by Burke, Darcy
Lord Colton pulled his coat off and dropped it to the floor, then began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
“What are you doing?”
“I fear my ribs are bruised. Or broken.” He winced again as he drew the waistcoat off. Then he tugged away his cravat and tried to peer down the open neckline of his shirt. Holding the linen away from his chest, he scowled. Muttering a curse, he pulled the shirt over his head with a groan. “That’s better,” he said as he surveyed his chest once more.
A faint bruise already colored the left side between his breast and abdomen. A rather muscular breast and abdomen.
Jane pivoted from him as she realized she’d been staring. Perhaps he should rest before she threw him out.
“I think I should rest,” he mumbled, giving voice to her thoughts. He fell backward onto the bed, gasping. “Ow.” He gingerly touched his face.
Jane looked toward the table on the other side of the bed and realized that was the one that had been overturned. “Where is the salve?” she asked.
“Somewhere,” Meg said. “I’ll find it.” The maid went to the other side of the chamber in search of the ointment.
“Jones, will you remove his lordship’s boots?” Jane asked. She felt bad asking him and Meg to help the viscount when he’d behaved so reprehensibly, but she knew his mind was altered by drink and likely pain. Yes, perhaps it was best that he stay. For now. She turned her attention back to him to see that he was staring up at her in consternation.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
She ignored the question. “You’re going to stay here for now.”
His lips spread into a leer—albeit a rather charming one. “Only if you promise to stay with me.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You need sleep.”
Lord Colton stared down the bed as Jones pulled off his second boot. “Or him.” He waggled his brows suggestively.
Shaking her head, she sent another apologetic look to Jones. “Perhaps you should help him back to unconsciousness.”
The footman smirked. “I’d be delighted to.”
Jane smiled in return. “Just stay outside near the door, if you don’t mind. I daresay he will have tired himself out after all that nonsense.” In answer to her prognostication, the viscount’s snores filled the room.
Meg came around to her side of the bed with the jar of salve. “Found it.”
Jane took the medicine. “Thank you. Will you bring fresh water?” The cut on his cheek had started bleeding again. She wondered if it needed stitching, which would require a physician.
Meg took herself off, and Jane stared down at her patient. Yes, he was now in her care. At least for the time being. “You are a mess,” she said softly as she removed the lid from the salve.
Dipping her fingers into the thick unguent, she spread it along the redness of his jaw where another bruise was beginning to form. Then on his cheek, careful not to disturb the cut too much. She moved up to his swollen eye and then the other side of his face, which, while less battered, was beginning to show colors that said it had not been ignored during the tussle.
And what tussle was that? What had he done to warrant such a beating? She flinched inwardly, thinking of the violence that must have transpired even as she recalled seeing him fight at the masquerade ball at Brixton Park last month. Had this behavior become the norm for him? She couldn’t quite reconcile that with the gentleman she’d met a few years ago. But then that had been before he’d taken up with Phoebe’s husband, the Marquess of Ripley. Ripley was an inveterate rake with little concern for Society’s rules. Or he had been before he’d met Phoebe. Now he was hopelessly in love and quite reformed.
As far as Jane knew, Ripley hadn’t ever been a fighter. In fact, he was the one who’d put a stop to Colton’s altercation at the ball. Was he aware of what Colton had been up to? Perhaps Ripley could help.
Jane shook her head. Of course he wasn’t aware—he was enjoying his newly wedded bliss with Phoebe, as he should. Jane would not trouble him, or Phoebe, with this. Not for now, anyway.
Finished with his face, Jane looked at the bruising on his chest. Had it spread just since he’d first removed his shirt?
She swallowed as she covered her fingers with more salve and contemplated the inappropriateness of massaging a man’s naked chest. A man who wasn’t her husband and who was residing in her home. A home in which she lived by herself in flagrant disregard of Society’s rules. Oh dear, was she now, somehow, a female version of Ripley?
The thought brought a smile to her lips. Since Phoebe had done this before Jane, perhaps it was that Phoebe was the female version of Ripley and that was how they’d come to find each other.
But no, Phoebe hadn’t been rakish at all. On the contrary, she’d wanted nothing to do with men for reasons that were entirely understandable and unassailable.
Jane, however, was not the same as Phoebe. She was rather…interested in men. In fact, she’d never been more aware of that until this moment as her fingertips caressed the hard, muscular plane of Lord Colton’s rather estimable chest.
Moving quickly, her cheeks flaming, she finished her task. What on earth was she doing? She’d left her parents and declared her spinsterhood, moving here just to avoid a marriage they were pushing her into.
Not wanting Mr. Brinkley doesn’t mean you don’t want any man.
Jane exhaled. That was true. Indeed, since her friend Arabella and then Phoebe had both recently wed—and quite happily—Jane was feeling…unsettled. Not because she desperately wanted a husband. No, she wanted what a husband could give her—that secret smile of satisfaction that both her friends now wore when they spoke of their husbands or looked in their direction. The way their eyes lit with heat and…desire. Jane wanted that.
How ironic since she’d now put herself in a position so as to make that happening even less likely than it was before. Ironic and frustrating.
