But she’d never expected him to give away the medicine.
“I could put a few drops into your tea,” she offered. “Before I take the rest to her.”
“Don’t bother. I suppose I’ll live through the night.”
Unlike the boy’s mother, he didn’t say.
Victoria stood at the door, the vial enclosed in her palm. His sacrifice shifted her opinion of him, making her wonder what sort of man he truly was. She stared back at him, remembering how he’d held her hand, drawing it to his warm mouth. There was something forbidden about him… and she couldn’t quite pull herself away.
For so many years, she’d faded back in her sisters’ shadows. No suitors had ever come to call upon her, much less look upon her with interest. She’d grown accustomed to living a life where she was unnoticed… and sometimes it was lonely.
But Mr. Smith appeared to see past her years of solitude to the woman beneath. And that was more dangerous than she’d ever guessed. If she stayed by his side, helping him endure the night ahead, it would bring them closer. It would also violate every rule her mother had dictated in Victoria’s two-and-twenty years of existence.
And yet, she wanted to remain.
“Giving your medicine to the woman…,” she began, not knowing quite how to phrase her words. “It’s a noble deed.”
He emitted a sharp bark of laughter. “I’m not at all noble, Miss Andrews. I’m an ill-tempered tyrant with no patience at all.”
She didn’t believe that. A true tyrant wouldn’t give his medicine to a stranger.
“I’ll be back,” she murmured, retreating toward the dining room.
With the precious vial of opium in her hands, she saw Dr. Fraser moving among the different patients. There were three men and one woman, all resting upon the floor while the dining room table and chairs were pushed back. The young boy she’d seen earlier was holding his mother’s hand, tears streaming down his face. His older brother was standing beside the wall, tracing his finger over a pattern on the wallpaper.
“What is it?” Dr. Fraser gritted out. “I can’t be leaving these patients right now.”
“Mr. Smith asked me to give this to the woman,” she said, averting her eyes from the patient. She held out the vial, but he didn’t take it at first. “For her pain,” she repeated.
Dr. Fraser leaned in close, dropping his voice low. “She’s dying, Miss Andrews. ’Twould be a miracle if she lasted through the night.”
“It was Mr. Smith’s request. Her sons don’t need to watch her suffer,” she murmured. When she met his gaze, she saw the surprise in the doctor’s eyes.
He took the vial from her, his expression turning thoughtful. “Aye, you’re right.” Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he held out the buttons. “Return these to him.”
“Keep them,” Victoria advised. “And buy more medicine for the others when you can.”
Upon his face, she saw a hint of relief. Before he turned back to his patients, he added, “Thank you, Miss Andrews, for letting us use your father’s house. All of us are very grateful indeed.”
She managed a faltering nod before she exited the room with more dignity than she felt. Her hands shook as she returned to the hallway where she rested her back against one wall. Though she’d tried to shield her eyes from their suffering, she’d seen enough to know that the strife was getting worse instead of better. They’d granted sanctuary to the nearby families, trying to help where they could.
But there were simply too many of them.
She went to sit upon the stairs, resting her face against the spindles. Her world was tearing apart at the seams, leaving frayed edges that she couldn’t put back together. The familiar fears cloaked her mind, and her hands began shaking.
Coward.
If she were a woman with any fortitude at all, she’d offer her assistance to Dr. Fraser. Or she’d order Mrs. Larson to prepare food for the families of the wounded. She would have taken some of the tincture of opium for Mr. Smith and given him a good night’s rest instead of passing it on to the others.
But then, that was what he’d wanted. He’d paid the doctor for the medicine and given it away, knowing that he would suffer for the rest of the night. Even he had more courage than she.
You must go back, her conscience reminded her. You told him you would.
It was easier to grant that promise before she’d glimpsed the man beneath the arrogance. She might distract herself with sewing, pretending not to look at him.
But the truth was, she did find him interesting. Handsome, too. Fate had delivered him to her doorstep, like a gauntlet thrown to the ground.
