That was most thoughtful of the countess. Julia would no doubt enjoy her time with the young ladies, and it meant he could have an hour or two to himself while the ache in his arm subsided. “Thank you, I think I will take dinner in my room. And send up a bottle of port with it, please, Mrs. Phelps.” He didn’t think he’d need the laudanum, but he’d have the wine on hand, just in case. Besides, a glass or two wouldn’t go amiss.
* * *
“What are you painting?” Lina asked, craning her neck. She’d dug out Fiona’s old set of watercolors, and she and Miss Vaughan were seated across from each other at the table in the dower house sitting room.
The little girl leaned back to give her a clearer view. “That’s Papa,” she said, pointing, “and that’s me.”
It had taken Lina some time to get her to talk. Miss Vaughan wasn’t merely upset by the accident to her father, Lina realized, but shy as well. Only after a plate of biscuits, a game of knucklebones, and finally their foray into Fiona’s paint box had she begun to lose her bashfulness. Lina was enjoying spending time with her, and not just because it kept her from dwelling on the memory of nearly being trampled or the disturbing way Colonel Vaughan’s arm had looked beneath his coat—as if he had a second elbow a few inches above the usual one.
Lina studied the picture. “And you’re on his horse with him?”
“Yes, he’s giving me a ride.”
Miss Vaughan had painted her father very large—he quite dwarfed the poor horse—while she was a much smaller figure perched in front of him, a corkscrew of black curls springing out from under her blue bonnet. Both figures wore ear-to-ear smiles. “Is that something that happened, or something you wish would happen?”
“It happened. That was the day the bee stung me.”
Lina suffered a small pang of envy—not for the bee sting, but for the memory. Rationally, she’d always known there were caring, attentive fathers in the world, but it wasn’t often that she got a firsthand glimpse into what life was like for the children lucky enough to have them. “Oh, dear. That must have hurt.”
“It stung me here.” The little girl pointed to a spot on her shin. “I did cry a little at first, but then Papa took me up on Caballo and we jumped over the gate and I was happy again.”
Lina rather thought she would be happy, too, sitting in Colonel Vaughan’s lap. “I like your picture very much. Shall we give it to your father once the paint is dry?”
“Yes, please.” Miss Vaughan dipped her brush in the dish of water between them. “The doctor will fix Papa’s arm, won’t he?”
“I’m sure he will. He’s a very good doctor.”
Miss Vaughan added an ochre circle to the corner of her painting. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to Papa. My mother is up in heaven, you know.”
“Yes, I know. So is mine.”
“I have a picture of my mother. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much.”
The little girl drew a gold locket from her breast. “It’s in here.” Her small fingers fumbled with the catch until it sprang open. “See?”
Lina leaned over the oval miniature. Colonel Vaughan’s wife had been a handsome woman with dark curls, dark eyes and a faintly aloof smile. “Your mother was very lovely.”
“She was pretty but I don’t remember her very well. Uncle Freddie says he expects Papa will find a new mama for me someday, because Papa doesn’t like being lonely. But I asked Nurse Drew when that would be and she said ‘Once bitten, twice shy.’”
How interesting. “And what do you think that means?”
“It means Papa is shy like me,” Miss Vaughan said as if the answer must be obvious.
“Ah yes, I expect so.” What a bouncer. Any man with those looks and that smile couldn’t possibly be shy around women.
Miss Vaughan added a last brushstroke to her artwork and set down her paintbrush. “There. All finished.”
Lina admired her work. “What a fine picture. Even the sun you added is smiling.”
“I like your picture too. Your flowers are pretty.”
“We’ll put them both aside to dry. But first, we’ll each sign our name in the corner of our work, as a real artist does. That way, everyone will know who painted it.”
Miss Vaughan’s brow wrinkled in dismay. “I only know how to make J for Julia.”
