by Lynn Kerstan
On her knees she shuffled to the couch and folded back the covers from where she expected to find his injured leg, starting from the bottom for safety’s sake. Gradually she disclosed an inordinately large foot, a bare hairy shin, and finally the spot below his knee where the bandage commenced.
As she moved higher, peeling away the covers inch by inch, she was relieved to see no signs of bleeding. Only when she reached his thigh were there a few dark stains, but they were dry when she touched them lightly with her fingertips. Taking care not to disturb him, she lowered the blankets a bit at a time, draping the ends gently over his toes and the sole of his foot.
And then she felt his hand stroke down her head, tangling in her hair as he rubbed her nape.
“How am I doing, Miss Ryder?” he asked, sounding sleepily amused. One finger teased at the back of her left ear. “Are you here to nurse me, entertain me, or give me the last rites?”
“You require n-no such thing,” she stammered, leaning into his hand when she knew that she ought to be moving speedily in the other direction. “I wished only to check your bandage for bleeding. There is none of any c-consequence.”
“Your hair feels like silk,” he said. “I thought it would. I’m glad you let it down tonight. It looks nearly golden in the firelight, with touches of copper. Come sit here beside me so I can make out what color it really is.”
“Plain brown, sir, as you very well know. And if you will let go of it, I shall return to bed.”
“But I don’t want you to,” he said, a wheedling tone in his husky voice.
She began to suspect it was the brandy talking now. Lord Fallon was not the wheedling type. He did release her hair, though, and she heard the rustle of sheets as he moved to the other side of the narrow couch.
“I’ve made you a spot, Miss Ryder. But if you don’t come and hang on to me, I’m likely to topple over the edge, and hit my head again, and bleed massively from all my frightful wounds, and expire because you were too heartless to save me.”
“Fustian!” Propping one hand on the couch, she levered herself upright and turned to face him. It was, she knew immediately, a mistake of the first order.
He was sitting up against the pillows, covers bunched around his waist, with only a fragment of sheet slicing across his chest to where he’d tied it at his shoulder. All the rest of his improvised toga was twisted somewhere out of sight.
Mesmerized, she gazed at the wiry hair curling around his flat nipples, and the bronzed chest and muscular arms, and when he took hold of her wrist and tugged her to sit by his waist, she could no more have done otherwise than fly to the moon.
Her bones turned to syrup as he drew her closer, one hand between her shoulder blades and the other coiled around her neck. His breath was warm against her cheek for the barest moment, and then his lips brushed over her temple, and her eyebrows, and her lashes, and finally, as she strained forward to meet him, they touched her lips.
She tasted brandy when he deepened the kiss, and an intoxicating flavor that belonged, she was sure, only to him. She was certain of nothing else, except a profound need to be closer still to the heat that radiated from his body. Mindlessly, she dissolved in his embrace and kissed him back.
And lost her heart.
A lifetime passed, or only a few moments. The next she knew, his arms had fallen away and she was sitting up again, looking into his eyes, bedazzled.
He lifted one hand and slowly rubbed his thumb over her swollen lips. “G’night, sweet angel,” he murmured as his eyes drifted shut. His head dropped onto the pillow.
For a long time, she could not trust her limbs to move. Finally she struggled to her feet and raised the blankets over him, stealing one last look at his chest and the slope of his broad shoulders where they rose into his neck.
So incredibly beautiful, she thought. No man ought to be so beautiful as this.
How was any woman to resist him?
Chapter 10
JANE WANDERED into the drawing room, propped her elbows against the windowsill, and gazed out at the stormy morning. Snow was blowing almost sideways in the peltering winds, and she could barely glimpse the outline of the tall elm trees that stood near the front of the house.
She had been rattling about all morning, mostly in the kitchen, trying every which way to distract herself. But once the banked kitchen fire was stirred up and fueled, snow water set to boil, larder thoroughly explored, and dishes washed, there was little to do but think. And only one thing to think about.
The Kiss.
Rest had eluded her altogether when she returned to the truckle bed, and she had not stayed there very long. While Lord Fallon slept the sleep of a fallen angel, she spent the rest of the night sitting on the flagstone hearth with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly at the dancing flames.
Now, after many hours reliving each wondrous moment in vivid detail, she was no closer than ever to consigning what happened last night to the back of her mind where it surely belonged. The unprecedented experience of being held in a man’s arms and opening her lips to his intimate exploration of her mouth had left her wondering who she was. What she was.
Even here in the icy drawing room, her flesh still felt on fire. Never in her life had she been more aware of her lips and tongue, not to mention other sectors of her body that rarely called attention to themselves.
She looked no different, unfortunately. When she’d stood before the mirror in the vestibule to arrange her hair, the same plain, ordinary face gazed back at her. She thought her lips a bit fuller, swollen perhaps, and her eyes seemed brighter. But in her rumpled dress, hair wrenched into a practical knot behind her ears, she would scarcely draw a second glance, let alone inspire a man to kiss her again.
