In his lap, the ridiculous feline continued its antics. He looked down, avoiding the brilliance of her luminous emerald gaze, and noted that the thing had left a despicable trail of white fur in its wake. He steeled himself against any maudlin sentiments within him, which had no doubt been caused by his weakness. He had never before been so grievously wounded, and he could only conclude that the blood loss he’d suffered had somehow rendered his mind corruptible.
What had he been thinking to kiss her? To soften toward her even for an instant? To want her, to allow the fanciful notion that she could somehow care for him—at the thought, he shuddered—that she had remained at his bedside because she wished to see him well? His sole focus needed to be restoring his reputation and getting reinstated within the League.
Sweet God, it had to be the injury. Perhaps he still suffered from infection? His head did feel a trifle hot.
He stilled in the act of petting the banshee on his lap and attempted to scoop it up, hell-bent upon removing it altogether. The thing dug in its claws and resisted. He spared another, dismissive glance for his duchess, still irked that he had acted with such uncharacteristic rashness toward her. He was a spy, damn it, and had been for many years. His training did not allow for such trivialities as emotions. He had believed himself fully incapable of frailties.
His wife watched him expectantly, and he recalled that she had asked him something. Ah yes, what was she to him?
Christ if he knew.
But he’d be damned before he’d reveal even a speck of uncertainty where she was concerned. Something about the woman lowered his defenses. He could not afford it. Not now, when he needed to clear his name. When he needed to be ruthless.
He clenched his jaw. “Do you imagine I have tender feelings for you, Duchess? If so, you are indeed the American naïf to be pitied.”
She flinched as if he had struck her, and the spear of shame within him doubled in size, until he felt he’d been run through with a cannon ball. “Of course not, Your Grace. I imagine you care for no one at all, yourself included.”
Kit inclined his head, for he could not argue the point. Giving his life to serving in the League had required him to put Crown and country before himself and all others, and he had been married to that duty first. It had forced him to whittle away any lingering tender parts of him that his sire hadn’t extinguished, to become hardened and callous. But it had also been the grace by which he had found himself. A second son that had never been spared so much as a kind word from the duke, being necessary to the League had given Kit a place to belong. A raison d’être.
“I care for my duties,” he bit out, trying once more to wrench the infernal creature from his lap. His patience snapped when the thing sank its claws deeper, lodging through layers of trousers and sensitive skin. The breath hissed from him when it came perilously near to his wound once more. “Is this bloody thing’s feet fashioned of thorns?”
“I do believe the thing in question is a cat, Your Grace,” she chided, rising from her seat and bending down to retrieve her beast. “Furthermore, I have it on good authority that cats do not, in fact, possess feet. Rather, they have paws.”
“Yes, paws. Just so,” he gritted, watching her in spite of himself.
Her head was bent, so he could not see her features, and damn his hide, but even the part of her hair, straight, creamy, and fine down the middle of her head, was perfection. Had he ever found the top of a woman’s head attractive before? Had he ever been so tempted to press his lips into the silken strands, to bury his nose and inhale the sweet scent of her crown?
No, he had not.
And to make matters worse, she took his surliness and his cruelty in stride, remaining calm and cheerful. Whispering soothing words to the thing in his lap, delivering languorous strokes to its head and back until it retracted its weapons and melted into her hands.
Well, fuck me if this isn’t a day of endless firsts.
He was jealous of the bloody cat. Of her hands upon it, caressing and calming and reassuring. Her fingers were fine-boned, small, and pale. Her sole ornamentation was the betrothal and wedding rings he had given her. They had belonged to his mother, but he had to admit that they suited Georgiana. The deep-red ruby offset with sapphires and diamonds so that it resembled a flower blossom looked as if it had been fashioned for her hand.
Hers were not the hands of a duchess. They were not soft, unspoiled hands that had never known a day of work aside from lifting a teacup or emptying pin money on Bond Street. Though he mocked her for the years she had lived upon her father’s farm, that time of hard work showed in a way he could appreciate. It complemented her beauty, for it meant that she was unafraid of digging into the trenches and doing what life required of her.
