by Danice Allen
“Met with an accident, did he?” the proprietress asked sharply. “What sort of an accident?”
“He fell and hit his head on a rock when we were compelled to stop the carriage and allow him to … er … step out for a few moments,” said Amanda, blushing with embarrassment because she was forced to refer to private matters no lady had any business discussing.
“He’s not bleeding, is he? I’ve just scrubbed the floor, and there’s a new carpet in the room you’ll be stayin’ in,” was the woman’s most unsympathetic rejoinder.
Amanda was at the end of her tether. She perceived that no amount of patience and pleasantness would be effective in dealing with such an ill-tempered woman. Amanda lifted her chin and leveled her a chilling, contemptuous gaze. “My good woman, I have tried to be gracious despite your singular lack of concern toward my injured husband, the earl.” Amanda thought she heard Joe gasp and sincerely hoped he wasn’t staring with his mouth agape. “It appears I have no choice but to—”
The woman’s jaw dropped. “Your husband’s an earl? And you’re a countess?” She gave Amanda’s well-made but unremarkable traveling apparel another once-over.
“The one usually goes with the other,” sniffed Amanda.
“I saw you coming from an upstairs window, and I don’t recall seeing a crest on the carriage,” the woman said doubtfully.
“As you can plainly see by my appearance, we’re in mourning, and in such times of grief my husband prefers to travel as inconspicuously as possible. But that is beside the point. He may have a severe concussion and is still lying in a cold carriage when he should be properly put to bed and looked over by a physician. But if you persist in lamenting the possibility of blood on your clean floor, we may certainly travel farther on in search of a warmer welcome. I daresay, however, that his lordship shan’t have much good to say of your hospitality, and if business suddenly drops off, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”
Amanda pulled a fat purse from a pocket hidden in her skirt. “ ‘Twill be a shame, too, if you decide not to accommodate the earl, as he is known for his generosity and would be most grateful to you!”
“Oh, my lady!” exclaimed the woman, transfixed by the size of Amanda’s purse and convinced by her haughty manners that she was indeed a member of the peerage. “Don’t mind me, if you please! I’ve had the megrims all day and beg your pardon for takin’ my troubles out on you!”
Amanda gave a slight nod as mute acceptance of the woman’s apology, then inquired, “What is the name of this town, madam?”
“ ‘Tis Horsham, milady.”
“And what is your name, if you please?”
The woman curtsied. “ ‘Tis Mrs. Beane, if you please, milady.”
“Mrs. Beane, have you an available servant to send to the village for a doctor? I trust you have a doctor hereabouts?”
“Indeed, milady, we do. But first perhaps your servants will need assistance in carrying the earl to your room?”
Amanda disdainfully agreed that her men might indeed need some assistance in transporting the earl upstairs, as he was rather large.
Toplofty manners, money, and the mention of a grand title worked magic on Mrs. Beane, changing her in the wink of a jaundiced eye to a hostess who couldn’t do enough to make her new tenants comfortable, even going so far as to suggest throwing out the guests who occupied the inn’s largest room and giving it to the earl and his countess. With regal condescension, Amanda refused to allow Mrs. Beane to evict unsuspecting patrons.
When the gentleman was finally taken to a small, low-pitched room and laid out on the bed, Amanda stood over him and looked worriedly down at his pale face. He was still handsome but rather like a statue with his noble features carved from marble—cold and immobile. Lifeless. Amanda had a sudden sickening thought that he might actually die. After all, despite four men manhandling him up the steep, narrow stairs, he was still quite oblivious to his surroundings.
“Gracious, he looks fagged to death,” commented Mrs. Beane in a tone of forced sympathy. She turned to Amanda. “Where’s your husband’s manservant?”
“He was … er … not well when we left our home,” Amanda improvised quickly. “He had a fever. My husband is very compassionate and chose to dress himself rather than inflict a journey on his ailing manservant.”