“Hmm. Then why don’t you put your J just here, and I’ll show you how to do the rest? If you like, when we’re finished we can read one of my sister’s old books, The Alphabet of Goody Two Shoes, to go over all of the letters.” Smiling, Lina came around the table to her side. “Next in your name comes U, like this. In the book, U is for umbrella...”
* * *
“Colonel?” whispered a soft voice, and an even softer hand smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
He must be dreaming. The voice sounded like Lady Radbourne’s—as if she were in his bedchamber with him.
He opened one eye. Ah, good. His dream-countess was every bit as lovely as the real thing. Lovelier, even, since she was dressed in a low-cut dinner gown and kneeling beside his bed.
“I’m sorry. I know how terribly improper this is, but when you didn’t answer my knock, I let myself in. I brought your little girl home and tucked her into bed, and I had to see for myself how you were faring.” Her eyes met his in the candlelight, and faint worry lines appeared between her slender brows. “What you did today, Colonel—how can I thank you? You saved my life.”
He smiled drowsily. He didn’t see any point in observing the proprieties in a dream, particularly when he could already see where this one was headed. “Call me Win.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, but Lady Radbourne—Lina—nodded her agreement. “Yes. Win. What you did was so brave—”
“Not brave. Just didn’t want to see you hurt.”
She took his good hand between both of hers. “But you could have been badly hurt yourself, perhaps even killed.” Her eyes lingered on the sling over his left shoulder. “Your arm...it’s definitely broken, then?”
“Definitely broken.” What a comfortable bed this was. He felt as if he were floating. He chuckled.
There was a pause. “You’re not really awake, are you?” she asked, a hint of humor in the question.
“Not ’specially. Laudanum.” The pain had been bad enough that he’d decided there was no point in playing the hero, though he wasn’t sure he’d got the dose right. He’d thought Dr. Strickland had told him to take twenty drops—or was it thirty? He’d split the difference and taken twenty-five, but after a quarter of an hour passed with no lessening of the pain, he’d taken a few more drops, and then a few more until finally he’d begun to feel an effect.
“Ah.” She hesitated only a moment, then turned his good hand—his right hand—palm up on the bed and unfolded his fingers. She gazed for a moment at his face and then, to his great surprise, lowered her head and pressed a gentle, almost reverent kiss into his palm.
Her lips were as soft as they looked. It was only a kiss, a chaste kiss, and not even on a spot he would have chosen, but it sent a jolt of need through him.
When she lifted her head he cupped her cheek in a caress. “Lina. You’re so pretty it hurts to look at you.”
She smiled and covered his hand with hers. “Even with the laudanum?”
“Mmm-hmm. Always.”
He traced the delicate line of her jaw and combed his fingers through her soft chestnut hair. A current of awareness passed between them. Gently, he pulled her in until their lips met.
He kissed her, slowly and lazily. Oh, this was even better. He couldn’t remember a dream that had felt quite so real, or been quite so satisfying. She smelled delicate and feminine, a mixture of Denmark lotion and eau d’ange. He opened his mouth, tasting her sweetness.
The smooth silk of her gown rustled as his good arm encircled her waist. She brought her hands up to his chest, arching closer.
Encouraged, he tugged her into bed with him.
* * *
Lost in their kiss, for several long seconds Lina didn’t even realize what was happening. Win’s tongue was leisurely and searching, sending a wash of heat flooding through her. She slid her hands over the hard muscles beneath his shirt. Oh, it felt good, being held this way, sharing a moment of pure physical pleasure with someone who obviously knew how to—
He made a low sound deep in his throat, breaking through her blissful haze.
Lina tensed and drew back sharply. “What are you doing?”
Despite her alarm, he kept his arm about her in a loose embrace. He cocked an eyebrow. “Kissing you?”
She was momentarily nonplussed when his answer ended on a questioning note. He was strong—even one-armed, he’d lifted her into the bed as if he hauled panting women against him on a daily basis—and the way he kissed could put Don Juan to shame. She’d expected a seductive blandishment, suave and confidently delivered. I’ll make it good for you or It’s what we both want, sweeting. Instead, his answer held more of laudanum than of lust.