Frowning, she put the top back on the salve. Her gaze traveled down Lord Colton’s body until she saw his stockings. Those should probably come off too.
She set the salve on the edge of the bed and then moved down to tug the stockings from his feet. As she exposed his calves and the dark hair covering them, her belly fluttered. Inappropriate didn’t begin to cover this situation.
Now that his feet were bare, she wondered if the rest of him should be too. Surely he’d be more comfortable. And shouldn’t she check for further injuries?
No. She’d let the discreet physician—assuming they could find one—take care of that.
Scoffing, she stepped away from the bed. She had no business taking any pleasure from caring for Lord Colton. Especially when he’d hit her footman and flirted with her maid.
Meg returned just then with the water. She glanced around, clearly to see where to place it.
“Here, let me.” Jane rushed to right the table and positioned it next to the bed so Meg could place the ewer on it. Then Meg fetched the basin and the towels, which she set beside the ewer.
Jane turned to her. “Did Lord Colton hurt you in any way?”
“No, miss. I don’t think he even realized who I was. He asked me to dance, then suggested we could find a dark corner in the garden afterward.” She laughed. “I think he thought I was a lady.”
Jane shook her head. “I’m relieved to hear it was nothing more than that. Thank you for your help. Will you see if Culpepper is free?”
“I am here, miss,” the butler said, stepping into the room, his gaze falling on the broken pottery. “Meg, will you tidy this up, please?”
“Right away.” Meg took herself off, probably to fetch a broom.
Culpepper approached the bed with a frown. “I see he’s fallen back asleep.”
“Yes, after stripping off his clothing,” Jane said. “He said his ribs may be broken. And his face is bleeding again.” She frowned. “We may not know of a discreet physician, but we need to find one.” She looked at Culpepper, and he met her gaze. “Can you do that?”
&n
bsp; The butler gave her a single nod. “I will.”
Jane’s lips curled into an appreciative smile. “How lovely. Thank you, Culpepper.”
“Will there be anything else, miss?”
She’d been about to say no, but then realized there was something else. “Yes, in fact there is. I need a kitten.”
Chapter 2
Anthony Colton tried to roll to his side, but pain shot from his abdomen, forcing a moan from his parched throat. Blinking his eyes open—rather, one eye since the other seemed to not want to cooperate—he struggled to sit up. Though he could only see from one eye, one thing was plainly apparent: this was not his bedchamber.
He brought his hand to his face and winced, letting out a hiss of pain.
Two things, actually. Someone had beaten him to a pulp. God, his head felt as if it might explode. Perhaps that would be for the best.
He let his hand fall back down to the bed beside him, then winced once more as his knuckles brushed the bedclothes. He brought his hand back up and squinted at the back of it. Judging from the scabs and reddened flesh, he’d maybe beaten the other man to an equal state of collapse.
Anthony tried again to sit up, gritting his teeth through the agony shooting through him. Once he was upright, he had to stop to catch his breath. He took the opportunity to look around the room, a medium-sized bedchamber scarcely lit by a candle beside the bed and the coals in the fireplace. Where the bloody hell was he?
He didn’t recognize a thing. Not the green upholstered chair near the hearth, not the landscape painting hanging over the mantel, nor the ivory draperies cloaking the window. And while he didn’t recall the bedside table to his left, the pitcher and cup atop it were most welcome.
It took considerable pain-filled effort to turn his body and swing his legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted, and he had to sit still for a moment for the world to right itself. His hand shaking, he reached for the pitcher and managed to bring it toward him so he could view the contents. Water. Splendid.
Wrapping his hand around the cup to hold it steady, which seemed laughable given how uncertain his entire body felt, he managed to pour water into the cup and only sloshed a small amount onto his hand and the table.
“Well done, Anthony,” he murmured.
Then he drank. A spot of gin might go down better, but he wouldn’t complain. It just felt good to get his throat wet. He poured a second cup and downed it, only a bit more slowly than the first.
Feeling slightly refreshed, he braced his feet on the floor to stand. With an exhalation, he pushed the bedclothes away and then realized something he should have known since awakening.
He was bloody naked.
Where the hell were his clothes? Was he in a brothel? If so, he didn’t recognize it, and he was fairly certain he’d been in every single room at Mrs. Alban’s, his bawdy house of choice.
He tried to stand and immediately regretted the movement as the room pitched again. After he was settled once more, he scooted down toward the end of the bed and wrapped his hand around the post. Clutching tightly, he brought himself to a standing position and was again winded by the act.
“Christ,” he muttered in irritation. Whoever had pummeled him had done a bang-up job. The unintended pun made him smile, and then flinch as his sore lips and cheeks rebelled against the action.
Who had beaten him? Anthony tried to think back to the events of the evening. Was it still evening? He had no notion of the time.
He’d gone to a gaming hell where he’d drunk to excess, as he did most nights. The drinking, not the gaming. He didn’t gamble anymore. He merely watched, and every time he felt the urge to join, he drank. Which explained the excess.
Someone had tried to coerce him into gambling, he suddenly recalled. The man had been looking for a fight, and Anthony had been more than happy to give it to him. He vaguely remembered another man—or several men—breaking them apart, and then Anthony had stumbled out of the hell. The rest was blackness. Had some benevolent soul found him and given him care?