“Well, I daresay that does show a great deal of solicitude for one’s servant,” Mrs. Beane agreed with scornful disbelief, as if to say she’d never be so solicitous of a mere underling. “But now that your husband is unable to dress or undress himself, you are left to do the job.”
Amanda felt the blood drain from her head. She grasped the rounded top of a bedpost for support. “Me?”
“Well, milady,” said Mrs. Beane with raised brows, “I don’t think it will be wise to leave him in those damp clothes, do you? If you hurry, you’ll be able to have him undressed and under the coverlets in three flicks of a lamb’s tail.”
Amanda stood in shocked silence as Mrs. Beane moved briskly past her to the door. “Meanwhile I’ll make sure your servants get a hot supper in them before they retire to the room over the stables for the night.” Theo, Joe, and Harley stood in the hallway and stared into the room with horrified expressions. “And I’ll send a chambermaid up with more wood for the fire and a tray for you.”
To reassure her servants, Amanda roused herself and attempted a composed appearance. “Yes, Mrs. Beane, that will do nicely.” She turned to her servants. “Do go along with Mrs. Beane to the kitchen and have your supper,” she told them, forcing a smile. “I shall be quite comfortable and safe here with my husband … the earl.”
They had immediately caught on to Amanda’s charade and gone along with it grudgingly, but it appeared that Theo in particular was having difficulty leaving his mistress alone with a strange man whose clothing she was intending to remove.
“Well, do you want your supper or not?” Mrs. Beane shouted from the top of the stairs. “You’ll eat it now or go without!”
This threat inspired Joe and Harley to scurry away, but Theo stood stubbornly in the hall, his face pulled with worry. “Miss,” he said in an urgent whisper. “This ain’t right! Let me stay and undress the gent.”
Amanda was sorely tempted to allow him to do so. “No,” she said at last. “It will look odd to Mrs. Beane if I hesitate to undress my own husband. And she must believe he’s my husband, or she’ll throw us out on our ears!”
“Not if ye pay her enough. She can be bought, that one!”
“But I already told her he’s my husband, Theo. We’d better leave well enough alone!”
“Ye told her he’s an earl, too, miss,” said Theo, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“It was the only way to get the old harridan to treat us with respect!” she replied defensively. “Now do go away, Theo, or you’ll miss your supper!”
“But miss—”
Amanda raised her chin. “That’s an order, Theo!”
Theo finally skulked away, looking cross as crabs. Amanda closed the door, then turned and faced the bed, contemplating with considerable nervousness the task before her. The broad-shouldered, lean-flanked stranger was sprawled over the entire surface of the medium-size bed, his arms and legs thrown wide. His muscles were clearly defined beneath the smooth, fine fabric of his coat sleeves and trouser legs. Just looking at him gave Amanda a weak, warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She reminded herself that the man was injured and needed help. She had to get those wet clothes off before he took cold. And if she found the task of disrobing him a trifle embarrassing … or a trifle too titillating … she would just have to grit her teeth and carry on.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she leaned over and took hold of the man’s right boot.
Chapter Three
Amanda learned from firsthand experience why fashionable gentlemen required the assistance of a valet, or at the very least a bootjack, to pry off their boots. It was no easy task, and once she was done, s
he took off her velvet cloak and hung it on a hook by the door; she certainly didn’t need it to keep warm!
Staring down at the man, Amanda dabbed at her damp forehead with a handkerchief and contemplated the best way to remove his coat. Of a rich burgundy color, the elegant cutaway jacket was tailored to fit exactly the man’s wide shoulders and then to follow impeccably the lean lines of his torso. The renowned Weston, who was most probably the man’s tailor, had given little thought as to how difficult it would be to remove such a close-fitting jacket from an inert body. However, beleaguered valets probably had to perform such miracles regularly, so Amanda decided to take courage and inspiration from them.
“I do wish you’d wake up,” Amanda grumbled in a soft voice, leaning over to wedge both hands under his right shoulder. “Though when you do, I shall probably have the devil of a time explaining how we came to be married, my lord.”
