by Jenna Jaxon
“Ouch!” Maria dropped the branches she carried and peeled off her glove. A red indentation showed the location of the wound and she squeezed the finger to see if it still seeped. As she grasped the finger a bright bead of blood welled up on the pad. “Drat.”
“What happened?” Lord Wetherby came trotting over, took one look at how she held her finger, and grabbed her hand.
“I just poked one of the holly leaves into my finger. I’m certain it’s all right.”
“Nonsense.” He took his handkerchief from an inner pocket and gently rubbed the place where the blood had come, although most of it had been wiped away. Another gentle squeeze of her finger had produced nothing in the way of her life’s blood. Time to move on.
“Thank you, my lord, but the bleeding seems to have stopped now. It was less than a scratch. We can go on with our gathering.” Maria tried to pull her hand away from him, but he held her fast in his grip.
“Best let me make sure the cut’s not too deep.” He held her hand up close to his eyes. A sultry glance at her and he kissed her finger.
“My lord.” Desperately, Maria tried to pull her hand away from his lips, but to no avail. As she had noted during her first encounter with him in the corridor at Kersey Hall, the gentleman had strength much greater than hers. And she was here, all alone with him. “I tell you my hand is fine.”
“Indeed it is, Maria.” He kissed her finger once more before moving on to her open palm. “As is all of you. Exquisite as a porcelain figurine and just as cold.” The softness of his mouth caressed her flesh, sending a frisson of warmth to her core. “I suspect you are not always so icy.” His lips seared her palm again. “I’ll wager I can spread a warmth through you like nothing you have ever known before.”
Face hot as fire, both from mortification at his attentions and the heat he was generating in her nether regions, Maria tried to slip her hand out of his grasp. She must protest or else he would think she welcomed his advances. And despite her traitorous body’s reactions, she did not want this man’s addresses. “My lord, this is most unseemly. Do you not remember I am still in mourning for a husband not yet a year in his grave?”
He raised his head from where his lips had grazed her palm, his eyes coal black, his breath coming in hard pants. “So if you were no longer in mourning, you would not object, Cousin? Perhaps we can find a way to have your bereavement cut short.” He snaked his arm around her waist and pushed her against his hard body. “So you may pay your respects to the living instead.”
Stricken, Maria began to struggle in earnest. A hard ridge ground into the lower part of her stomach, unmistakably the very large bulge of his erection. If she could not get away from him, Lord Wetherby would surely push her to the ground and take her right here. She remembered well the heat and urgency Alan had shown when they had been here, at Kersey Hall, dallying before they were married. She and Jane had visited Lord Sinclaire’s estate, not far from the Hall, and she and Alan had met almost daily. The memory of how, once he had become aroused, it had been impossible to deny him anything came back sharply to her now. Now his kinsman, with a similar reputation as a rogue, seemed very like that as well.
Panic shot through her and she struggled in earnest against him, twisting to and fro. Her right hand he had immobilized, but her other was free. She slapped him on the back, though it was like hitting a wall, impervious to the blow. “Lord Wetherby, let me go!”
Ignoring her, he loosened her wounded hand and grabbed her around the waist. “I have been trying to catch you for weeks, sweet cousin. Why ever would I let you go now?”
“Stop this, my lord.” She pushed against him, but it was like trying to move a large boulder. The man was hard as granite. “Let me go!”
“Shhh, they’ll hear you.”
Scream. She could bring rescue with a simple shout. Gasping for breath, Maria filled her lungs and opened her mouth, only to have his plastered onto her before she could make a sound. His tongue shot into her mouth, thrusting in and out, making her almost gag as he delved deeper and deeper. She pushed again on his shoulders but couldn’t find a purchase on his jacket, so the heels of her hands slid harmlessly upward and off the garment. What could she do?
He’d bent her backward over his arm, pressing her so far she could see the sky directly above them. In a flash of intuition, she lifted both her legs off the ground. He’d tipped them so far off balance that they crashed to the ground. His arms had released her as he struggled to regain his footing, so Maria managed to fling herself away from him as they hit the ground. Unfortunately, the fall knocked the wind out of her and she lay staring at the sky once more, struggling to draw breath back into her lungs. Groaning and cursing from close by told her Lord Wetherby had not suffered any grievous harm. An eternity passed as she lay hitching in little gulps of air, praying that she would recover before Lord Wetherby could rouse himself and attack her again.
