by Karen Ranney
She pulled away, putting a few feet between them.
“You’re not a bride yet,” he said, smiling.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “It’s not too late for Jordan to realize his error. He’s marrying the wrong sister.”
A dangerous woman, one whose smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. He reminded himself to never get on Josephine’s bad side. Or at least always have something about which to blackmail her.
“You’d be a lousy wife, Josephine. Jordan deserves someone who at least likes him. Someone who doesn’t just covet what he has.”
She studied him for a long moment. He didn’t look away, wondering what she was thinking. No doubt it was a cunning plan featuring her as the victim. Poor Josephine with her emerald eyes swimming with tears and her kissable lips pouting.
“You’ll be wasted as a wife,” he said, surprising himself with the truth. “You truly should work for the War Office. No doubt there’s a great deal you could ferret out from the unsuspecting man.”
“I have every intention of being the Duchess of Roth,” she said.
“Why? You don’t love him. You don’t even like Jordan. Is it because you want Sedgebrook so much? Or is it because Martha wants him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just watch Martha’s eyes when she looks at him. She loves him, Josephine. It’s as plain as the sky is blue.”
When she didn’t say anything, only continued to look at him unblinking, he smiled.
“That’s part of it, isn’t it? You get to be a duchess and you get to take away the man Martha loves. Do you hate your sister so much?”
“Why do you care?”
He was damned if he knew. But there was something about the girl that intrigued him. Something calling to his darker nature.
“I want you in my bed, Josephine.”
She inclined her head slightly. He recognized the gesture as one of surrender. She hadn’t figured out how to silence him yet, so she’d come.
“I’m going to be married tomorrow.”
“Then it’s the last time I can have you, isn’t it?”
He pulled her across the hall, opening the door to his room.
Seconds later she was in his bed.
Susan pressed her ear against the door, listening. A good thing she was blessed with insomnia from time to time. Almost as if nature was warning her: you don’t have many years left. Why spend them in sleep?
Her granddaughter was acting according to her nature. A sad thing, but true. She should have been watching Josephine closer since it was certain she was becoming more and more like her mother.
Susan had disliked Marie from the moment she met her, but there was nothing she could do. Matthew hadn’t stood a chance against Marie’s determination. Perhaps it had been a good thing. Martha had needed a mother after dear Barbara had died and she supposed the woman fulfilled that role in some fashion. What she hadn’t been was a good wife.
Matthew had been so involved in his projects, inventions, and discoveries he never noticed when Marie seemed exceptionally happy. When she took a lover, at least twice a year, Marie nearly danced around Griffin House. Everyone was a beneficiary of a quick kiss and impromptu hug. She could even be heard singing. She left off her needlework for collecting bunches of flowers to arrange in bouquets around the house. She visited the cook, ordering Matthew’s favorite meals. She read to Josephine, fanciful stories of beautiful princesses and the princes who loved them.
These periods were always offset by other, darker times when the affair ended. Susan thought Marie’s conscience occasionally troubled her, which was why she was the one who sent the man away. They’d lost a gardener and two footmen, not to mention that more than one shopkeeper looked yearningly toward Marie.
The woman was not the least bit discriminating. She would bed anything in pants and it looked as if her daughter was following in her footsteps. Nor did she expect Josephine’s behavior to change after she married.
This marriage was going to be a disaster. It was going to make more than one person thoroughly miserable, but she doubted the bride would suffer.
What on earth was she to do? Would it be terrible to wish that something happened to the sanctuary roof? That might prevent the ceremony. She could, perhaps, come down with another illness, but she doubted anyone would believe her. Would the Almighty take kindly to a prayer for guidance at this late stage? She moved to her bed, sat on the side of it, and folded her hands, trying to think of some words that would be convincing as well as contrite.
She truly needed a miracle at this point.
Chapter 30
It was late, past midnight, hardly the hour to wake a guest. If the circumstances were different, Martha would never consider disturbing Jordan. Yet someone had to stop Reese and confront him. Who better than his friend?
She knocked on the door to the Queen’s Rooms, faintly at first and then louder when he didn’t answer. Perhaps he was asleep. After all, tomorrow was his wedding day.
If he didn’t respond, she would return to the stables, retrieve the Goldfish, and face down Reese herself.
She was turning to walk away when the door finally opened.
She glanced back to see Henry standing there, worry in his eyes.
“Miss York.”
She was surprised to see him. Normally, he would be asleep in the servants’ quarters on the fourth floor. Unless, of course, Jordan needed him for some reason.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, Miss York,” he said, his voice lowered to a whisper.
She didn’t believe him.
“Is His Grace all right?”
He glanced back toward the suite, then shook his head.
“May I see him?”
“He doesn’t like visitors at times like this, Miss York.”
She was hardly simply a visitor.
“Is it his leg? Has he taken the elixir?”
He looked startled at her question.
“No, miss,” he said. “He refuses.”