Cold truth spiraled within her, reminding her of what she was—an awkward spinster too frightened to leave the house. How could she even imagine that a man like him would be interested in her? And if he ever found out about her fears, he’d look upon her with disgust.
No. She didn’t want that. It was easier to lock away her attraction, steeling herself with reality. Once he’d healed, he would leave Scotland, and she’d never see him again. It was better that way.
Each step was harder than the next, but Victoria forced herself to return to the parlor. It had grown so dark, she could no longer see Mr. Smith. She fumbled her way to the piano and lit an oil lamp, turning it down low.
His face held the grim reality of a man in terrible pain. His fists clenched upon the coverlet and unclenched, his mouth drawn in a tight line.
“You gave them the medicine?”
“I did.” She drew up a chair and said, “I pray her suffering will end this night.”
“I pray my suffering will end,” he countered. “Perhaps you should fetch that pistol after all.”
“You’re stronger than that.” Victoria reached for her earlier sewing to occupy her hands. She threaded her needle, holding the black lace across the padded corset. As she folded and stitched the seam, she felt her nerves growing calmer.
“Talk to me,” Mr. Smith ordered. “Tell me about yourself or your family. Anything at all.”
She fumbled for an appropriate conversation, uncertain what to say. “I have three sisters. Margaret, Amelia, and Juliette.”
“I never had any brothers or sisters. Only cousins,” he answered. He inhaled sharply, reaching toward his leg as if he could stifle the pain.
“Would you like some of my father’s brandy to drink?” Victoria offered.
“An hour ago, I’d have said no. Now, I think I’d like to pass out, if you wouldn’t mind assisting me.” The rough timbre of his voice was laced with misery, and she found herself reaching for the crystal decanter and a glass. The bottle was only half-filled, and she had no idea how much brandy it took to make a man drunk. Or whether it was a good idea or not.
She filled up the glass and held it out to him.
“Sit beside me,” he said. “I’ll need you to help me raise my head while I drink.”
Victoria hesitated, her heart quickening at his invitation. “I’ll get you some pillows.” Setting down the glass, she used two pillows from the sofa to help prop him up. All the while, his eyes were upon her, watching. He took the brandy and swallowed it quickly, but as he drank, he made no effort to avert his gaze.
“Afraid of me, are you?”
“There’s no reason for me to be that close.” She threaded her needle again, pretending as if she weren’t at all nervous. Perhaps if she told herself that often enough, her heart would calm down.
“Pour me another.”
She gave it to him, watching as his mouth curved over the glass. She imagined that firm mouth upon her skin, without knowing where the thoughts were coming from. Exhaustion had likely turned her head. And still, she wondered.
What would his kiss taste like, with brandy lingering upon his tongue? If his mouth were upon hers, would it be hard and demanding? Or softer, coaxing her to yield? Abruptly, she stabbed herself with a needle.
“What are you sewing?” Mr. Smith asked, draining the second glass. She poured a
third and averted a direct answer.
“It’s—it’s a lady’s garment.”
“For mourning, I presume?” He took another sip of brandy and she felt his gaze fixed upon her.
“It… well, yes, of course.” What else could she tell him? Until Mr. Sinclair returned from London with her supply of fabric, she’d had to use whatever material was available. She liked the way this one was transforming, and she’d begun attaching the lace just above the top of the bodice.
“I’ve always thought that black was a fine color, especially upon a woman’s pale skin. It’s beautiful.”
His voice was casting a spell over her, leaving her frozen in place. A thousand warnings rose up in her mind, telling her why she shouldn’t be here. Victoria moved a small end table beside him, hoping he could now pour his own brandy. “Are you drunk yet?” she asked hopefully.
His hand trembled as he took another sip. “Sadly, no. I’ve always been able to hold my liquor. No doubt I’ll have an excruciating headache in the morning.”
“Would you like me to bring back the medicine? Dr. Fraser won’t mind.”