With a huge effort, she rolled to her side and struggled to her feet. Lord Wetherby had landed face-first on the ground, his head apparently coming down on a rock. He bled, though not copiously, from a gash on his forehead.
“What the devil is going on here?”
Maria whirled around to find Mr. Granger, face darkened with rage, speeding toward them. Right behind him were Jane, Miss Granger, and James Garrett.
Jane darted forward and pulled Maria into her arms. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Although still shaken, Maria nodded. Best for them all if she said nothing about what had just occurred. At least not publicly. “I am fine. There was a . . . little accident. Lord Wetherby took the worst of it I believe.”
“Anthony.” James Garrett dashed forward to assist his brother to rise, the latter groaning and clutching his head.
“Lady Kersey, tell me what happened.” Mr. Granger had come to her side, although he still sent deadly glances at Lord Wetherby.
Sighing, Maria cut her gaze briefly to Jane. Her cousin would understand and forgive the lie she was about to tell. Hopefully convincing enough that Mr. Granger would accept her word, or want to believe her enough to do so. “One of those freakish accidents you read about in The Times, Mr. Granger. Rather stupid really.”
Lord Wetherby was on his feet now, glaring at her while pressing his handkerchief to his forehead. He’d likely agree with the tale she was about to tell, as it would not paint him as the villain he actually was.
His gaze darting suspiciously between her and Lord Wetherby, Mr. Granger nodded. “Go on.”
Keeping Jane’s admonition to keep to the truth as much as possible, Maria launched into her tale with what she hoped was believable excitement. “I was gathering holly boughs and one of the thorny leaves pricked my finger rather deeply. I took off my glove and looked at it, but it was bleeding more heavily than it should have done. Lord Wetherby came to look at it and produced his handkerchief to bind it. As we were standing there, very close together, a huge bird swooped down as if to attack us.”
“A bird?” Mr. Granger’s brows lowered. “What kind of bird?”
“A very large bird. With brown feathers is all I recall. I’m afraid I have no idea what kind of bird it was.” Carefully keeping her gaze away from Mr. Granger’s, Maria continued. “I think it believed we had some kind of food in our hands, because it dove at us out of the blue.”
Mr. Granger narrowed his eyes and peered at her. “Lady Kersey, I hardly think—”
“I believe it was a kestrel, Granger.” Everyone turned to Lord Wetherby, still holding his handkerchief to his head. “It wasn’t especially large, although it probably startled the lady enough that she believed it to be enormous.”
His face a dark study, Mr. Granger folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “You expect me to believe you were attacked by a kestrel?”
“Kestrels are indigenous to this area, Mr. Granger.” Fishing in his pocket, Mr. Garrett drew out a clean handkerchief and passed it to his brother. “I am devoted to the study of birds, so wh
en I was informed we would be removing to Suffolk, I made a study of the birds that inhabit the environs.” Peering at the wound when the bloody linen was removed, he shook his head dispassionately. “No, it’s still bleeding, Anthony. Keep this pressed against it.” He assisted Lord Wetherby calmly and efficiently, seemingly a good man to have in a crisis.
Pity he wasn’t the heir. Maria might possibly have persuaded herself to marry such a man as James Garrett. If there had been no Mr. Granger. The thought drew her attention to the steward, standing there, his attention riveted on her. Their gazes met and her heart raced like a filly on a dry track.
“So what happened when the bird attacked you, Lady Kersey?” The intensity of Mr. Granger’s scrutiny set her stomach to churning. “I did not hear a scream or a shriek, yet the bird was upon you suddenly. Weren’t you startled?”
“I . . . I was so surprised I didn’t have time to scream, Mr. Granger. It all happened so quickly. We were standing here, then we were on the ground.” She stared keenly at Lord Wetherby. A little corroboration would undoubtedly help allay Mr. Granger’s suspicions. “It was . . . sudden.”
