He lowered his head to take possession of her mouth. He flicked the jaunty hat from her head and released the pins to the floor while he caught her tumbling hair with both hands, capturing her to him. His kiss was wet. Demanding. Clinging. The blaze ricocheted through every pore of her body. Angel’s hand slid up his chest and wrapped about his neck, matching his passion with one of her own.
His tongue swept the soft recesses of her mouth, claiming her as his. “My angel,” he growled as he nibbled upon her bottom lip. Searching for her next breath, Angel opened her eyes to look upon the sharp angles of his ruggedly handsome countenance. “You are my world,” she whispered as their gazes met and held.
* * *
“Lucifer!” She gasped as she realized she looked into the same eyes she viewed in her dreams. Yet, these eyes belonged to the man whose arm she clutched.
Despite the obvious pain crossing his countenance, the man blinked away his confusion. “Surely—” he gritted through tight lips, “—Lucifer is—not my name, lass.”
Her nerves remained oddly tense. Angel feared moving— feared she might injure him further if she jarred him physically— feared she would destroy the wonderful feeling of completion spreading through her. “No,” she said lamely. “No parent would suffer a child with such a label.”
He looked upon her imploringly. “Then pronounce ... my name, lass.”
Angel responded with a bit of asperity. “I am confused, sir. Certainly you know your name. Do you practice some sort of game at my expense?”
The man appeared grim. “My head—” He gestured with his free hand.
“You struck your head upon the stones meant for the road when your horse threw you during the storm,” she explained.
He squeezed his eyes closed, and Angel wondered if he searched for a memory.
“I recognize—the source of—my headache,” he rasped.
Dark eyelashes caressed his cheeks and assisted in disguising the bruise upon his cheekbone. A greenish tint colored the skin between his nose and his upper lip. Beautiful coal-colored eyes opened to meet hers
“What I must know—is my name.” He paused as if searching for the words. “And I must know—the intimacy of our— relationship.”
Angel released her hold on his arm before scrambling to her knees. She leaned over him so he would have no need to turn his head to whisper. “Pardon me, sir, but do you mean to say you possess no knowledge of how we came to be together?”
She had thought she might need to convince him to keep their ruse until he healed enough to depart the Wendts, but if could not remember—
His brows drew together fiercely, but the movement caused him to wince. “The woman who—assisted in setting—my shoulder—said I possessed—a wife. As you rest—beside me—I must assume—you are she. Yet, I still know—not your name—or mine.”
Angelica shoved away the internal warning racing to her lips. “Copley.” She attempted to smile at him. She recognized the danger in speaking her lies to him, but she could not shake the image of her father’s devastated countenance if he discovered she acted imprudently.
“William.” It was a name she always thought spoke of strength. “William Copley.”
“And you are?” he implored.
A sound of distant thunder signaled the return of the rain and served as a warning for her to guard her tongue. She wondered how long she might be expected to pretend to be the man’s wife. Angel could not use her real name. It was foolish to take her mother’s maiden name in this farce.
“Elizabeth,” she said, thinking of the novel featuring her favorite characters—Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.
“Elizabeth Copley?” Suspicion laced his tone.
Angel nodded her affirmation. “But only for a few days.” She required more time to construct a believable story to share with both the Wendts and this stranger. “That is enough for now. You have suffered the worst provocations. I insist you rest. I shall remain near. If you require anything, you must only ask. No more harm shall come to you. I promise.”
* * *
The scent of baked bread invaded his senses. The tantalizing smell made his mouth water, and with care, he turned his head to watch the woman who claimed to be his wife as she moved efficiently about the kitchen area of the large room in which he rested. His memory held no recognition of Elizabeth Copley, yet, something very familiar about the lady remained, nonetheless—as if he had known her previously, but not as his wife. She said you married only days prior. Perhaps that particular fact held the source of his confusion.
“Yer man be awake,” the somewhat familiar voice announced.
Hunt watched as Elizabeth turned toward him to smile. Hers was a great smile, one any man would enjoy waking to each day. She hurried to his side.
