts tantalizing him as her long, shapely legs peered out from beneath it.
Andrew imagined a half-dozen ways to remove the towel from her, each involving his hands and mouth and tongue. He shuddered, the thought of her naked more enticing than any experience he’d shared with another woman. Why did this angelic widow have such a hold on him?
It didn’t matter. Somehow, some way, he was going to make her his wedded wife.
The sound of footsteps approached and he opened his eyes, drawing in a long, cleansing breath as his hostess opened the door. Although the familiar lavender wafting from her skin had become his favorite scent, the freshly fried fish almost won out. His stomach gurgled noisily and she laughed.
“That’s a good sign, Mr. Andrew. I only hope you’ll enjoy the fish. I’m not the most talented cook.”
His eyes followed her as she entered the room and set the tray down in front of him. He’d gone from battlefield food, which was barely edible slop to having one of the finest cooks in England. He’d attended dinner parties in London, where the fish course was baked with butter and various herbs. These fried pieces of what looked like cod, though, were something he knew would satisfy him. The fish was accompanied by potatoes and two more of the delicious raisin scones. A small pot of tea rested on the tray, as well.
“I’ll leave you to your supper,” Mrs. Smith said and turned to go.
“No. Please, stay,” he encouraged.
She hesitated a moment and then took a seat in the chair by the bed.
“Have you eaten already?” he asked.
“No. I’ll do so after you. I wanted to be sure you were taken care of first.”
“Would you care to share my meal? There’s plenty here for the both of us.”
She smiled. “I’d rather you eat it all so you may return to vigorous health.”
Reluctantly, he began eating. The batter on the fish was crunchy and yet the fish inside quite tender.
“You are an excellent cook, Mrs. Smith. This might be the best piece of fried fish I have ever eaten.”
Her cheeks pinkened. It was so easy to cause a blush to rise on them. Andrew thought of things he wanted to do to her that would have her turning bright red. He would teach her not to be embarrassed by such things. Rather, she would learn to want them—and ask for them from him.
Caesar appeared, springing onto the bed in a smooth movement. He studied Andrew’s plate and then turned away, circling three times and settling against his ankles near the foot of the bed.
“A cat who doesn’t like fish?” he asked.
Mrs. Smith’s rich, throaty chuckle caused a frisson of desire to run through him. “He prefers sardines and got some just before I brought in your tray.”
“How long have you had Caesar?”
“Not long.”
It seems she wasn’t willing to give away much about herself, which frustrated him. Trying a new tactic, he asked, “How was your trip into Falmouth today?”
“The same as usual. I made many of my familiar stops. Mrs. Butler, who runs the largest shop in town, was in a mood to gossip.”
He finished the first fillet off and asked, “What did today’s gossip feature? A couple announcing their betrothal? A new baby? Someone who’s bought a new boat or horse?”
“None of that. Today’s only topic centered upon a missing duke.”
Andrew stilled and then reached for his tea, not wanting her to know how her words affected him.
After sipp
ing some, he asked, “So, who is this missing duke? And when did he go missing?”
She thought a moment. “Hmm. Mrs. Butler did mention his title. I’m afraid I can’t recall it. I do remember that she said was he was from Somerset. Or maybe Devon. I can’t recall. Anyway, he has an estate here which he was visiting. Morefield? Morewood? Something like that. And Mrs. Butler said that he’s considered quite handsome.”
He picked up a scone and bit into it to have something to do. “Why do they think he’s gone missing?”
She chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not one for gossip. I was also anxious to return here before you awakened. Let me think.” She worried her lip and Andrew almost leaped from the bed, hot desire flooding him. “Mrs. Butler said something about his horse being found. Oh, and a brother he’s quite close to has now arrived. He’s despondent over His Grace’s disappearance and wants the local authorities to be called in to aid in the search.”
He’d been afraid of that. He didn’t want to be found here. Especially not before he told Mrs. Smith who he really was. He needed time to woo her before she discovered his true identity. What angered him most was Francis pretending to be an upset, worried brother. Anger began rising within Andrew. He truly believed if his half-brother walked into the room that he could kill him with his bare hands.
“I hope this duke will be found,” he said.
“I do, too. Especially because of his brother. If my sister went missing, I would be out of my mind with worry.”
Finally, a piece of information revealed. “You have a sister?”
“Yes, a very pretty, very happily married one. Letty is her name, short for Leticia. She’s going to have a baby come January. I am eager to become a doting aunt.”
“Where does Letty live?”
Mrs. Smith licked her lips. “London.”
“Is that where you are from?”
“No. I come from Somerset.” Her tone shifted.
Still, he kept digging. “Will you go see your sister once the baby arrives?”
“Yes, I plan to go to her before the baby is born. We are very close. I raised Letty. She was only three when our mother died. I was ten. It was left to me to see she had all she needed.”
