Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  Moll, who had been lolling on his bed pillow after the earlier disturbance, far more comfortable than Jack, gave a happy bark and raced to the closed bedroom door. She scrabbled against the wood, and Ham barked out, “Down, girl!” He poked his head around the doorframe.

  “You have a visitor, Jack. Do you want me to tell her to go home?”

  “It’s not Mrs. Feather, is it? Or Mrs. Stanchfield?” The latter had brought him a jar of pickles from the store, which he was totally uninterested in consuming. Since the accident, he’d had quite the parade of Puddlingites making the trek down Honeywell Lane to Ham’s modest farmstead. Checking in on their investment, he reckoned.

  “Someone you like much better.” Ham winked. “Shall I tell her to wait until you’ve finished your business?”

  “No, send her in. This is the one,” he whispered to Clarke. He tucked the ring and its bag under the covers and tried to sit up straighter. Out of habit, he brushed his hair down. It always came as a surprise when there wasn’t any to be found. Well, there were bristly bits—Jack probably resembled a prisoner, though no one had handed him a mirror. His bandage had been reduced to a smaller sticking plaster by Dr. Oakley this morning, so he was no longer turbaned. “How do I look?”

  Clarke blinked. “Do you want me to tell the truth or lie, my lord?”

  “That bad, is it?”

  “Well, your face looks like someone messed about with a paint set.”

  That’s what happened when one hit a tree with one’s face, Jack supposed. So, he wasn’t at his handsomest—he was lucky to have all his teeth intact. His appearance hadn’t seemed to bother Nicola as she’d tended to him the past few days. Apart from yesterday’s dressing-down, she’d shown the patience of a saint.

  She was right—it was time for him to start a new chapter. Acquiring a wife was just the way to begin.

  Nicola entered, bearing a battered tin. Clarke leaped out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box.

  “Plum cake. I made it myself this morning from Mrs. Grace’s bottled plums. Don’t forget to share it with Ham. This must be Mr. Clarke?” She gave him a friendly smile, and all the clouds of winter gloom disappeared.

  Jack was amused to see Ezra blush to the tips of his ears. He was not the only one affected by Nicola’s adorable presence. Today she wore a bustled tartan rough-silk skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair twisted up with a few loose tendrils escaping the tortoise-shell combs. An amethyst thistle brooch was at her throat, and he remembered her family had spent Christmas in Edinburgh.

  “May I present my secretary and all-around assistant, Ezra Clarke? Ezra, this is Miss—good gracious, Nicola, I still don’t know your last name.” He gave Clarke a wink.

  “Nicola will do—we’re informal here in Puddling,” she said breezily, shaking Clarke’s hand. “How are you today, Jack?”

  “Much better now that you’re here. Clarke, you won’t mind giving up the chair?” There was no place else to sit in the crowded little room besides the bed, and Jack didn’t trust himself.

  “Oh, I cannot stay. I have letters to write and want to practice the new sheet music my mama has sent. I got a lovely box from my family yesterday. Presents from Scotland. It was like having Christmas all over again.”

  Without the cunnilingus, Jack hoped. He would never, ever forget that day.

  “I will walk you home, Miss Nicola,” Clarke said, surprising Jack. He wasn’t sure if he cared for those two plotting without him, but his night shirt was insufficient against the cold, and his balance still questionable.

  When he was left alone with Moll, he drew out the ring he’d shoved under the bedclothes. How convenient that the stone matched Nicola’s eyes—it was almost as if the original Baron Ryder had anticipated her advent a hundred and fifty years ago.

  Jack’s ancestor had been an inventor of sorts too, developing an improved gunpowder for the king. He’d been rewarded with a barony, though Jack didn’t care to think about how many lives had been lost through his relative’s discovery. Jack felt bad enough about the two men on the train.

  He might always carry that with him—he was coming to terms with the fact that he couldn’t put it out of his mind completely. But perhaps Nicola was right; he couldn’t dwell on it and continue to travel the desolate path he’d been on. He was no use to anyone, least of all himself. He needed to forgive, if not forget.

