“Six daughters?” He looked aghast. “Don’t tell me we’re to have all girls as well. I’ll go mad.”
The mentioning of their future children sent an entirely different sort of emotion washing over her. Good heavens. Even though she had reconciled herself to the fact that she was expected to produce an heir for his family, she hadn’t truly given the notion much thought beyond that. She thought of their lovemaking the previous night and earlier that morning. Victoria was certain she was flushing cherry red.
She forced her mind back to the topic at hand. She’d been berating him, not mooning over him, drat it all. “Yes, six girls,” she confirmed. “Take note of their names as well, since you ought to know them by now. There is Rose, Lillian, Edith, Pearl and Libby.”
As she spoke their names, it occurred to her just how much she missed them. They were all younger than she in age but dear in their own ways. Sometimes, New York and her old life there still beckoned her with its cozy familiarity and the comfort of knowing she was well-loved.
“Right,” he interrupted her thoughts. “Roberta, Laura, Edith, Pearl and Louisa.” His tone was hopeful.
“Rose, Lillian, and Libby.” She gave him a good-natured swat. “You’ll meet them all someday, I expect, and then you’ll be able to recall their names. I’m sure they plan to follow in my footsteps.”
“God help them,” he remarked, his voice drenched in self-deprecation.
“God and their sister,” she said, striving to lighten the mood. “I know how to navigate the treacherous social waters on this side of the world.”
“Thank Christ you’re a forgiving soul,” he muttered. “Lord knows I don’t deserve you.”
“No,” she granted, happy he’d noticed but wanting to make him squirm just a bit, “you don’t.”
Rose, Lillian, Edith, Pearl and Libby. Good Christ, he was going to have a gaggle of daughters before he ever had an heir. If he even sired an heir, that was. He should have been suitably horrified. But the devil of it was, he didn’t truly give a damn. If Victoria bore him a dozen daughters, they would all still be theirs, bright-eyed, flaxen-haired little girls to be cherished.
Damn it to hell. He was getting maudlin. He dropped her hands, determined to resume their walk without further sentimentality. He ought to have known better than to have brought up her family, by God. What was the matter with him? Had making love to her addled his mind? Very likely, for his cock was raging just standing at her side.
He’d thought his mad desire for her would dissipate, but it was growing worse.
What to do? Right, he’d been attempting to show her the river before he’d gone hopelessly afield. He offered her his arm once more. “Shall we continue on in our walk, my dear? Have you seen the river here yet? It’s something to behold.”
He recalled splashing about in it as a boy on the occasions his family had taken up residence at Carrington House. They had come often until that awful last visit. His mother had lost a babe, another brother, and had succumbed not long thereafter to childbed fever. While no one had been certain whether the father of the stillborn had been the duke or the duchess’s lover of the moment, the babe’s death had confirmed Pembroke as the sole heir.
Thereafter, the duke had sent him off to Harrow. Carrington House had been closed until he took possession of it as an adult. And now, he was here, his unwanted-turned-wanted American wife at his side. Perhaps he’d overlooked precisely how comforting it could be to know that another soul was his mate for life. He found he rather enjoyed marriage after all.
“Are you well, Will?” Her concerned voice cut through his troubled musings. “Your face is suddenly bereft of color.”
He realized he’d been gripping her arm with too much force, so lost had he become in his tumultuous thoughts. He took a deep, steadying breath, gazing down into his wife’s sweet, heart-shaped face. She was ineffably lovely, her hair artfully piled beneath a jaunty hat, her lips wide and lush, her eyes greener than the grass at his feet. His cock surged against his riding breeches. What the devil did she do to him?
And he’d thought this a game. Bloody hell, he’d thought it a game he’d won.
“I’m not certain if I am well,” he startled himself by revealing. Apparently, she had turned him into a milksop.
“What is it?” She slid a bracing arm around him, leaning into his side as if he could somehow soak up some of her strength.