“Do not move too quickly,” she warned as she knelt beside him. “You were most seriously concussed. Caution must be practiced.” She straightened the blanket across his chest. “How may I serve you?”
“Water, lass,” he said through dry lips.
“Certainly.”
Yet before she could rise, the older woman appeared with a glass and a spoon. “Just a bit. Mr. Copley’s stom’ch likely be less cooperative than his spirit.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
His wife accepted the water glass and placed a spoonful of the liquid at his lips. Hunt opened his mouth to accept the moisture. When she gestured for a second sip, Hunt blinked his approval rather than move his head. He would admit he enjoyed looking upon this woman who claimed to be his wife. She was ethereally beautiful.
Dressed in an unfashionable day dress made of cheap brown wool and sporting an overly large apron, which did little to disguise her curvaceous figure—round hips and full breasts, Elizabeth Copley was a sight any man would desire. Soft golden blonde wisps of hair framed her face. Her complexion held evidence of a touch of sun, but rather than marring her perfection, the caress of color brought life to her expression. Her luminous eyes spoke of the deepest blue of the sky on a clear day. Hunt found it all quite mesmerizing.
Despite his injuries, he experienced the familiar tug upon his manhood. At least, in appearance, he possessed no doubt this woman would attract him.
When she offered a fifth spoonful of the water, he closed his eyes to stop her.
“Would you care for some broth? Mrs. Wendt has made a clear stock.” She set the glass aside and reached to touch his forehead. Hunt fought the urge to turn his head to kiss her palm.
“Perhaps later,” he whispered. “I am quite—exhausted.”
She nodded her understanding. “You rest. I worry for you, but Mrs. Wendt says sleep is healing.”
* * *
When next he woke, shadows draped the room. He could hear the older woman’s nasal voice attempting to harmonize with the voice of an angel. Even without turning his head, Hunt knew the celestial sound belonged to his wife. She sang a compelling ballad, one to which he wished he could recall the words so he might join her. Elizabeth sang of finding her love, and Hunt wondered if she thought of him as her love. Did Elizabeth Copley love him? Had he professed his love for her? Had their marriage been one of convenience or one of passion? Did she require his fortune to save her or was Elizabeth’s dowry his salvation? So many questions he wished to ask rushed at him, but instead he listened as she finished strong, “O then I think no joys above the pleasure of love.”
He wondered what pleasures they had shared in their few short days of marriage. His Elizabeth appeared a bit innocent in her response to him, but what little he knew of how they came to the Wendts’ home spoke of an internal strength not often found in gentlewomen. Was his wife a lady or perhaps a Cit?
Before he could think more upon his predicament, Mr. Wendt’s boots appeared beside Hunt’s head.
“Thought yer missus’ voice might bring ye around.” Hunt could smell the damp earth upon the man’s footwear. “Mrs. Wendt, you take Mrs. Copley into yer parlor. I’ll hep Mr. Copley dress
and make himself more presentable.”
“Do you require my assistance?” Elizabeth asked in what sounded like true concern. It did Hunt well to know she cared for his recovery. She would make him a good wife in that aspect.
“Despite what Mrs. Wendt may say, there be times when a man requires his privacy. Yer man should be up and movin’ even if’n it be only a few steps or else he’ll not heal as ye wish,” the man instructed in firm tones.
With difficulty, Hunt turned his head in her direction. “Mr. Wendt is correct, Mrs. Copley. Permit me a few moments to address my poor ablutions.”
She smiled at him, but Hunt noticed more sadness than contentment in the gesture. “As you wish, Mr. Copley.”
Mrs. Wendt instructed the two men. “See Mr. Copley to Alice’s room, Mr. Wendt. It be better than a blanket upon the floor.”
“Is Alice your daughter?” Elizabeth asked as she and Mrs. Wendt disappeared into what must be a passageway. Hunt had not noticed it previously.
Wendt bent to place his hands under Hunt’s shoulders. “We’ll take this slow, Copley.”