  Nicola would help him. Jack thought he could handle most any challenge if she was by his side.

  Or beneath him. Above him. He’d spent too much time in bed and lasciviousness was overtaking him.

  He would ask her to marry him tomorrow. One last night of sneaking into her cottage before he told the world that he’d found the woman he loved, even if he didn’t know her name.

  Chapter 35

  January 12, 1883

  Nicola had practiced her new music until her fingers were numb, trying to distract herself from the events of the day. Another letter from Bath had come, begging her to return as soon as possible. It had been three months minus one day exactly since she arrived, and she was “cured,” wasn’t she?

  Nicola wasn’t so sure. Not until she could see Jack.

  She knew he was now safely ensconced in Tulip Cottage, for no less than Ham Ross, Dr. Oakley, the Reverend Fitzmartin, and the Countess had stopped by this afternoon to tell her. He’d been ferried up in Ham’s wagon, for he still was not as steady on his feet as he could be, put to bed with an ice pack on his aching head, and fed a nutritious bowl of Mrs. Feather’s broth that Nicola expected he’d wanted to tip over into a plant stand.

  His prognosis was good—in the doctor’s opinion, he could leave Puddling as early as the beginning of next week. As it was Friday, it left her only a handful of days to set her plan in action.

  Nicola would give him a day to get settled. Then she would dress in her gentlemen’s garb again in the dark of night, and, equipped with that last jar of peaches, seduce the man.

  This seduction business had been stop-and-go from the outset—it was far more difficult than she ever anticipated to get Jack out of his trousers. She’d been trying since Christmas Day. He’d rebuffed her again and again out of his misplaced sense of honor, and quite frankly, she was tired of it. She wasn’t getting any younger; there were no swains waiting for her in Bath. She was far too old for a Season in London, and anyway, she didn’t want to meet anyone new.

  She wanted Jack. Even just for a little while.

  Nicola had every confidence that he would go back to Ashburn and do something meaningful with his life. Since her intemperate lecture, he’d been…better. More positive. She refused to let herself think about him marrying or having children, because it simply hurt too much.

  She’d withheld the truth too long to confess now. And if she did, everything would change between them. So she would take what she could get.

  It was nearly ten o’clock, time for her to extinguish the lamps, say her prayers, and go to bed. She hoped God would understand her Jack-prayer, even if it went against everything she’d been brought up to believe. She was entirely unable to convince herself that what she’d already done and what she wanted to do with Jack was a sin.

  First of all, no matter where he placed them, his kisses felt too good to be bad. Nicola was sure they had contributed to her regaining her speech, from her first muffled moan to her final shriek upon seeing Jack’s inert body in the blood-stained snow. If Jack hadn’t come to Puddling, who knew how long it would have taken Nicola to be “normal” once again?

  Not that she felt normal now—her heart beat rapidly as she thought of Jack’s mostly naked form in her bedroom. Even his smallclothes and socks had their appeal. She smiled, remembering how embarrassed he’d been to reveal just so much of himself.

  Tomorrow night, she’d see more. One couldn’t copulate without removing one’s smalls, could one? He had seemed far more well-endo
wed than the classic statuary she’d visited in museums, even if his hands had hidden what she was most interested in.

  Prurient. It described her current state of curiosity. Nicola had no idea how she’d allowed herself to be in darkest ignorance for so long. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never been provoked into asking Richard to remove any clothes. That whole aspect of their future marriage had been clouded in obfuscation.

  She took off her own clothes, not glancing at her reflection, and slipped into a pink woolen nightgown that her mother had purchased in Scotland. It was itchy, but one could not deny it was still very cold across the British Isles. Thick pink socks had been included in the package, and Nicola put them on too. How silly she must look, baby-blush from throat to toe, but no one was going to see her.