He didn’t know how she could be so open and kind to him after the beastly way he’d treated her. Even now, he lied to her still, while she remained unwavering in her belief there was good in him after all. There wasn’t good in him. If there was, he would have told her the truth right then and let her choose to leave him as she ought.
Instead, he was too selfish to let her go. He put an arm around her cinched waist, holding her to him as if he could forever keep her there, although he knew he hadn’t the right. “The river is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Wide yet shallow, the river cut through the eastern corner of the Carrington House lands. It was one of the rare treasures of the property, a place one needed to know existed in order to seek it out. As a lad, he’d come here often, never imagining one day he’d stand here with his wife.
“It’s lovely,” Victoria agreed. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
She was a persistent little woman, that much was certain. He sighed, wondering how much he should divulge. No one had ever cared enough to ask him about his past. “Carrington House is where my mother died,” he shared. “She’d lost another babe, her fourth or fifth, I think. It was too much the last time. She took fever and died.”
“I’m sorry, Will.” She turned to him then, taking him into her arms.
“She wasn’t a kind woman, but she was my mother. Watching her wither and suffer was not pleasant, regardless.” He held her tightly, burying his face in the soft, sweetly scented skin of her neck. Her embrace touched a part of him he hadn’t known existed, filling his chest with warmth and something indefinably odd. He felt deeply connected to her in that moment, in a way he’d never known with another person, and it scared the hell out of him. But damn if he didn’t savor it just the same.
“Does it hurt you to be here?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He pressed a kiss to her throat. “Not with you, my dear. You’ve transformed everything, it seems.” He paused, lifting his head to look down upon her. Their gazes clashed, hers filled with sincerity and caring. He tamped down the twinge of conscience that told him to confess everything to her then and there. “Even me.”
She reached up, cupping his cheek with her small hand, a smile brightening her face and rendering her even more beautiful. “Thank you for confiding in me. I hope I can help you to build new memories here.”
Not long ago, he would’ve told her he didn’t want to build new memories with her, neither at Carrington House nor elsewhere. Not long ago, he’d been content to live the selfish life of pleasure seeker, devoted only to enraging and embarrassing the duke. Not long ago, this was the very last place he’d imagined himself, and this ridiculous feeling of emotion swelling inside his chest would’ve been something he mocked and scoffed at.
Something shifted inside him then. The sun glowed overhead and birds chirped, and the river made the same steady rush he recalled from when he was a lad. It was as though time hadn’t passed, as though nothing had altered in all his life, neither man nor nature nor beast. This day, however, was different. Everything was different.
She had made it so. She, his American wife who had attacked him with a book on his first night back, who had begun transforming his dilapidated ancestral home with her keen wit and motivation even as he callously abandoned her. She, who possessed a giving heart and a determination he admired. Yes, she was beautiful, it was true, but she was far more than her freckles, long gilt curls, and luscious curves. She was good and compassionate and forgiving. She was gentle, vulnerable, kind. So easy to crush. He had almost crushed the goodness within he
r once. He vowed never to do so again.
It wasn’t escape he wanted. It was his wife, and not for any reason other than the way she made him feel. Jesus, the way she looked at him, as if he were a man worthy of her love. He was the least worthy man in all of England. But he wouldn’t think of that. Not yet. He wasn’t willing to relinquish his hold on their fragile bond.
He yanked her against him for a long, possessive kiss. “Let’s begin making new memories right here, Victoria. Right now.”
A sudden, loud crack pierced his awareness. Not thunder. Not a gunshot. A falling branch. He caught her arms and shoved her from him, looking up instinctively to find the source among the centuries’ old trees on the riverbank. It happened so fast, the huge dead branch dropping from the sky above them. No time to think. He shoved her, hoping she’d drop safely out of the way.
There was another crack as something hit the back of his head, then an ominous thud. His vision went black. He dropped to his knees, felled by the blow, arms groping for her. Victoria? Where was she? He couldn’t be sure if his lips moved, if he was capable of speech. Nothingness swirled up to meet him. He fell into the dark, gaping chasm, his last thought that he had to protect her.
er head throbbed with a violence that sent answering pulses of nausea roiling through her gut. What had happened? Where was she? Her eyes fluttered open to a blinding light that felt like a hundred splinters embedded in her eyeballs. No light. Too much. Too much pain.