A little of her alarm eased. He was drugged. Though he’d pulled her into bed with him, he didn’t sound particularly determined to assail her virtue. For all she knew he wouldn’t even remember this in the morning.
The thought lent her courage. If he wouldn’t remember—well, a mere kiss or two couldn’t hurt that much, could it? The brief embrace they’d already shared had her yearning for more. When she’d run her hands over his chest, her fingers had traced the raised scar of his bayonet wound through his linen shirt, only adding to the allure of him—strong, rugged, experienced. If she set her misgivings aside for just a few brief moments, she could lose herself in another such kiss. They needn’t go any further, and no one would ever know.
She leaned closer—and a voice inside her screamed No.
That was the kind of thinking that had ruined her mother and left her fatherless. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t even be in his room—wouldn’t be, if she hadn’t been sick with worry about his injury. Good heavens, Edward had been dead less than two months! This incomprehensible desire had to be some unforeseen effect of early pregnancy, or an emotional damburst because she’d nearly been trampled in Malton.
She pushed hard at his chest. “This isn’t what I wanted. I was only—I was worried about your injury, and thankful to you for saving me.”
“Oh.” Looking chagrined, he let go of her at once. “My apologies.”
His apologies? She’d crept past his closed door, knelt beside his bed and pressed kisses on him while he lay half conscious. Even now, a part of her wished he would murmur a few honeyed promises and go back to kissing her as if she’d never objected. It seemed hypocritical of her to wring an apology from him, as if he’d offered her some insult.
But she knew how dangerous it would be to relent. She dragged her eyes from his handsome face, where the shadow of a beard was already coming in. “I’m in mourning,” she said primly. She contemplated adding and you might well rob my unborn child of the Radbourne inheritance, but decided there was such a thing as protesting too much.
“I’m sorry.”
She sensed he would have backed away if he could have—only she was in his bed, more or less atop him, and he was befuddled by laudanum.
Which meant it was her responsibility to pull free of this foolish intimacy. So why hadn’t she already done so?
More flustered than she cared to admit, she disentangled her limbs from his and climbed down from the bed. She straightened her clothes, her cheeks burning. “As far as I’m concerned, this never happened. I trust I may rely on your discretion?”
He was silent a moment. “Yes,” he said, sounding almost wounded, “you may rely on it.”
Had she offended him again, or was he simply groggy? Oh, how she hoped he wouldn’t remember this. She was suddenly shocked at herself, ashamed of her still-racing pulse and the traitorous heat between her thighs. She drew an unsteady, tension-laden breath. “I’m glad you weren’t more seriously injured. Good night, Colonel.”
“Win,” he corrected her, already sounding more asleep than awake.
She hesitated. “Yes...Win.” Some strange, ill-considered impulse made her want to drop one last kiss, fond and apologetic, on his forehead. She resisted the urge. Fond seemed beyond her capabilities just now.
She turned away, still shaken, to start unsteadily toward the door. What a close call. Thank heavens she’d kept her head.
She breathed a silent prayer that she could slip out of the house without any servants seeing her.
Chapter Eight
The company of just and righteous men is better than wealth and a rich estate.
—Euripides
Win woke late the next morning, alone in bed and wondering how much of the night before had been a dream.
He was almost certain it had been real. His memories of Lina—or ought he to think of her still as the Countess of Radbourne?—seemed too vivid to be mere fantasy. But the laudanum had left his memories confused and fragmented. Though he was quite sure they’d kissed, he was less certain just how far matters between them had gone.
And where was Lina? Surely he hadn’t just rolled over and left her to find her way home in the night. Not if he was right about her so-called fall in Malton, and someone really had made an attempt on her life the day before.
Except he must have done exactly that—assuming, of course, it hadn’t all been a dream—because she was clearly gone.