He thought for a brief moment that he understood some small fragment of her. The reason why she had tended his bedside with such stoic consistency was in her hands, in her story. Her early life had not been kind to her, and she was not afraid of the ugly underbelly of the world.
He swallowed, shaken by the realization that she was not just a burden he’d been saddled with or a means to eliminate his wastrel brother’s debts. She was a woman with a past that had marked her fingers and yet left her heart open for the creatures of the street. Open to tending him, the man who least deserved her consideration. He knew so little of her history, so little of her. The wild impulse to learn her struck him.
Abruptly, she plucked the cat from his lap without struggle, almost as if she had sensed the tumultuous, unpredictable vein of his thoughts.
“Thank Christ,” he muttered, running a hand over his thigh to ascertain if the thing had wounded him. It was time, he knew, to garner some distance from her. To collect himself. Gripping his cane, he stood. “If you will excuse me, madam, I will leave you to your…tenants. I am off to break my fast.”
“Tenants?” she echoed after him, and he swore he could discern a note of humor in her lovely voice.
But he limp-stalked from the morning room with as much dignity as he could muster, determined not to answer her. Determined to never allow himself to crumble for her again. His duty was to the League and the Crown. To restoring his reputation and the respect of his peers, to becoming an agent once more. She was not his duty. She was a weakness. A weakness he could not afford.
eorgiana clutched Lady Philomena Whiskers to her bosom and attempted not to hover as Dr. Gage conducted an examination of Leeds. Almost a fortnight had passed since her husband’s unexpected visit to the morning room. Thirteen days since he had kissed her.
She could still feel the impression of his mouth upon hers, hot and firm and demanding. His tongue had slipped between her lips, teasing and tasting and inciting a new, strange sort of hunger within her. It was all she had been able to think about, alone in the chamber that had once belonged to the kittens she’d rescued from an East End rookery with the help of Ludlow.
Her husband’s unexpected return had forced her to focus upon finding new homes for her strays, and in so doing, she had discovered that she rather had a talent for matching her rescues with humans. Three of the kittens had found homes with Lady Brixton, the Countess of Aylesford, and Viscountess Linley respectively, all kindhearted animal lovers who were more than happy for some feline companionship.
She had a possible home for a fourth in the Duchess of Notley, a fellow American and, like Georgiana, not quite at home in London polite society. For the moment, the remaining felines remained in the library, but a rather unfortunate incident involving a volume of poetry, a naughty kitten’s claws, and a great deal of shredded binding and paper meant that the arrangement could not last. There had also been the soiled carpets, and the besmirched wing chair…
She scratched Lady P.’s head with absentminded strokes, casting a glance toward her husband and Dr. Gage. Her husband inhabited the bed. He was so large, so masculine, so attention claiming.
His face was symmetrical, all lines and hard angles. His nose was a perfect slash, his
cheekbones high, his chin strong, jaw wide and rigid. Thick black lashes that any woman would have coveted fringed his bright-blue eyes.
And his mouth, saints preserve her. His lips were sensual, a bit too wide for a man, and yet nevertheless riveting. She did not think she could ever look upon them again without longing to feel them move against hers. Even curled in a sneer, they were unfairly compelling.
How many times had she caught herself staring at his lips since his kiss? How many times had she imagined his mouth crushing hers? Georgiana’s cheeks heated, and she buried her face in Lady P.’s fur. Thank heavens the kittens were blissfully sleeping in the morning room, giving Georgiana an ideal excuse for distraction by scooping up Lady P. and bringing her to the duke’s chamber. It simply would not do to stare at her husband whilst Dr. Gage conducted his examination.
To hope that each soft flutter of fabric might afford her a glimpse of bare chest or naked limb. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wishing she hadn’t had that thought. Her eyes strayed back toward the bed—her bed, and the sight of Leeds in it never failed to set her heart aquiver since that horrible, wonderful kiss—to find him still clothed, his mouth a harsh line of disapproval.