“I need to see him.”
“He isn’t dressed, Miss York. It wouldn’t be proper.”
At the moment she didn’t give a flying fig for propriety. Being proper wasn’t at all rewarding.
She pushed past him and entered the sitting room designed for a queen. Everything was upholstered in crimson. The carpet was woven in a design of roses and peonies in shades of pink, crimson, and green. Even the curtains were crimson.
The queen had visited Griffin House only once. How had Her Majesty tolerated the color? It was like walking into a bloody beast.
Jordan was sitting on a chair opposite the settee, attired in a blue-and-silver patterned dressing gown. She could see his bare throat and the upper part of his chest.
He had his head back, eyes closed. His pale face was illuminated by the lamp on the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” he said. “I haven’t been able to sleep.”
“Is it your leg?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The answer was short, declarative, and almost angry, revealing the depth of his pain.
“Henry says you haven’t taken any of Dr. Reynolds’s elixir.”
“No.”
“Why not, when it’s all too evident you need it?”
Henry closed the door and moved to the chair. He dropped to his knees, reached out, and began massaging Jordan’s right leg with practiced expertise.
Jordan closed his eyes again, his lips thinning as his face stiffened.
“Are you using camphor oil?” she asked the valet.
“No,” Jordan said, answering for him.
“Would you be amenable to finding our housekeeper?” This remark, too, she addressed to the valet. When Henry glanced at her, she continued. “My father had a back injury and she concocted something for it. It has camphor and some other things and it’s similar to lini
ment. I think it might help.”
The last comment she addressed to Jordan.
“I don’t think anything will help.”
“If you feel that way, then you need to take your elixir.”
“The damnable elixir is the reason I’m here now,” he said. He opened his eyes. “My apologies for the language.”
“Well, you can’t do anything worse when taking it now,” she said. “Your wedding is tomorrow.”
“Thank you for the reminder,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten. I just hate the stuff. It puts me in a stupor.”
“Then we should start with the housekeeper’s lotion.”
“Very well,” he said, looking at Henry. “Go and wake the housekeeper. Give her my apologies.”
“You needn’t be so reluctant,” she said as Henry left the room. “I’ll bet it will do wonders for you. But I still think you should take the elixir.”
“I hate the nightmares it gives me. I feel as if I’m hallucinating.”
“Take it anyway,” she said. “I’ll stay with you.”
For a moment they simply looked at each other. His eyes revealed the extent of his pain. What did hers show? That she wanted to help him and give him peace? Or that she felt too much for a man who would become her brother-in-law tomorrow?
In the valet’s absence, she knelt in front of Jordan.
“What are you doing, Martha?”
“I used to massage my father’s shoulders when he’d been hunched over his workbench. My hands are strong.”
What she was doing was untoward and forbidden. A single woman never entered a man’s room. She certainly didn’t lay hands on his bare limbs. In fact, she was never in his presence when he was so scantily dressed.
When her hands surrounded his ankle, Jordan closed his eyes.
“Does the pain reach down to your foot?” she asked, surprised.
“It enfolds me,” he said softly. “I become one with it. It’s some sort of drug-induced monster, a creature of hallucinations, and it controls me.”
“I won’t let it,” she said.
Gently, she began to massage his ankle with both hands, then inch by inch she traveled upward. His face stiffened as if he was trying not to flinch.
Was she making his pain worse?
“Take the elixir, Jordan,” she said. “I’ll stay with you, I promise.”
“My Joan of Arc,” he said. “Will you beat back the monsters, then?”
“With my shield and sword,” she said, smiling.
“The bottle’s in my trunk,” he said. “The one from my navy days.”
Standing, she walked into the bedroom where the trunks were stacked next to one of the large armoires. She recognized the one he mentioned immediately. It had an emblem of a ship on the lock.
She opened the hasp, feeling strange about delving into his personal belongings.
At the bottom of the trunk was a small square wooden box with a tooled top. She opened the box to reveal a corked bottle and metal spoon with a curved handle. The bottle was labeled and gave instructions for the dosage.
Returning to the sitting room, she sat in front of him. Remembering his words, she halved the dose, then halved it again.
He still sat with his eyes closed as she touched the spoon to his bottom lip.
“You promise?” he asked, his voice fainter than before.
She felt as if pain had become an invisible enemy, surrounding Jordan, keeping anything from helping him.
“I promise,” she said, knowing she was a fool to give her word. Remaining in his room with him, alone, would be scandalous. Right at the moment, however, she cared less for scandal than she did his health.
He didn’t complain. He didn’t describe the depth of his agony. He was matter-of-fact about it, almost distant, but she could feel how much it consumed him. He was alone in his fight. She knelt at his feet again, needing to touch him, needing to do something to let him know she was there and that she cared.
“Miss York?”
She looked up to see Henry returning, carrying a brown bottle with a stopper.