When Lord Fallon saw her in the cold light of day, he would doubtless wonder what had possessed him.
“Here you are,” he said cheerfully from the doorway. “I was beginning to think you had run off with my horse.”
She whipped around, nervously grasping a chunk of skirt in each hand. He was standing with one shoulder propped casually against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. And fully dressed, she was quick to note, except for his neckcloth. Her gaze was drawn to the large white patch that reached down from the top of his thigh and disappeared under his riding boot.
“G-good morning, sir,” she said from a constricted throat. “I trust you slept well.”
“Like a doorstop.” His eyes lifted to the window. “I gather we’ll not be traveling anytime soon.”
His voice was so matter-of-fact that she began to relax a bit. Perhaps he had no recollection of what had passed between them. He had taken a hard blow to the head, after all, and followed up by drinking far too much brandy. Besides, what were a few kisses to a man like the dashing Lord Fallon? They would be hardly worth remembering, let alone mentioning.
She didn’t know whether to be grateful, mortified, or downright offended.
He lifted himself from the doorjamb and crossed the room with his usual aggressive stride. “Why have you gone mute as a boiled egg, Miss Ryder? If I kept you awake all night with my snoring, please accept my apologies.”
“You did not snore,” she assured him, determined to match his unexpectedly genial mood. “I was merely examining your leg for signs of bleeding. The bandages really ought to have been changed before you dressed.”
“And so they were. I am perfectly capable of wrapping a bandage, you know. And you must have done a superb job of nursing, for the wound is practically healed.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” she said doubtfully. “You look very well indeed. How do you feel?”
“Splendid. I have suffered no ill effects from the fall, and you were mistaken about the consequences of a few tots of brandy. In fact, I never felt better in my life.”
She regarded h
im sternly. “You are lying through your teeth, sir.”
“Yes.” He didn’t blink an eye. “My dignity requires it. And a generous, understanding companion would pretend to believe me.”
“I daresay. Next time, take care to be stranded with such a paragon.” Moving past him to the door, she grinned at him over her shoulder. “Come along, Lord Fustian, and I shall fix you some breakfast.”
He followed her to the kitchen and obediently sat on a bench by the trestle table while she brewed tea and added water to the simmering pot of oatmeal. Glue would be a more accurate name for it, she had discovered when she ate her own breakfast. The heavy clumps, tasteless without cream and sugar, had stuck in her throat with every bite.
To his credit, Fallon managed to swallow several spoonfuls before pushing the bowl aside. “Perhaps we should save the oats for Scorpio,” he said, holding out his cup for more tea. “I don’t mean to complain, but is there nothing else to be had?”
She went to the larder and brought out several jars topped with beeswax and cheesecloth, lining them up on the table and pointing to them one by one. “Pickled cabbage, peas, applesauce, applesauce, and peas. There are a few more potatoes and some turnips and what appears to be salted meat. If the storm has not passed before nightfall, I shall make up a stew for our supper.”
“Our Christmas Eve supper,” he said, reaching for a jar of applesauce. “And no plum pudding or gingerbread men tomorrow, unless we arrive at the inn in time for the Wilkens’s family dinner. Do you mind very much?”
“Not in the slightest.” She watched him pry out the wax with his spoon and dig heartily into the applesauce. “Elaborate celebrations are well and good, but Christmas is more truly a feast of the heart.”
Spoon raised halfway to his lips, he looked up at her with an arrested expression. “It ought to be, I suppose. But I have little experience in the matter. The day passed without notice in India, unless I chanced to be in Calcutta or Bombay, where my fellow expatriates attempted to recreate a winter celebration in the stifling heat. I rarely joined them.”
He put down his spoon. “It just occurred to me, Miss Ryder, that the only Christmases I can remember were spent in this very house. Grandmama had little money to spare, but she always provided a lavish dinner for the servants. We sat at table together, and there was an old Scottish stableman who played the bagpipes while she passed out the gifts. They were simple—handkerchiefs, perfumed soap, and the like—but carefully chosen. Each year I received a small box of tin soldiers and artillery to add to my private army. I spent the rest of the day moving them around the drawing-room carpet, making war on battalions of knives, forks, and spoons. Grandmama could only afford to provide the English troops.”
He propped his elbows on the table, resting his chin atop his folded hands. “Lord, I haven’t thought about all this for donkey’s years. Where does the time go?”
Where indeed? Memories of Christmases past began to swim in her own mind as she picked up the jars and carried them back to the larder. She recalled standing in line with the servants on Boxing Day, and how her father looked at a point over her head when he handed her a shilling and an orange. Mama always received ten shillings and a small ham. Then they were shuttled out the back door because Lady Ryder thought it improper for them to stay for the party and the dancing.
That was the trouble with Christmas, she decided. One expected so very much from it, year after year, never mind the frequent disappointments. Still, there was always next time, another Christmas only twelve months away, and hope.