There had been a figure hovering at her bedside, perhaps seated. Head bowed. The image was seared into her mind. Who? How? Blindly, she held out her hand, seeking solace. Comfort. Anything. She dared not open her eyes again, for fear of that awful, beckoning light.
Where? A hand clasped hers. She clung. Eyes closed, a whimper from her mouth. She could almost see herself from above, a crumpled ragdoll trapped and broken. How had this happened? Why? Her lips were dry and cracked. She tested a tongue that felt thick and unused. Water. She needed water. Who could fetch it for her?
“Mama?” she asked, holding on to that hand. But no, it was not her mother’s hand, was it? This hand was large and strong, the fingers too long, the palm too broad. Her thumb traced a path. A strange hand. Not one she’d often held. Whose?
“Not your mother, darling.”
The voice was familiar. Warm and low. Clipped and precise. A man’s voice.
“Water.” She didn’t care whose voice it was. Not for the moment. Her throat was parched. She was going to be sick. Her thoughts were a hodgepodge, running amuck in her mind. She thought she heard the sound of a river. Rushing, gurgling, then…something else. A bang, a jarring. Where had she been at the moment of impact? Something had run her through. Her body had broken into pieces and now she would die.
The smooth, cool porcelain of a cup was at her lips now. A gentle hand cajoled her, lifted her, helped to angle her so that she wouldn’t choke. For a breath, she forgot what to do and then, it came to her. The cup tipped, water sluicing into her ready mouth. Yes. So good. She drank greedily. Too fast.
The nausea was back, gurgling. Too much water. Not enough. She tried to open her eyes again. Her mouth worked. No sound. Too much light, she wanted to say. Draw the curtains. And then, who are you? Where am I?
No answers, it would seem. The cup returned, so too the steady hand at her nape.
“Keep your eyes closed, my love,” he said. “The darkness is easier at first. Drink slowly. Rushing will only make you sick.”
Yes, and she felt sick. Sick with pain. Sick with confusion. Who was he? Who, for that matter, was she? Nothing made sense. Victoria. Yes, that was her name. Had he said it or had she? Another sip of water. She couldn’t be certain. Someone had said it.
“You’ll survive this, my brave American girl.”
Surely she knew the owner of that voice? So familiar. So haunting. Her eyes fluttered again. The cup was gone. The hand was gone. She felt the absence of that touch like a blow. Where? Who? How? Breathing hurt. The in, the out. Her ribs. Had they cracked? It felt as if she were under water now. Her head pounded as though a blacksmith from the depths of hell pounded upon her skull.
“You must survive this, damn you. Do you hear me?” Desperation tinged the voice now. “You will survive this.”
She didn’t know if she’d survive. Her body felt as if it would break in two at the slightest provocation. A whisper. A breath. Her mouth moved. She wanted to tell him. Whoever he was. Was he someone she loved? Nothing made sense except for the bitter liquid that slipped into her mouth next. Yes, delirium made sense.
“I need you too much to lose you now. Fight, my darling. You must fight.”
Who’d spoken those words? Had it been she? Had it been the elusive figure holding vigil? A ghost, perhaps? Worse, a demon? The liquid was doing its work. Her mind was a cacophony of images and thoughts. Odds and ends. Bits and pieces. A man’s face, handsome and earnest. Her husband. Dear heavens, he’d been there with her. Something had crashed down upon them. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t it?
“Please.” Her voice now, thready and weak. Who was the shadowy figure? She had to know.
Dark swirls, a languorous slide through her veins. And then, nothing.
Will woke with a jolt, his back aching to beat the insistent throbbing of his head. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the chamber and recall where he was and why. He’d fallen asleep keeping vigil at Victoria’s bedside, her fingers tangled in his. The awful sound of the cracking branch returned to him, and then came the panic he’d felt when he’d come to and found her trapped beneath the heavy, fallen arm of the tree. Her skin had been ashen, her hair red with blood. For a terrifying moment, he’d thought her dead.