She should have stood and let him take his place—his rightful place—before Jordan. Instead, she only held out her hand. He extended the bottle to her before glancing at the table and noting the small curved box.
“You will call me if you need me?” he asked, looking at her.
She nodded, watching as he crossed the room to the door, closing it softly behind him.
“We will shock your family,” Jordan said, his voice slightly slurred.
“Yes,” she said. They probably would. But she wasn’t going to leave.
She began to massage his leg again starting at the knee this time and working her way down. The liniment, for lack of a better label to call it, was pungent with spices and camphor. She smelled lemon, too. Even though the housekeeper was generous to anyone who asked for a bottle of her special lotion, she was also secretive about the recipe.
Jordan extended his leg a little. Another good sign was the fact that his face seemed to be relaxing.
“I may hire you,” he said. “Not only to be my Joan of Arc, but my manservant. How are you at shaving?”
She wasn’t going to tell him the only time she’d done so was preparing her father’s body for burial. She’d done the duty to spare Gran, a small gift of love to both her grandmother and her father.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m about to enter a long gray tunnel,” he said, his voice sounding as if he’d imbibed too many glasses of wine. “I hate the tunnel,” he said. “It’s scary and I’m alone.”
She placed both her palms around his bare knee.
“You’re not alone, Jordan. I’m here.”
She would not leave him.
“I don’t want to die,” he said. “It’s the one thing I remember when I think about the accident. I was lying there on the ground with this damnable stallion above me and all I could think about was he was either going to kill me or I was going to die of my injury right there.”
He reached out his hand and she took it, holding on to him as if he needed the touch of another human being.
“You’re not going to die,” she said, but he ignored her comment.
“It was a beautiful day, with the sky above so brilliantly blue it almost hurt to look at it. I was thinking I hadn’t done anything with my life. Not really. Not like your father. He had invented so many things.”
“Not that many,” she said.
“But important things. He was an important man. I’m not.”
“I think you’re important,” she said.
“Because I’m a duke?”
“I would say despite the fact you’re a duke,” she said, giving him the truth.
“You don’t often address me correctly,” he said. “I like that you don’t call me Your Grace all the time.”
“You started calling me Martha early on,” she said. “It was only fair.”
“You noticed that.”
“I did.”
“You aren’t wearing lavender, are you? I grew to hate that lavender dress of yours.”
“I feel the same,” she said, smiling. “No, I’m not wearing lavender. I’m wearing a dark blue dress with white-and-blue cuffs and collar.”
“You’ve been gone,” he said. “Where have you been? Were you really ill?”
“No,” she said.
“I missed you. I’ve missed you for weeks.”
That was surprising. So, too, the fact he held her hand firmly.
“You should get to bed,” she said. “You need to straighten your leg.”
“Come to bed with me, Martha.”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Had he suddenly remembered? Had he realized it was she who had been in his bed all those weeks ago?
“You can help me to my bed,” he said, “and then leave before anyone knows you’re here. I would hate to cause you any problems.”
Standing, she reached
down and gripped his hands, helping him to his feet.
“Lean on me,” she said.
“Dearest Joan.”
She really shouldn’t be so pleased at his words, especially since he had taken an opiate.
Placing her arm around his waist, she helped him the two dozen feet or so into the bedroom.
He was right. If anyone knew she was there, it would cause a great many problems. Still, she had no intention of leaving him even as he slept. She had promised to be there as a bulwark against his nightmares.
The palatial bed built for a queen was set up on a dais. For a second she wondered if it was worth the effort to reach it, but the only other piece of furniture was an ornate fainting couch that was hideously uncomfortable. He wouldn’t be able to stretch out his leg fully if he lay there.
They made it up the two steps of the dais by Jordan leaning on her heavily. Three more steps up to the bed. Jordan half fell on top of the mattress, but sideways.
She gently manipulated his leg until he was lying in the correct position, placed a pillow beneath his head, and rolled him to his left side so he wouldn’t be putting any pressure on his bad leg.
The dressing gown parted, revealing a scar from his knee all the way up his thigh. Instead of quickly covering his nakedness, she reached out and pressed her palm against his scar, wishing she could impart some healing to him.
The elixir had worked quickly. He was asleep or nearly so. At least she thought he was until she stepped back. He reached out and grabbed her hand.
“Stay with me, Joan.”
She knew it was wrong, even as she crawled up to the mattress and arranged herself beside him. She lay on her side, facing him, free to study him as she’d never before been.
His face was relaxed now, his mouth curved in a half smile. The nightmares had evidently not come yet. Was he dreaming of something pleasant? She hoped he was, scenes from a carefree past or hopes for an easier future.
Josephine would make him miserable and he deserved so much better. Not because he was a duke or the owner of Sedgebrook, but because he was a decent man, kind and caring.
He revealed himself slowly to people, as if he was afraid to be too vulnerable. He offered himself tentatively, almost as if he would cup his hands to give someone a drink of water.