She gave him a push, hoping to roll him onto his side. He didn’t budge. “But all things considered, that might be easier than trying to undress you.”
She climbed onto the bed and tried again, putting her whole weight into it. With a most unladylike grunt, she pushed him onto his side, then kept him there by bracing her knees against his back.
“I wonder,” she said, pulling the coat off his shoulder and yanking the bottom of the sleeve over his hand, “if you actually are a lord of some kind. You look plump enough in the purse, and you have that sort of aristocratic air, even as drunk as you are. Maybe I didn’t actually perjure my soul for lying when I told that old biddy you were an earl.”
She’d got one sleeve off, and now she needed to get to the other side of him to duplicate her maneuvers and tug off the other sleeve. She eased him flat on his back again, and instead of climbing off the bed to approach the job from the other side, she decided to straddle him and thus get the business over with more quickly. It would only take a second.
Unfortunately, Amanda had not taken into consideration the encumbrance of her skirts and petticoats. Crawling about on her knees tugged at the fabric of her gown and seemed likely to tear it, so she lifted her skirts just far enough to free her legs to move.
With her bombazine skirts bunched around her, Amanda braced her hands on either side of the man’s chest and lifted one leg over him. As he was lying with his own legs rather spread out, Amanda found she could only straddle one thigh at a time.
She had conquered the first thigh and was about to conquer the next when—alas—the door to the small room opened and a chambermaid with a bundle of wood appeared. When she saw Amanda more or less atop the stranger and with her skirts in a bunch, the chambermaid was forced to come to only one conclusion: that she had interrupted a conjugal moment.
“Oh, la, milady,” she blurted, her cheeks aflame. “I’m sorry! I thought ’is lordship was knocked out from a bump to the noggin, or I’d not ’ave rushed in so—”
The mobcapped, plump, fair-haired maid stopped midsentence. Her gaze had strayed to the face of the prone nobleman, prepared to be cowed by the angry look in his eyes for having interrupted a passionate interlude, but any idiot could see that the gentleman was in no condition for hanky-panky. He was out cold.
The maid turned with a bewildered expression back to Amanda, frozen in the same precarious position she was in when the maid first entered the room. Amanda was sure her own complexion rivaled the chambermaid’s for rosiness.
“This is not what it looks like—” Amanda began.
“Now that I see that ’is lordship is truly knocked out,” said the maid, clearly confused, “I’m not sure what it looks like, milady.”
“I need some help, you see—”
The maid backed away to the door. “I’m sure I can’t help ye, milady.”
Amanda gave a huff of exasperation, pushed herself up, and sat back on her heels. Still straddling one of the gentleman’s thighs, she put her hands on her hips and said with asperity, “Don’t be a ninny, girl. I was simply trying to take off the man’s—my husband’s—coat. I have to get him out of his wet clothes and into bed before the doctor arrives. I don’t know if you’ve ever undressed an unconscious man—”
The maid’s eyes widened. “I’m very sure I ’aven’t, milady.”
“—but it’s extremely difficult. Especially when he’s as large as this—er, my husband. Come here and help me get his coat off. Don’t worry, I shan’t expect you to help me with his trousers.”
The maid set down the bundle of wood and cautiously approached. Amanda climbed off the bed and shook her skirts into respectability, then directed the girl in helping her remove the stranger’s coat, his cravat, and his dove-gray pinstriped vest with all its fobs and chains still attached. As it had been protected by the jacket and vest, his shirt was dry enough to leave on, and Amanda was grateful that she could in good conscience avoid stripping him down to his bare chest. His trousers were another matter, unfortunately. They were soaked through and had to come off.
At this point the chambermaid excused herself, built up the fire with extra wood, then scrambled out of the room.
“Coward,” muttered Amanda under her breath as the door shut behind the hastily retreating servant. She turned back to the bed and pursed her lips.
“I daresay, my good man,” Amanda began musingly, “that I shall be able to pull off your trousers without putting myself to the blush again if I cover you first with a blanket. You might be wearing drawers, but then again perhaps you aren’t. I don’t intend to find out.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “However I will have to unbutton your trousers before I can pull them off.”
