He cast one last malevolent look at her before he silently leaned and began to shrug his arms out of his sleeves.
Julia didn’t try to help him. A duke he may be, she thought, but he had no grace and fewer manners. Even now, as he shifted his weight to work his arms out of his coat, his feet scuffled slightly and one muddy boot left a footprint where the skirt of her riding habit had billowed out on the floor. Julia yanked the precious velvet skirt out from under his feet, but it was too late; the damage had been done. He muttered something but she thought it sounded more like a curse than an apology; and when he leaned a bit closer to her, she could smell the odor of old spirits on his breath.
Her husband, when he was alive, had smelled the same way; of brandy and tobacco and, sometimes, of other women’s perfume. An old, forgotten feeling of disgust swept over her as she realized that the Duke appeared to be the kind of man she most disliked—the kind of man who valued horses and sport and drink above all else; the kind of man her husband had been.
Gavin gave one final, thorough curse as he tugged his wounded arm from his coat and Julia saw that his entire shirt sleeve was covered with blood. Over his sleeve, a wad of cloth had been pressed against the wound and inexpertly tied in place with a length of material that had probably once been a most immaculate cravat.
“You bandaged this yourself, didn’t you?” she asked, studying the makeshift dressing. When he didn’t answer, she poured a small amount of bourbon into a chipped teacup and handed it to him. “Drink this.”
He didn’t need to be asked a second time. He threw back the bourbon in one swift motion and held the cup out for more.
“I cannot like the thought of speeding a man toward inebriation,” Julia said, casting him a doubtful look, “but I suppose you shall need something to lessen the pain.”
He lifted one dark brow. “Worried? Afraid too much bourbon might make me behave as less than a gentleman?”
“I believe you have already proved yourself to be less than gentlemanly.”
“A few rude wordsIs that your idea of ungentleman-like behavior? You are a prim little thing!”
A rush of angry heat covered her cheeks but she decided it best not to answer his taunts. Instead, she refilled the cup and handed it to him, and watched as again he downed its contents in a single swallow.
The next time he thrust the chipped cup at her, she took it from him and put it down on the table; then she set about carefully untying the cloth on his arm. When she slowly lifted away one corner of the bandage, he winced.
“I’m sorry. I shall try not to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me,” he retorted, but the white lines about his mouth told her otherwise.
She stood up, relieved by the chance to put some distance between them. “I’ve set a bowl outside to catch some rain water. I’ll use it to cleanse the wound. But first, you shall need to take your shirt off, too.”
She didn’t wait for him to reply but went to the door and darted out into the storm to fetch the full bowl of water. By the time she turned back into the room, he had shrugged out of his shirt.
Julia pushed a rain-soaked strand of hair back from her forehead and tried to keep her attention focused on his wounded arm. Too often, though, she found her gaze straying toward the mat of dark curly hair sprinkled across his chest and at the broad breadth of his shoulders. There were small scars along his chest and across the solid ridges of his belly; and one large scar stretched along the top of one shoulder, as if he had once broken his collar bone and it had healed improperly. She didn’t doubt for a moment he had got those scars from fights. He was a big man; a man of brawn, who, according to rumor, used his size and strength to his advantage in all things.
But his strength was quickly deserting him. The effort of taking his shirt off had cost him. His face had gone pale and his expression was grim. Julia silently refilled the teacup and handed it to him, then turned her attention toward his wound.
With a piece of the clean bed sheet she had found, Julia began to gingerly bathe his arm in rain water. When she had washed away a good portion of the blood, she saw that the wound was clean and not too deep, with no jagged edges. She had seen that kind of wound before. It was the kind of wound a sword left.
“You had this in a duel, didn’t you?” she asked. She had resolved to keep any emotion from her voice, but her tone had sounded accusing, even to her own ears.
“What do you know about duels?”
“I know they are against the law.”
“Laws are for cattle,” he said, through clenched teeth. “I never let them dictate my behavior.”
“And only see where it has got you.”
His dark eyes widened slightly as his gaze flicked over her. “You argue like a woman.”
“And you argue like William.”
He frowned. “Who the devil is William?”
“My husband. He’s dead now. But when he was alive he, too, caroused and fought and drank too much.”
“He was probably driven to it,” muttered the Duke, then he sucked his breath in sharply as Julia unconsciously applied a bit too much pressure on his arm.