“Indeed, it was, Granger.” Lord Wetherby puffed out his chest, as if enjoying the attention or the drama of the scene. “I was looking at the lady’s thumb when out of nowhere the bird attacked me. Hit my forehead. I staggered, but managed to push the lady out of danger before I fell to the ground.”
“You pushed her out of danger?” If Mr. Granger’s face got any redder, he might have an apoplexy.
“Yes.” Maria hung her head. More than anything she hated lying to this man. But it had to be done. For both their sakes. “He did.” She turned to face Lord Wetherby. The weasel smiled at her, beneficent and self-sacrificing, and more than a touch self-satisfied. Gritting her teeth, she paused while summoning the strength to finish the task. “Thank you, Lord Wetherby, for saving me.”
A groan went up from Granger while Wetherby beamed at her. “Not a’tall, my dear. You must know I’d do it anytime you are in danger.”
Mr. Granger looked as if he’d eaten toads. “Then let us pray very hard that she need not call upon you for such services again, my lord. Lady Kersey, I suggest you return to the brake with your cousin, my sister, and Mr. Garrett.” The harried steward then addressed the latter gentleman. “Will you be so good as to direct the brake to come to this clearing to pick us up. Lord Wetherby is in no condition to walk so far.”
“I am completely capable of walking, Granger.” Lord Wetherby brushed past the steward, removing the handkerchief he’d been pressing to the wound. The cut welled with blood, so suddenly it dripped down Lord Wetherby’s brow and onto his cheek. The man’s face drained of color, his eyes grew wide until the whites shone all around the two dots of blue. He staggered to a halt.
Hugh leaped forward and grabbed Wetherby before his knees buckled. “Go now, Mr. Garrett!”
Torn between wishing to stay with his brother and fetching the conveyance, Garrett threw them a stricken look, then took off at a sprint, crashing through the trees and underbrush. Jane and Miss Granger exchanged a look of their own, then began to pick their way along the path, back the way they had come. Maria leaned heavily on her cousin with her head on her shoulder, quite exhausted from all the excitement. She was so glad this miserable tête-à-tête was over, although she had not yet begun to pay the piper for this tune to which she must now dance a jig.
* * *
As the ladies and Mr. Garrett vanished into the trees, Hugh returned his attention to Lord Wetherby, well aware that Lady Kersey had just given him a Banbury story for certain. The next question he wished to have answered was why.
Knowing Wetherby’s ilk, and the lady’s charms, Hugh was pretty sure the heir had assaulted her in some way. When he’d come into the clearing, both of them had been on the ground, the lady getting warily to her feet, her attention fixed on Wetherby, who had been slower to arise. Neither of them had looked to the sky as if fearing the “bird” might return to renew the attack. No, Lady Kersey’s sole focus had been making certain she stayed as far as possible from Wetherby. So if she was protecting him from retribution at his father’s or, more likely, Hugh’s hands, she must have a reason for doing so. He’d get that from the lady herself later.
“Perhaps you should sit down until the brake arrives, my lord. You don’t want your wound to bleed again.” Hugh would dearly love to plant the blackguard a facer, give him something to moan about other than the little scrape on his forehead.
“You may be right, Granger.” Wetherby sauntered to an outcropping of rock a foot or two away and sat down gingerly. “I cannot risk my life doing such heroic deeds anymore. I must think of the family’s future rather than the paltry, outdated attempts at chivalry required by Polite Society. It is ridiculous that all gentlemen must adhere to the strictures of this ancient code.”
“And yet adhere they must, or be labeled no gentleman at all.” Pacing around the clearing in an attempt to restrain himself from throttling the man, Hugh did his best not to picture his hands around Wetherby’s throat. The temptation at this moment might be too great. “Lady Kersey was very grateful for your defense of her during the ‘attack.’”
With a slow turn of his neck, Wetherby’s gaze came to rest on Hugh, his mouth drawn into an insolent smile. “You think the lady was lying, don’t you?”