There was only one way to find out. He saw his clothing on a chair tucked into the corner. Hell, that was incredibly far away. Clenching his jaw, he gathered the energy to make the journey. His steps were more like shuffles as he inched his way to the corner. Halfway there, he had to stop and draw several breaths to continue. He closed his eyes as the floor seemed to move beneath him. He was well used to the aftereffects of drinking too much, but this bout was particularly nasty.
At last, he reached the chair. And he promptly sat, his body slouching in exhaustion and defeat. Perhaps he should just climb back into the bed until he was more recovered.
Except, he wanted to know where he was. Turning at the waist, he rifled through the pile of clothing until he found his shirt. Pulling it over his head took a great deal of exertion. So much that he decided that was all he could manage.
After mustering the ability to stand once more, he did so slowly, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair until he felt steady. Or at least somewhat steady.
The shirt reached to the bottom of his backside, which was good enough for him. And since he was likely in a brothel, no one would care.
It took several long minutes to reach the door, but by then, he was starting to feel a little more like a man and not a pile of rubbish. Opening the door, he peered outside into an empty corridor.
Summoning what little strength he possessed, Anthony haltingly made his way along the corridor. He still recognized absolutely nothing. A wave of unease rolled through him, and he put his hand on the wall to brace himself. When the queasiness passed, he continued on until he encountered a door.
He pushed it open and found himself in a sitting room. It was quite feminine, decorated in pink and ivory, but disappointingly devoid of people. Where was everyone?
Another door on the opposite side caught his eye. He strode quickly—as quickly as he’d yet dared—and nearly collapsed against it when he arrived. Breathing heavily, he pushed it open and stumbled into what was clearly a bedchamber.
Also decorated in pink and ivory, it was obviously the domain of a woman. A brothel owner, perhaps.
Anthony pushed himself to walk to the bed, where a shape was visible beneath the bedclothes. At last, he’d found someone who could tell him what the bloody hell was going on.
He reached down and touched the form. “I beg your pardon.”
The woman started, her body twitching before she rolled over and shrieked.
Her reaction pushed him off-balance, and he teetered. She gasped and leapt up to her knees, then grabbed his forearms before he went down. “I’ve got you.”
In fact, she did have him, quite forcefully. He pitched forward onto the bed, barely missing her as he landed atop the mattress.
“My goodness,” she said. “You’re, ah, not wearing breeches.”
The cold air on his arse told him that his shirt had come up to reveal his naked backside. “No,” he said into the bedclothes, which made the word come out garbled and likely unintelligible. He turned his head so he could speak more clearly. “I don’t think I can get up.” In fact, his body was screaming with pain and exhaustion, as if he’d consumed every bit of energy he possessed.
She moved off the bed. “Can you at least get under the covers?”
Anthony started to move, then groaned as agony burned through him. “Maybe.”
“I’ll help you.” She pushed the covers down as far as she could. “Can you roll under them or something?”
“I can try.” He closed his eyes and pushed himself over, letting out a moan.
“Oh! Your shirt.” She’d turned away from the bed.
“This isn’t a brothel, is it?”
“Of course not!” She sounded scandalized.
And here he was, half-naked. More than half, actually. Anthony worked to shift himself under the coverlet and pulled the bedclothes up to his waist. “I’m covered.”
She turned toward the bed, and his eye was drawn t
o the rise and fall of her breasts, clearly visible beneath the thin lawn of her night rail. Despite his pathetic state, he felt a rush of desire. A long, blond plait grazed her nipple. Anthony swallowed as he raised his gaze to her face. She looked familiar…
“Lord Colton—”
“You know me, but I’m afraid—” He stopped short as recognition flooded him. “Miss…Pemberton?”
“Yes. This is most assuredly not a brothel.”
Christ. She was an unmarried young woman! What the hell was he doing in her bedchamber? He bolted up and instantly regretted it as pain careened through him. Groaning, he fell back. “What happened? Why am I here? Where are your parents?”
Miss Pemberton’s brow creased as she moved closer to the edge of the bed, her light brown eyes surveying him. “You mustn’t cause yourself further injury. I don’t know what happened, but I found you yesterday on my doorstep.”
“I paid a call like this?”
“No, nothing like that. You were unconscious. And you looked like, well, hell.”
“I feel like hell,” he muttered.
“You may rest easy—while this is not a brothel, it is also not my parents’ house. You’re at Phoebe Lennox’s house in Cavendish Square.” She shook her head. “I mean the Marchioness of Ripley’s house. Someday, I will remember that.”
Anthony knew her, and he definitely knew Ripley. The man was one of his closest friends. Rather, he had been until he’d gotten married a fortnight ago and instantly transformed into a managing mama. Anthony hadn’t seen him since the wedding breakfast.
“I still don’t understand why I’m here, of all places.”
“I don’t know why either,” she said. “I did consider sending you home. However, you were in a rather bad state.”
He had to admit the thought of a coach ride in his current condition was about as alluring as spending a night on a torture rack. And would probably feel just about the same.