Always disapproval.
Always for Georgiana.
Of course he would be surly. It was his nature. Why did she find herself longing for his kiss despite his thinly veiled animosity? Why was everything about him magnetic? She had done her best to keep her distance, restricting her visits with him to polite inquiries into the state of his recovery. Ten-minute intervals—with an animal always accompanying her for distraction’s sake—were all she could seem to manage.
She did not trust herself, it was true. And the Duke of Leeds had too many secrets. Not to mention that he was often not even pleasant or kind, that he referred to Lady P. as a “thing,” that he had insulted Alice when the mastiff had slobbered upon his leg, that he was forever grumbling or growling or glaring daggers at Ludlow… She sighed. The list of reasons why she ought to keep him at bay was endless.
But there remained the troubling fact that he was her husband, after all, and she was bound to him until she could convince him to grant her the divorce she required. Convincing him of the necessity ought to be easy, for she sensed the restlessness in him the last few days. Unless she misread him, he was itching to return to his hunting expedition.
All that remained was for her to take a lover to enable Leeds to sue for divorce on the grounds of adultery. Why the notion made her queasy, she could not say.
“Bloody hell, you are not even a true physician,” Leeds snapped in his frostiest tone.
Her husband’s biting statement cut through her distracted musings, and she jerked her face from Lady P.’s fur to find him glowering at Dr. Gage, who had drawn the bedclothes aside to study the duke’s wound. To his credit, the doctor neither flinched nor paused in his work.
“I am a true physician, of that I can assure you.” He sounded amused rather than offended.
“For animals,” Leeds spat, as though the word itself was abhorrent and he could not wait to fling it from his tongue.
Oh dear, there she went thinking about his tongue again. But it had felt so strange and delicious, inside her mouth.
She swallowed, forcing herself back to the moment and her husband’s truculence. “Leeds,” she cautioned lightly. “Do stop being a bear. Dr. Gage is a pioneer in his field.”
“The man has just told me he is an animal doctor, madam.” His gaze slammed into hers, and she could not deny the jolt it sent down her spine. “You dismissed my family physician in favor of a man who is doctor to cattle and sheep. Do I look like a bloody sheep to you?”
Her gaze trailed over his form, lingering on the bare slash of muscle-hewn thigh Dr. Gage had revealed to facilitate his examination. Her eyes next traveled to the vee of his robe, parted over his chest to reveal strong, firm flesh beneath.
She swallowed. “No, Your Grace. You do not resemble a sheep in the slightest.” But you do rather remind one of a horse’s behind. Georgiana bit the inside of her cheek to quell a sudden smile at the notion. His arrogance was a force of nature.
His brows snapped together. “I fail to see anything humorous in the situation, madam.”
Hmm. Perhaps she had not stifled the smile as successfully as she’d believed. “Dr. Gage is a veterinarian, Your Grace,” she offered, sending an apologetic smile in the direction of the doctor. “A very fine one who cured your wound of infection and saved your life.”
The duke issued an inelegant snort and descended into silence, continuing to pin her with a heated glare that made warmth suffuse her cheeks. She stared back at him, not about to cower beneath the full force of his ducal ice. Georgiana too could be obdurate.
“The wound is healing to my satisfaction,” Dr. Gage pronounced, severing the battle of wills being waged between Georgiana and Leeds. “Your Grace, if you do not mind, would you approach the bedside? I wish to show you how to dress His Grace’s injury.”
His request settled somewhere low in her belly, and not without both trepidation and thrill. When Dr. Gage had asked her upon his arrival if a servant would be attending His Grace, she had not thought of the ramifications her denial would have. Previously, the doctor had returned each day to perform the intimate task, which necessitated not only revealing her husband’s bare leg, but touching him as well.
She swallowed, uncertain about the wisdom of accepting such a task, and yet what could she do but heed Dr. Gage? Who else would tend to the duke? A servant? No, she could not allow a domestic to care for him when she could. Perhaps most duchesses would do so, would be loath to sully their hands with work. But she was not most duchesses.