“A gentleman does not accuse a lady of telling falsehoods, no matter the reason.” There must have been a good one to make Lady Kersey defend this wretched man. Hugh had made inquiries about William Garrett and his family to friends of his and his late father’s in Town when Lady Kersey had first written him that the earl had been found. The information he’d obtained had been heavily concentrated on Anthony, the eldest son. All of it had been unsavory to say the least. And Hugh’s observations of the man firsthand had confirmed his opinion of Anthony, Lord Wetherby to be correct. A bounder and a rake who gambled to excess and did not take losing with good grace, Lord Wetherby had the kind of reputation that would give mothers nightmares. His looks had allowed him to prey upon a variety of women—his position as heir to an earldom would likely entice more to be drawn to him and subsequently ruined.
“Perhaps she did not wish her reputation ruined over a bit of a romp in the woods.” The smug face, lips turned up in a cruel smile, made Hugh itch to wipe it off with a yelp of pain.
“If that were the case, I can understand the lady’s reluctance to confess such activity. However, I highly doubt that was the truth of the matter.” If, by some unimaginable quirk it had been, then Hugh would very quietly relinquish any interest in the lady whatsoever, her preference in men therefore losing her his respect.
“You seem to take a keen interest in the lady’s private doings, Granger.” Wetherby stretched his legs out before him in a languid pose. “Am I detecting an odor of sour grapes?”
Clenching his fists until his fingernails bit deeply into his palms, Hugh set his jaw and made no reply. Surely if he gave in to his deepest desire and pummeled this popinjay senseless, the earl would sack him and perhaps bring him up on charges. That thought, as well as a superior amount of self-control, prevented him from throttling the miscreant before him. The man’s words also may have hit rather too close to home.
The fact that Lady Kersey had not declared herself to him after that kiss in his office last week had preyed on his mind from time to time. Had he misjudged her actions and interest? He didn’t think so, but in light of today’s events, he would arrange to meet with her as soon as possible and discover once and for all where her interests lay. “The only smell here, my lord, is that of fear. Whether it was the lady’s or yours, I don’t quite know—yet.”
The rumbling of the brake creaking through the underbrush saved Hugh from any further conversation or temptation to plant Wetherby a facer. That time was sure to come, and the sooner the better as far as he was concerned. He’d not mind getting the sack at all if it came on the heels of pummeling that self-satisfied smir
k off Wetherby’s face. It all depended on what he could get Lady Kersey to confess to him, and when.
Chapter Sixteen
Lying in her bed, dreading going down to dinner, Maria sighed and turned her face to the wall, wishing for the oblivion of sleep to claim her. No such luck. Her mind kept circling back to the moment when she’d had to lie about what had happened to her and Lord Wetherby, to the enraged look on Mr. Granger’s face when she’d thanked the scoundrel for rescuing her. Without a doubt Mr. Granger knew she was not telling the truth. The problem was to let him know why without inciting him to do bodily harm to Lord Wetherby.
When they’d returned to the Hall, Maria had pled a headache, due to the morning’s excitement. Lord Kersey had been preoccupied with tending to his son, sending to Cook for hot water, bandages, and broth. He’d subsequently declared that the decorating of the Hall would be postponed for a day or two to give Anthony time to recover, but still before the first expected guests would arrive on Wednesday. Perhaps by then she would have found time to speak with Mr. Granger and straighten everything out.
The door clicked open and Maria turned over. Her maid stood at the end of the bed.
“I was asked to give you this, my lady.” She held out a folded piece of foolscap with no name on it.
Maria scrambled to sit up. Two possibilities crossed her mind as to the writer of the note. “Who gave it to you, Hatley?”
“Mr. Saunders, my lady.”
Her late butler, now returned to footman.
“Did you ask who he had it from?”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t say.”
Taking the square of paper, Maria waved the woman away. “Thank you, Hatley.”
Once the maid had gone, Maria slowly unfolded the missive, dreading to discover the letter writer. Jane would have come to her if she had something to say, lord knows she had said quite enough already about the wretched events of this morning. Either Miss Granger or Lord or Lady Kersey could have written, to check on her welfare, but she somehow doubted it. No, most likely this letter in her hand was from either Mr. Granger or Lord Wetherby. A deep, sinking sensation flared in the pit of her stomach when she thought what each of them might have written to her. She stared at the paper, turned it over in her hands, then simply unfolded it and read the single sentence and signature.