Hunt raised his good hand to his head. “The pain hurts deuced powerful.”
“You’ve still a dark bruised knot on the back.”
Wendt grunted, and Hunt’s fingertips proved the man correct when they brushed across the egg-sized swelling at his nape. “You and Mrs. Wendt—have been most kind—to Mrs. Copley and me.” He used his good hand to brace himself to a seated position. A rush of darkness tugged at Hunt’s senses, but he pushed the queasiness away. It was time he rejoined the world. “If it would not be too much bother, I would ask permission to use a chamber pot.”
“I’s anticipated yer needs,” Wendt declared. “It’s the reason I’s sent our womenfolk away. Let’s git you to yer knees, and then we’ll take ker of yer privates.”
With patience, Wendt led Hunt through a slow reclaiming of life. Hunt addressed his personal needs, donned his trousers, but not his shirt for he was too weak to dress and ultimately, he was returning to bed. Then, with his one good hand, he washed his face and neck in some tepid water. A slow journey down the hall to a small bedroom on the right followed.
By the time Hunt lowered his weight upon the lumpy mattress, he had exhausted his energies. “I will not be riding in the Derby any time soon,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Not be doin’ much for a few more days,” Wendt observed. “And you must be sure seated to ride the Derby.” The man paused. “Do you recall the Derby? Mrs. Copley say you be havin’ difficulty recallin’ all the details of yer life.”
Hunt frowned but spoke with deliberation. “I cannot say for certain. Obviously, I know of the Derby, but I hold no knowledge of whether I have attended the race or gambled upon it or simply read of it in the newsprints. It is all quite frustrating.”
“When that there knot goes down you’ll be better.”
Hunt wished to believe the man, but during his few waking moments he felt the tension of the unknown constricting his breathing.
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Wendt. I will tend Mr. Copley.” Hunt glanced to the still open door to find Elizabeth framed by the light of a candle. Although he possessed no knowledge of her, a smile tugged at his lips. She was quite pleasant to look upon. Wendt nodded his agreement and disappeared from the room before she declared, “I am gladdened by your progress.”
Hunt said in a teasing tone. “I move as if I am a man many years Wendt’s senior, but my wife approves. I am a blessed man.”
She blushed, an action quite hard for him to resist in its appeal. If he were well, Hunt would kiss her thoroughly to keep that touch of color upon her cheeks. The thought brought another question: Did he enjoy kissing Elizabeth?
“You discovered my secret, Mr. Copley. I am easy to please.”
Hunt’s smile widened. Somehow he doubted her assertion. He imagined his wife possessed an independent streak. Wendt cautiously spoke of the image of Elizabeth Copley setting astraddle behind Hunt’s slumped over form—her skirts hiked high.
“Takes a special kind of woman to disregard propriety for the sake of good sense,” Wendt observed.
“Come sit beside me for a moment,” Hunt suggested. She appeared reluctant, but his wife did as he asked after setting the candle upon a bedside table. He caught her hand once she arranged her skirts. “Wendt explained how you risked your life to save me.”
He studied her slender fingers. The condition of her hands indicated she was a lady—no calluses. Was he a country gentleman?
“It was nothing,” she assured. “I owed you such a duty.”
Hunt’s brow rose. “You mean as my wife?”
“I mean as a Christian,” she corrected.
Another bit of information about her to add to his cache. “It was still an exceptional act,” he corrected as he brought her knuckles to his lips. “We have a dilemma of sorts. I still struggle from my lack of memories. I thought perhaps you might share with me something of my previous life. What of my parents? Of yours? I believe you to be a lady, but what of my station? Do I possess siblings? Do you? Have I an occupation? And I note a bit of an accent. You are not—”
“English,” she finished for him.
* * *
Angel frowned slightly. The temptation to speak a fantastical tale of their families and their love sprang to her lips, but she would not compound her lies with more untruths. Soon he would recall it all, and he would despise her for her duplicity. She hoped if she could keep the story simple, she could implore him not to disclose her lies—hoped he would understand no one could know the truth. They could part as friends, never to encounter each other again.