She wished Lord Fallon had kissed her on Christmas instead of two nights beforehand. The memory, which she knew would be precious to her all the days of her life, would have been even more special had his timing been a fraction better. But then, Eudora often said that memories are what a person makes them, never mind the facts. When she was a doddering old spinster, Jane Ryder would probably recollect that her first and only kiss happened precisely when it ought to have happened.
As she emerged from the larder, Fallon was, to her great surprise, washing up his own dishes. “What shall we do to pass the time?” he inquired, wiping his hands on a towel. “If we locate a deck of cards, perhaps you can teach me a few of your tricks.”
“The one I showed you is the only trick I know,” she said. “It requires a good deal of practice, and I doubt you have the patience to master such a useless skill. Perhaps we would do better to investigate the upstairs rooms while the daylight holds. And do keep an eye out for candles. We are running low.”
For the next hour, they roamed through a series of bedchambers and small sitting rooms, gathering candles and sifting through drawers and armoires. Jane soon came upon a tortoiseshell comb and a tarnished silver-backed brush, both clogged with several years’ worth of dust. Pleased, she left them on a console table, meaning to retrieve them later, clean them up, and restore some order to her hair.
His lordship lost interest in their scavenger hunt within the first few minutes. After that he trailed behind her with his arms clasped at his back, making a false show of gratification when she found a candle stub or exclaimed over a swatch of antique lace.
He perked up considerably when they opened the door to a small, neat room that held a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a tall wardrobe, and a rocking horse. She knew from the expression on his face that this had been his room whenever he came to stay with his grandmother.
“Holy hell,” he muttered under his breath, pointing to the rocking horse. “That’s the first Scorpio. All my mounts since then, the ones I’ve kept for any length of time, have carried that name. Until this moment, I’d forgot why.”
“A magnificent beast,” she said, watching him run his fingers between the pointed ears and over the carved wooden mane. “Why did you call him Scorpio?”
“I don’t recall,” he said brusquely, moving away from the horse as if embarrassed to be caught petting a wooden toy. “It sounded dashing, I suppose.”
Fallon pulled open a few drawers and looked into the wardrobe, all empty, before heading quickly to the passageway. With a small sigh, she followed him, sensing he had been more affected by that room and the rocking horse than he was ready to admit.
“Shall we try the upper floor?” she suggested. “The staircase is in the other direction.”
He turned, shrugging. “By all means, if you wish to examine the servants’ quarters. We may as well. There’s very little else for us to do.”
Don’t be sullen, she thought as he led her up the narrow stairs. It would be a very long day indeed if Lord Fallon got the sulks.
Men generally imagined themselves logical and straightforward, even when they were misbehaving in the manner of very small boys. She had always wondered at it. Not the misbehavior—females could be equally temperamental—but the fact that men were able to create such a false image of themselves and expect others to accept it.
To her mind, Lord Fallon was mercurial, moody, impatient, sometimes charming, always supremely self-confident, among other qualities she had no business considering. His physical presence, his—dare she even think it?—raw sexual attraction rendered her incapable of coherent thought, even when she wasn’t looking at him. She tried not to.
But her gaze was constantly drawn to him as they wandered in and out of the tiny, nearly bare rooms where the servants had lived in his grandmother’s time. She marked every gesture he made, every expression that crossed his face, and logged them in her memory. If a cat can look at a king, she decided, a common secretary can surely gaze upon the Marquess of Fallon.
A heavy door, the large key dangling from its lock, stood at the very end of the passageway. “The storage room,” Fallon explained, wrestling with the rusty key. “Dank and filthy, I would expect.”
It was certainly dark. When the door swung open, she saw one pale shaft of light wobbling in through the lone wi
ndow, outlining a large number of trunks and boxes.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “A treasure trove. Why don’t you explore, sir, while I bring up some candles?”
Before he could object, she was speeding down the passage, rather expecting him to follow her. But when she looked back, he had disappeared into the room. And by the time she returned, a brace of candles in each hand, he was sitting cross-legged in front of an open cedar chest.
“Come see, Miss Ryder. I think these are some of my grandmother’s ball gowns. They must date back half a century or more.”
Jane set the candles on two nearby boxes and leaned over to peer into the chest, choking as the strong smell of camphor wafted back at her. He had removed a wrapping of tissue paper from a dress of pale blue brocade studded with beads and pearls.
At his direction, she lifted the gown and held it up to her shoulders. “It’s incredibly heavy,” she said. “However did she manage to dance, wearing all this?”
“Along with a tall powdered wig, I expect. But she had only one Season before her parents arranged a marriage to my grandfather. He soon whisked her off to Wolvercote and left her there while he returned to his usual rounds of drinking and gaming in London.” Fallon’s mouth tightened. “It was not a love match, you may be sure. Once he’d got an heir on her, they rarely saw each other. And when my father was old enough to be sent off to school, she moved into this house and lived here the rest of her life.”
Jane folded the dress and placed it beside him on the floor. “I am sorry for it,” she said. “She must have been very lonely.”