Mr. Smith shook his head. “Let him use it on those who need it more.” He grew silent, setting down the brandy. Against the amber light, his skin held the sheen of perspiration, and she realized that his tailcoat was only making his fever worse. “Shall I help you remove your coat?”
“Please.”
Almost as soon as she’d made the suggestion, she realized the error she’d made. Not only would she have to sit beside Mr. Smith, she would also have to touch him.
His green eyes held the color of summer grass, a dark hue blended with gray. When she helped him to sit up, he slid a hand around her waist for balance. She tried to slide his coat over his broad shoulders, but he had flexed them backward as if to prevent it. His face was dangerously close to hers, and the scent of brandy hung upon his breath.
“I like your hair down,” he murmured. He reached out to touch it, and she was caught spellbound, his warm hands moving down the strands to rest upon her back. His touch burned through the thin layer of her gown to the skin beneath.
Her thoughts fractured into a thousand pieces, leaving her unable to grasp a single coherent idea. She was fully aware of him, and within her, he’d awakened a new yearning.
“I think you are drunk to say such things.” She knew better than to believe them.
“Just in a great deal of pain,” he corrected. “Any distraction is more welcome than this wound.” His mouth was tight, his eyes glazed with the beginnings of fever, and she understood his need for conversation.
She pulled against his tailcoat, and he relaxed his shoulders, letting her aid him. At last, she jerked his arms free, revealing his waistcoat and a shirt of fine cambric.
“The waistcoat, too,” he reminded her. Beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his feverish body radiated through the fabric. When he wore only his shirt, she eased him back down to the pillow.
“Do you want more brandy?”
“It’s nearly empty, and I can’t say it’s done anything to ease the pain.” He closed his eyes and said, “I don’t mind it if you talk to me, though. It’s a suitable distraction, so long as you’re not reading Scripture.”
An unexpected smile faltered at her lips. In the stillness that hung between them, she found herself unable to take her eyes from him. His clothes revealed him as a man of wealth, yet he clung to his anonymity.
“Who are you, really?” she asked.
He didn’t look at her, but his voice broke through the silence. “No one of interest.”
“Now then.” Charlotte Larkspur, the Countess of Arnsbury, stared at her sister like an army general preparing for battle. “I’ve invited two dozen guests for a quiet gathering. Two baronets, a knight, and an earl were the best I could do. Without much of a dowry, the girls have no prayer of winning the earl—not to mention he’s a widower and has shown little interest in remarrying. However, once we’ve seen to their wardrobe—”
“I can’t afford new clothes for the girls,” Beatrice admitted. The thought of it made her face burn with shame. She wished the house in Norfolk hadn’t needed so many repairs and that they hadn’t had so many bills piling up. Thankfully, their London town house was a small property in good condition. But every time she stared at the columns of figures, her stomach grew nauseous with worry. She was a failure at managing money, and her children were suffering from it.
“We’ll have to make do with what they have,” she told her sister.
Charlotte released a sigh. “You know they can’t, Beatrice. It may be a pinch now, but in the end, you must secure a good marriage for them.”
“I know,” she admitted. “But I can’t spin straw into gold. And Henry will be so angry with me when he learns how impoverished we’ve become since he went off to fight. I know he believes his officer’s pay was more than enough to see us through. Mr. Gilderness sent another letter a week ago, explaining that the house in Norfolk needed a new roof.”
“I’ll help you,” her sister insisted. “I will see if some of my gowns can’t be altered. And we’ll go to Madame Benedict’s in the morning to measure the girls for new clothes. It will be my Christmas gift to them.”
“You’re too generous,” Beatrice murmured, knowing she ought to refuse. But her pride was already in tatters. She didn’t have enough money to buy presents for her own daughters. The clenching fears rose up again, taunting her. You’re useless. Without Henry, you can’t do anything.
Her sister’s hand reached for hers. “It will be all right, Beatrice.”