“I know you are eager to uncover your past, but it is best if you permit your memory to return on its own. Yet, I shall give you two bits of information. First, I lived most of my life in America, and second, if you have no recall by the time you are well enough to travel, I shall tell you all I know.”
Hunt studied her. His wife concealed information, and he held the suspicion it was more than the number of brothers and sisters he possessed. “You promise,” he said as he tugged her closer. If she would not speak of their past, he would seduce the information from her. He reached up to cup her chin. “You are exquisitely beautiful, lass.” Elizabeth’s eyes were those of a trapped animal. “I shan’t hurt you,” he said upon a rasp. “But I would wish to claim a kiss from the woman with whom I mean to spend the remainder of my life.”
Chapter Five
Angel had no idea why she agreed to the stranger’s kiss. Sharing such intimacies could be nothing but madness, yet, she could not resist the look in the man’s eyes. It was as if he could not decide whether he liked her or not, and as foolish as the thought might be, she wished for her kiss to sway him in her behalf. For her, it was the most spectacular moment of her short life. His lips were soft, yet demanding. A spark of awareness flared as quickly as they met. Angel’s breasts swelled beneath the corset she wore under the borrowed dress. His mouth pressed harder against hers, as if he meant to brand her as his, and she did not object to his claim. When they parted, he appeared as reluctant as she to abandon their closeness.
Even now, more than an hour after they snuffed the single candle, her lips still tingled from the pressure of his mouth upon hers. She had insisted upon his taking the narrow bed while she claimed the ticking-stuffed mattress for a second night. It did not matter where she rested her head for Angel did not think she would know much sleep. Despite the turmoil coursing through her, a result of her contact with her supposed husband, she wondered how long it might be before her father and Uncle Mannington would begin a search for her. She suspected someone would discover her abandoned coach today or tomorrow at the latest. That would mean she would have two—mayhap three—days before she must extricate herself from the Wendts and the stranger.
“But can you desert ‘your William’?” she whispered in the softest of voices so as not to wake the man. Angel knew she could not in
good conscious do so. “How will he survive without a connection to his family?”
Immediately, she knew regret. As much as she desired it, she was not the man’s family. Her eyes drifted to where the stranger’s clothes hung on a hook upon the wall. Although she could not actually see the garments in the darkened room, she knew them not of the finest quality—not of the first tier of Society. Whatever role life dealt “her William,” it would not be a position her father might accept as an appropriate choice for her. After all, Horace Lovelace turned away offers from several of their richest neighbors in Virginia. Her father meant to fulfill his wife’s wishes.
“I was thinking.” His voice came from the dark shadows draping the bed, and Angel wondered if she had alerted him to her misgivings.
The break of the silence startled her, but she quickly scrambled to her feet to oversee his care. “Do you require my assistance?” She struggled to relight the candle.
“I apologize.” He shifted upon the bed. “I did not mean to disturb your rest. I thought you still awake, or I would not have spoken.”
Angel’s hands trembled. “I was awake.” Setting the rush candle’s holder upon the table, she turned to the man with whom she shared a tragedy. “Are you in pain? I could ask Mrs. Wendt for more laudanum.”
“My shoulder is problematic, but I would prefer not to take more of the opiate.” He extended his hand to her, and with only a brief moment of hesitation, Angel took his larger hand within her two smaller ones. “We cannot impose on the Wendts for many more days.” She met his gaze squarely. “We possessed a destination,” he continued. “Family. They will be fretting over our disappearance.”
“I was considering something similar,” Angel admitted. She wished to add her qualms to the discussion, but she thought it important to permit him his say.
His lips turned upward when he looked upon her. “I suspected as much.” They sat in silence for several elongated seconds. “We should ask Mr. Wendt to drive us to the nearest village. I cannot ride, but I believe I could manage the back of a wagon.”
Daring Lords and Ladies Page 47