Hopeful that she was about to finish up what was proving to be the most awkward and unsettling experience of her life—ranking right up there with her terrifying introduction to Lady Jersey at Almacks—Amanda leaned over the bed and, with trembling fingers, proceeded to undo the man’s trouser buttons. She averted her gaze from the obvious bulge behind the buttons, and she tried not to think about the part of his anatomy her fingers worked so closely to.
The shirt was still tucked in, so she was spared the embarrassment of seeing the man’s exposed abdomen. Still, she’d never expected in a dozen lifetimes to be in such an odd position—unbuttoning the pants of a strange man! And such a handsome one, too….
Her eyes strayed to his face. Fear twisted in her stomach. He was as white as the pillow case. Even his pale scar stood out more glaringly. And he still hadn’t moved much or spoken at all since he’d called her a minx … mistakenly, of course. She was no more a minx than Aunt Nan or Aunt Prissy, but she liked the way he’d said it. She wished she could hear him say it again, if only to reassure herself that he was going to regain consciousness and be restored to his former vigorous self.
There was no chance of a full recovery, however, if she didn’t hurry up and get his wet clothes off, she reminded herself. Picking up a multicolored quilt that had been thrown over the arm of a rocking chair, Amanda draped it over the man, leaving his stockinged feet to poke out at the bottom. Standing at the foot of the bed, she tugged on the man’s breeches till she had them off.
“Thank goodness,” she said aloud, folding the trousers and placing them on a chest of drawers with his other domes, “that’s finally done. I should hope that the worst of this unfortunate predicament is over!”
She had a few moments to tidy herself before the doctor arrived … a portly gentleman in a worn brown coat and trousers, sporting muttonchop whiskers, much like Theo’s, and a pair of thick magnifying spectacles that made his eyes look owlish and wise. He came into the room without knocking—which habit seemed customary at the Inn of the Three Nuns—bade Amanda a gruff good day, introduced himself as Doctor Bledsoe, then bent over the patient.
After prying open the man’s eyes and peering into them, sniffing his breath, checking the gash beneath the makeshift bandage, determining his temperature with a palm held against his brow, then listening to his pulse, the doctor straightened and turned. “What is his name?” he inqui
red, looking gravely at Amanda.
“His name?” Amanda repeated stupidly.
“Yes,” said the doctor, raising a shaggy brow. “What is your husband’s name?”
Her brain searched for a title she could use without impersonating an existing earl, then decided impulsively to make one up. “He’s the Earl of Thornfield,” she informed the doctor loftily. At the doctor’s scowling expression, she added nervously, “Have you never heard of him?”
“Never,” he replied briskly. “But I don’t care a fig what the butler announces when your husband arrives at a fancy ball. I want to know what you call him, m’dear. What is his Christian name?”
Surprised but not offended by the blunt, familiar way he addressed her, Amanda decided that it wasn’t necessary to play the grand lady with the doctor. She sensed a compassionate nature beneath his rough exterior and immediately warmed to him. She was about to tell him that her husband’s name was John, when a sudden playful quirk got hold of her. Her ideal romantic name for a man was Demetri, a hero from a novel she’d read.
“His name is Demetri,” she said, repressing a smile. “Why do you ask, doctor?”
“Because he is more apt to respond to his Christian name than to Lord Thornfield. Don’t you think so, m’dear?”
Amanda nodded meekly but knew full well that it was extremely unlikely that the unconscious fellow would respond to either of the unfamiliar forms of address.
The doctor cleaned and re-dressed the wound, then stood over the man and said loudly, “Demetri? Demetri, can you hear me?” The gentleman did not stir. The doctor said Demetri three more times in a booming voice, then turned his penetrating gaze on Amanda again. “Are you aware, m’dear, that your husband is extremely inebriated?”
“Yes, I know he is,” Amanda replied. “I wondered if that was the reason he’s still unconscious.”