“But when Henry finds out—”
“He won’t. By the time he’s back from the war, all will be as right as rain.”
She wanted to believe that. For the past year, she’d desperately clung to false hopes. But what could she do? She’d sold nearly everything of value to provide for them. And when that ran out…
“Mother,” came the voice of Margaret. From the faint blush on her daughter’s cheeks, she’d overheard part of their conversation.
“What is it?” Beatrice forced a smile. “Have you been enjoying yourself? Did you go out walking with your sisters?”
Margaret touched a hand to her light brown hair, smoothing an imaginary stray hair back. Even though it was early morning, she’d taken great pains with her appearance. At her waist, she’d tucked a sprig of holly, and Charlotte smiled upon her with approval.
“I beg your pardon, but I-I couldn’t help but overhear—” Her face turned crimson. “I know it isn’t polite to eavesdrop, but the door was open. And, well, I know the real reason you brought Juliette and me to London.”
“It’s no secret that we want you girls to make a good marriage,” Charlotte agreed, beckoning for Margaret to join them. Beatrice’s gaze narrowed upon a reticule Margaret was holding. It appeared that her daughter was trying to hide the contents.
“Yes.” Margaret raised her chin. “It’s something I want very badly. To make a good marriage, I mean. And I may not get another chance to meet a proper gentleman.” She turned to Beatrice, still clutching the reticule. “I know you believe there isn’t money for new gowns or for a Season.”
Beatrice felt her own face warm with color. “No. There isn’t.”
“You’re wrong,” Margaret blurted out. “There is enough for new gowns. And there may be enough for a Season for one of us.”
From her daughter’s embarrassment, Beatrice understood that Margaret desperately wanted it to be her. And certainly, of all the girls, Margaret had the greatest marital ambitions. She was a cool, polished rose who deserved the chance.
“Darling, if there were any way to give you a Season, I would,” her mother answered, shaking her head. “But Aunt Charlotte has arranged to have a few parties. She will introduce you to possible husbands, and it will be nearly as nice.”
“One or two gatherings won’t be enough,” Margaret protested. “I want to stay longer. Please, Mother.” She held out
the reticule, and when Beatrice took it, she realized it was filled with money.
“This is for you. Victoria and I have done some sewing, and we arranged to sell some… garments at Madame Benedict’s. Here are the profits.”
Charlotte let out a sigh and sank into a chair. “You didn’t. Darling child, don’t you know that if you—you sell things, it makes you no better than a common merchant?”
Margaret straightened as if her spine were made of steel. “Of course I know that. Which is why it was done through someone else. There will be no connection to us.”
Beatrice opened the reticule and stared at the collection of guineas and pound notes. Though she ought to be overjoyed at the modest sum, it only served to remind her that her daughters had taken it upon themselves to earn wages. And all because of her failure to manage her husband’s money. “You didn’t sell your old clothing, did you?”
There was a slight hesitation before Margaret admitted, “No. It was a gown that Victoria made and”—her face turned scarlet—“another new garment.” She clasped her hands together, straightening. “We weren’t going to tell you, but… you sound as if we’re only staying for a fortnight. I don’t want to return to Scotland. And, well, this might help.”
Though Beatrice hadn’t counted the coins, she knew it wasn’t enough. Tread carefully, she thought to herself. Margaret had already done something rash in order to improve their finances. She didn’t want a family scandal upon their hands that would endanger their good name.
“You shouldn’t have sold Amelia’s gown,” Beatrice chided. “As much as she loves clothing, didn’t you know it would break her heart?”
“It wasn’t Amelia’s birthday gown,” Margaret insisted. “It was a different one.”
“How did you find someone to sell it for you?” Charlotte interrupted. “You didn’t just hire someone off the street, did you?”
Margaret’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and she was making a concerted effort not to glare at her aunt. “It was someone we could trust. An acquaintance of Mr. MacKinloch’s named Mr. Cain Sinclair.”
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