If her visit to his room hadn’t been a dream, he had two nagging questions. First, what on earth had made her decide to kiss him that way? Second, and far more worrisome to contemplate, exactly what had he done before she’d called a halt to the proceedings? He liked to think he knew what he was about in the bedroom, but he was also a gentleman, and—well, hang it, he had been drugged.
And now he was thirsty and had the beginnings of a headache. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. For God’s sake, was that right? It was nearly noon, and on a Sunday no less. That was the last time he was ever going to take laudanum.
He shaved and dressed, his arm still paining him. The last time he’d set eyes on Julia, riding home in the carriage from Malton, she’d been frightened and crying. Though he’d assured her at the time that his injuries weren’t serious, it had been hard to carry the words off convincingly. Every bump in the road had jarred his broken bone, Miss Douglass had been as tearful as Julia, and both Freddie and the countess had looked pale and shaken. Now he wanted Julia to see for herself he was going to be fine.
But when he arrived at the nursery, expecting to find his daughter with one of the housemaids or perhaps with Freddie, Win was surprised to discover Lady Radbourne sitting beside her on the floor, tailor-fashion, moving a doll about in a waltz motion as Julia’s doll danced with it. Julia was chattering away to the countess, as comfortably as if she hadn’t a shy bone in her body.
Lina, still here at Belryth...?
Despite his uncertainty about how to greet her after the events of the night before, Win couldn’t help staring. She and Julia looked so natural together, more like mother and daughter than the most distant of connections. The countess had apparently braided his daughter’s hair, and as Julia talked—she was speaking for her doll, that much was clear—Lina hummed a lilting tune under her breath, dancing her own doll in circles with Julia’s.
It actually brought a lump to his throat—the notion that this was what Julia needed, someone to spend time with her and to bring a woman’s touch. Someone to be a mother to her, and care for her as Harriet would have.
Lina caught sight of him then, and instantly shot to her feet. “Oh—Colonel Vaugha
n! I hope it’s all right for me to be here.” She added with careful emphasis, “I came to inquire about your injury. When I learned you’d taken a sleeping draught, I thought perhaps I could keep your daughter company while you were indisposed.”
Came to inquire had to be more than mere invention, for she’d clearly been home since he’d last seen her, and perhaps to church as well. She was dressed in a day gown now, black as usual, and she looked scrubbed and neatly pressed. She was also adorably flustered, blushing and concealing the doll amid the folds of her skirts as if she’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.
She must have been in his bed the night before. And that meant he owed her an apology. What kind of man simply drifted back to sleep in a drug-fueled haze, expecting a lady to make her way home in the dark?
She was waiting for his reply. He cleared his throat. “Of course it’s all right. This was your home once, after all, and may well be again. You’re most welcome here. I’m grateful you thought to look in on Julia for me.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure. We’ve been playing Goody Two Shoes.”
“I didn’t think she knew that story.”
“I read it to her yesterday, after we went through Goody’s alphabet book. Julia can write her name now too.”
“My doll is Margery Meanwell,” his daughter said, holding it up for Win’s inspection. It was an ordinary wooden doll in a mob cap and muslin shift, though it did at least have shoes on both its feet.
Poor Julia. She hadn’t a tomboyish bone in her body. She loved to draw flowers, and play dress-up in Harriet’s old shoes and bonnets, and pretend to keep house—all things that an ex-army officer could attempt with only the most ham-handed and self-conscious air. Nurse Drew, despite an otherwise respectful demeanor, had literally laughed out loud at his efforts to teach Julia to skip rope. His daughter was in sore need of a governess.
He smiled down at her. “Yes, I see. Margery looks most virtuous and kind.”
“And my doll is Sir Charles Jones,” Lina said, exhibiting it. “Sir Charles has just asked Miss Meanwell to marry him, so they’re having a ball.” Her eyes dropped to Win’s sling. “How is your arm?”
An Heir of Uncertainty Page 10