He’d fought to free her with a strength borne of desperation, had taken her in his arms, profound relief pouring through him to find her breathing and warm. Alive, thank God. He’d found his spooked mount, hauled her limp form across the saddle, and galloped home, his only thoughts for her. He’d been frantic, frenzied. Scared witless.
He still was, for she had remained virtually insensate since suffering the blow yesterday. How humbled he felt. How bloody foolish. He cared for Victoria, the wife he’d thought to bed and abandon. Perhaps it was the heavens’ idea of revenge for his sins that he only realized how very much she’d come to mean to him mere seconds before she’d nearly been killed.
He squeezed her fingers, leaning over her to brush some of her unbound hair free of her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes stirring against her pale cheeks. And then he was caught in her vivid gaze.
She blinked. “Will?”
Thank Christ. Her gaze appeared sleepy but lucid, no doubt the combined aftereffects of the laudanum and her blow to the head. He jerked forward in his chair, needing to be closer to her. To reassure himself she was real and well. He touched her cheek gently. “You remember me, darling?”
“Of course.” Her hand rose slowly to touch her head. “I remember everything. Why would I not?”
“You were not yourself, after the blow,” he said hoarsely.
There had been a brief period yesterday, before the laudanum, when she’d been confused and in deep pain. She hadn’t recognized him or her chamber, and she’d been thrashing so fitfully that the doctor had feared she’d injure herself. Will hadn’t wanted to resort to the laudanum, but it had seemed the only way to calm her and give her the rest she needed after taking such a hard fall.
He was ashamed to admit that for a greedy, stupid moment after she’d calmed into a deep sleep, he’d thought of how much easier things would be between them if she’d forgotten all that had transpired. Head injuries were known to cause memory lapse, after all. One blow to erase all the wrongs he’d done—wouldn’t it have been rather tidy then? But just as quickly as the thought had come, it had been vanquished by self-disgust. What kind of a monster would rather have his wife gravely ill than own his sins?
Perhaps the man he’d been before he’d returned to Carrington House was just
such a monster. But he was not that man any longer, and the time would come when he needed to unburden himself to her. Strip himself bare. Then she’d see all the ugliness hidden in his rotten soul, and she’d either turn away in revulsion or she’d forgive him. Either way the chance was his to take, and she was more than worthy of it.
“My head feels as though I placed it beneath a carriage wheel,” she said, wincing.
“I’ve no doubt.” His hands still tremored to think of how close she’d come to death. If the branch had been mere inches in either direction, it would have killed her. “You’re very fortunate to have only suffered a concussion of the brain and some other bruising. It’s a miracle the branch didn’t do far worse damage.”
Her full lips, still pale, quirked into a semblance of a smile. “If it had, you would’ve been rid of one unwanted wife.”
“Jesus, Victoria. That was a poor jest.”
She gave a small shrug. “Perhaps a blow to the head disturbs the mind.”
He caressed her jaw lightly. “The doctor assured me that if you regained your senses today, you’d be fine.” He turned to the side table and its vast array of accoutrements. Poultices, tea, water, laudanum, bandages. He hadn’t allowed anyone else to attend to her. The servants had brought him supplies and left. She was his wife, by God, and it was his fault that she’d been standing in the trees by the river. If he hadn’t been so caught up in the past, in his own memories and fears, he would’ve taken note of his surroundings, and he could’ve saved them both a great deal of pain. “Damn it, the tea’s grown cold. Shall I have your woman fetch you another pot? You must be thirsty, darling.”
But his stubborn wife frowned at him. Even in her weakened, pain-racked state, she could fashion disapproval as no one else. “You needn’t wait on me, Will. Keats can sit with me. You look in need of rest yourself.”
“No. It will be me or no one.” He owed her that much. Indeed, he owed her far, far more than merely dancing attendance at her bedside. But for now, this would do.
Her Errant Earl (Wicked Husbands Book 1) Page 10