“Of course.” She lowered Lady P. to the floor with as much grace as she could muster before joining Dr. Gage at her husband’s bedside.
The duke’s glare found her once more, piercing. His rigid jaw spoke volumes. “No need,” Leeds gritted. “I shall do it for myself. I have two hands that are not, as yet, useless.”
Georgiana ignored him, returning her gaze to Dr. Gage. “Show me what I must do.”
“A duchess does not…tend to her husband. This is quite beyond the pale.” Leeds set his mouth in a hard, firm line of disapproval. “You are not my nursemaid.”
Was it her imagination, or did his high cheekbones bear the slightest tinge of red? She stared at him in wonderment. Surely he was not embarrassed? The insufferable Duke of Leeds, fearless spy and sneer devotee?
Dr. Gage distracted her then by quickly imparting the necessary knowledge to her, showing her what she would need to do, all while Leeds sulked. It was silly of him to be concerned about propriety now, when she had tended to him during his fever and his surgery both. She had seen him nearly nude. The only reason he protested now was either pride or the fact that he did not wish for her to touch and see him so intimately.
His kiss suggested that the former was the culprit rather than the latter. Though his subsequent remoteness rather muddied the waters.
“There now,” Dr. Gage said abruptly after the conclusion of his miniature lesson. “I regret that I must take my leave. I received word before I left my office that the Earl of Sheffield’s prized broodmare has gone into labor. Her past birthing was rife with trouble, and I do expect I shall need to offer aid once again. I trust you can finish bandaging the wound, Your Grace?”
Oh dear.
In short order, she would be alone with her husband, touching his naked thigh.
How intriguing. How alarming.
She swallowed. “Yes, of course I shall.”
“By all means, go, Mr. Gray,” Leeds barked with borderline savagery. “Birth Sheffield’s bloody horse. I have no further need of you here, being a goddamn human.”
Lord, the man had a wicked mouth on him and all the charm of a thundercloud. She could have clouted him for his inexcusable rudeness, but she was also grateful in one sense. It distracted her from his long, naked leg and the patch
of skin just above his hip bone. The forbidden slash of flesh that was revealed by his parted robe and the withdrawn bedclothes, featuring a divot she could not seem to stop staring at. That she longed to press her lips to.
No, this would not do. She shook the impure thoughts from her mind. Remember how awful he is, Georgiana. This is the man who mistook kittens for rats. He shudders when Lady P. is near. Only a heartless boor would be incapable of loving a sweet, dependent animal who merely wanted to love and didn’t even require it in return.
She forced her attention back to the doctor. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Gage. I shall escort you out.”
Two masculine voices rang out simultaneously, one polite and calm, the other snarling and irate.
“There is no need, Your Grace.”
“Like bloody hell you will, madam.”
Dr. Gage washed and dried his hands in the basin alongside the bed before taking up his satchel and offering a half-bow. “I shall see myself out. Felicitations on your return to good health and good humor, Your Grace.”
And then he took his leave of the chamber, while Georgiana silently applauded him for his aplomb in the face of the duke’s jibes. When the door closed at his back, she whirled to face Leeds, skewering him with a pointed glare of her own.
“How dare you treat Dr. Gage so poorly?” she demanded. “His treatment alone is what saved you from certain death.”
“He is an animal doctor, madam. And clearly so, for no true physician would dare to presume that a duchess would tend to her husband’s bloody wound as if she were a nurse at a battlefield hospital. It is simply not done.”
The expression of distaste on his regal face would have otherwise been cause for levity. Not now, however, when he had vexed her so with his intractability.
“I do not care what is done, and neither does Dr. Gage.” Shaking with irritation, she poured fresh water over her hands and cleansed them with soap as the doctor had shown her before drying them on a clean strip of toweling and turning to face Leeds once more. “If you do not wish for infection to set in once again, you will cease being such an overbearing, priggish, arrogant, thoroughly wrongheaded ingrate.”
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 12