  After poking at the coals in the fireplace, she brushed her hair and braided it, then got down on her knees. She really didn’t want to think about Richard, although she included him in her prayer ritual anyway, just to ask that he find a proper mate. Some nice woman who was conventional both in looks and temperament—Richard didn’t care for fuss or drama.

  Nicola was not that woman anymore.

  Prayers done, she climbed into bed, extinguished the lamp, and stared at the ceiling. Not that she could see it despite the flickering fire. If there were any spiders left after Mrs. Grace’s thorough housekeeping, they were safe in their intricate webs, waiting for spring.

  This was definitely a night for counting sheep or flying pigs, because when she went to seduce Jack, she didn’t want to look like a raccoon, all shadowed eyes. She rolled around trying to get comfortable, tangling herself up in the voluminous nightgown. Nicola talked to herself with her hands, running through the British Manual Alphabet, skipping nearly a third of the letters. Once, she’d been a model student, but her glory days were over. Jack had meant well, but the adage about old dogs and new tricks seemed to be applicable. The alphabet was ultimately not helpful.

  Nicola sat up and pulled the socks off—her feet were too warm. Her toes wiggled in freedom and she stretched her whole body, trying to relax. Even her braids pulled too tight against her scalp, so she untied their ribbons and loosened the waves. She dipped her chin to her chest and swung her head side to side. An alarming crackling sound came from her neck.

  It was no use—sleep was not forthcoming. She was simply too tight everywhere, as if she was wearing an iron corset that couldn’t be unfastened. If she were home in Bath, she would have resorted to a few drams of sherry, but alas, nothing of that nature was to be found in Puddling.

  She couldn’t go for a walk. Apart from being too cold, she was saving up her luck for tomorrow night. How horrible it would be if she were caught on an unauthorized post-curfew jaunt. Even though the Foundation was ready to release her, they’d probably stick Mrs. Grace across the hall overnight, serving as a kind of guard dog to save her from herself.

  Some might think her judgment was impaired, and they would be right. Decent women didn’t lust after gentlemen—or if they did, Nicola was unaware of it. Her sister, Frannie, had said nothing about Albert being irresistible when they were courting, and Frannie told her everything.

  Maybe not. Albert was a perfectly nice man, but he might have some hidden attraction that Nicola was impervious to. Which was a good thing. It wouldn’t do to pine after one’s brother-in-law, would it? And those two little boys had come from somewhere.

  Oh, her absurd turn of mind would never help her sleep. She relit the lamp, hoping her neighbors were asleep and wouldn’t turn her in. She was in a sort of limbo, anyway, no longer a Guest who needed rehabilitation. The vicar had spoken to her gently today to ferret out when she intended to leave. Puddling cottages were in demand, even though the new one was finished and about to be inhabited.

  The waiting list could wait. She didn’t want to leave until Jack did, but couldn’t very well admit that. It was a wonder they’d gotten away with the intimacies they had. Old Ham hadn’t paid much attention to them as they’d signed misspelled words and grammatically challenged sentences to each other—he was not the strictest of chaperones.

  Nicola wanted something more to remember Puddling by than nursing duties and thwarted desire. Tomorrow night couldn’t come soon enough.

  Punching up the pillows, she took a book from her bedside table and tried to read. The words wiggled about until she made herself focus, getting into the spirit of the thing. There was a castle and a governess and a brooding hero—that much she remembered from when she’d abandoned the book a week earlier. In her mind’s eye, the brooding hero took on Jack’s countenance, with his beard fully restored, and the heroine was a medium-tall, medium-figured young blonde woman a bit past her prime. There was no child to spoil the intrigue, though why a governess would be present was a dilemma she’d sort out later.

  Maybe she should try her hand at writing once she was in a house of her own. She’d never thought of doing such a thing before, but why not? How hard could it be to get two attractive healthy people to fall into each other’s arms? On paper, anyway. In Puddling, it had been the challenge of her life.

  Nicola slapped the book shut and picked up the notebook Jack had given her, jotting possible scenarios. She was so engrossed in plotting, she didn’t see Jack standing in the bedroom doorway, pale and windblown.

  “I say, Nicola, would you mind very much if I joined you in bed?”

  Chapter 36

  He fell rather than joined. Perhaps he’d been premature coming out tonight, testing his recovery, but he couldn’t help himself. The look on Nicola’s face was worth every ragged step he’d taken as stumbled up Honeywell Lane.

  Against doctor’s orders. He was meant to stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours. That would have been fine if Nicola had been at his bedside to place a cool and calming hand upon his brow or order him about. He’d been deluged with people all day inquiring into his health, but none of them had been the one he wanted.

  In vain, Jack had been hopeful Nicola might sneak out to him once it was dark, but she hadn’t come. He simply couldn’t wait any longer. He might have been wobbly from climbing the hill and up her stairs, but he was here, exactly where he wanted to be, a little overdressed. Jack would remedy that soon.

  Nicola’s pillowcases were heavily embroidered with white thread, with French knots and split stitches, satin and chain. Jack wasn’t sure why he even knew their names—his mother was not a skilled needlewoman. Domesticity was not her forte. There must have been a maid or governess somewhere in his dim past who had calmed herself with sewing after his many antics in the nursery at Ashburn.

  His rough finger caught at the threads. He couldn’t bear to hurt her, to tear her.

  But she had been very insistent about this, before his accident. Jack hoped she hadn’t changed her mind in the interim—he wasn’t as handsome as he used to be. Nicola had chosen him for this welcome task, however, and with any luck after this, she would agree to be his wife.

  Yes, he was going to anticipate his marriage vows. Life was short, as he’d recently come to know. Jack had held off quite as long as he could. Nicola had worn him down until he couldn’t with any honesty say why they should wait.

  He loved her. And here she was for his delectation, her fair hair spread out on the pillow as it was in all his dreams. He’d drawn her in this position a dozen times—without the pink nightgown—had in fact done so today once he was finally left alone by all his well-meaning visitors.

  “J-Jack!”

  “Yes, it is I. I missed you today.”

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed!”

  “As you can see, I’m in bed. Just not my own.” He gave her what he hoped was a saucy look. For all he knew, he resembled a hyena.

  “But—but I was going to come to you! Tomorrow night.” Her cheeks flushed in the lamplight.

  That was especially good news. “Don’t make me g
o home. I don’t think I could anyhow.” He’d thought Dr. Oakley was too conservative, but perhaps the man had had a point. Bedrest might be boring, but the trek from Tulip Cottage had been exhausting. Jack only hoped he could perform later in a satisfactory manner. He would hate to disappoint Nicola after all of her confidence in him.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I think you know. I give in. Capitulate. Surrender. If you find me a thesaurus, I’m sure I could come up with more words.”

  Her eyebrows knit. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think you do. You’ve been trying to seduce me for ages. I’m going to let you.”

  For a second he thought Nicola would whack him with one of those pretty pillows. Instead, she rolled off the bed.

  “Wait here.”

  As if he could move. He lay back while she disappeared in a pink blur from the room, watching the shadows undulate on the ceiling. Perhaps he should let her mount him—he understood that position was beneficial to a lady’s satisfaction. To tell the truth, he was not feeling in optimal condition.

  But he was here, and wouldn’t waste his chance. Jack summoned some energy and began to take his clothes off with trembling fingers. Good lord, he was as nervous as a schoolboy.

  Before he’d made much progress with his buttons, she returned, bearing a bowl and spoon.

  “What’s that?”

  Nicola grinned. “My secret weapon. Unless you are really tired of them. I had planned to come to you tomorrow with peaches.” Her smile faltered. “Maybe it’s a silly idea.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Even if they are not as sweet as you are. Where are we putting them?”

  “Putting them?”

  “Yes. Am I to eat them out of the bowl, or some other spot?” He waggled an eyebrow.

  “Jack! I cannot—do people actually—I don’t think—”