She rocked back on her heels and fixed him with an icy glare. “You,” she pronounced with heartfelt sincerity, “are a horrid man!”
“So I have been told,” he answered, unperturbed.
“Do you not care that I think you are horrid?”
“Not at all.”
“What if I were to tell you that I think you quite odious?”
“I should never concern myself with anything so trifling.”
“You should, for your behavior is a source of great gossip. That is why everyone whispers about you. I dare say your reputation is vile, indeed!”
“People shall think what they like about me, no matter what I do,” he replied curtly.
“Ever since I arrived at the vicarage, I have heard bits of stories about you and your reputation.” She glanced up at him and found that he was watching her, quite unmoved, his expression unreadable. Encouraged, she said, “My friend, Harriet whispers about you to her friends, but she won’t tell me anything about you. I can only conclude, then, that you are quite scandalous.”
“Indeed?” he asked, blandly. “Are you asking me to confirm whether or not your conclusion is true?”
“If you would be so good,” she answered, dulcetly. “To own the truth, I’ve never before met anyone who was truly rakish and depraved.”
He scowled at her. “And what makes you think you would recognize such behavior if you saw it?”
“I recognized it enough to know it is probably how you came by your arm. You fought a duel this morning, and I should hazard to wager you fought it over a lady.” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him and said, “Well, didn’t you?”
“You would lose the wager,” he retorted, unwilling to discuss the subject.
“Did you fight over a game of cards, then?”
“Not this time.”
She turned her attention back to his arm and quietly worked over his wound. After a moment, she couldn’t resist asking, “I don’t suppose you would care to tell me why you fought a duel today?”
“No, I would not,” he said, curtly. “And I should advise you not to pry into areas of which you know nothing.”
She poured some more bourbon into the teacup for him and said, softly, “I know that it takes two men to fight a duel. What happened to the other man?”
He looked at her over the rim of the cup. “I don’t know,” he said, quite honestly.
“Is he . . .? Is he . . .?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question because she suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. She hated to think she was bandaging the arm of a man who had killed someone only hours before.
Gavin frowned. “You’re very concerned over a situation of which you know precious little,” he said, dampeningly. “Save your pity! The man I fought this morning received no more than he deserved.”
“Did he deserve to die? Or did he just deserve to be wounded?”
“I told you, I don’t know his condition. When I left him, he was still alive and under the care of his second.”
Julia wished he had said something else. She wished he had reassured her that the man he had fought was alive and well and suffered from nothing more than a flesh wound. She wished he had told her anythingeven liesas long as he had told her that he hadn’t hurt anyone; for she was suddenly most heartily convinced the Duke had killed the man with whom he had fought the duel.
Suddenly, Julia couldn’t bring herself to touch him. She sat back on her heels, unable to trust her trembling hands and equally unable to meet his eyes. Lord Warminster was, of all things, the kind of man she most disliked, and now she was filled with a sudden dread that his conduct was not only unscrupulous, but criminal.
After a long moment she looked up at him and saw that his dark gaze had never wavered from her face. His look was watchful and knowing, and lacking any hint of repentance. Small wonder, she thought, that tales of his black conduct should circulate about the neighborhood, making him seem larger than life and as evil as the devil himself.
She forced herself to meet his dark eyes and asked, “Have you any way of discovering the man’s condition?”
“I can think of nothing that would interest me less.”
“Don’t you care at all that you might have killed him?”
“Not in the least.” He was quiet a moment, then he said, in a grudging voice, “As it happens, my own second remained behind in London. He is a close and trusted friend, and he will come to me as soon as he has word of the man’s fate.”
“Then, will you share the news with me when you’ve heard it?”
“Share it with! My dear young woman, what possible reason could you have for wanting to know that?”
“Please?” she persisted.
He scowled at her. “I never make promises.”
A shiver of cold went through Julia and she tried to dispel it by forcing herself concentrate on his wound. She studied it a moment and said, “About your arm: It is not as bad as I originally thought and I can bandage it up again, but I think it shall need to be sewn. You’ll need a surgeon for that.”
“I don’t need a surgeon.”
“Oh, but you do. The wound is much too”
“And I don’t need your advice!”
She said, patiently, “I am merely trying to be a helpful, Christian woman.”
He corrected her: “On the contrary. You’re trying to be a managing and meddling woman.”
Julia looked up at him quickly, an odd light of recognition in her green eyes. “Do you know, my husband used to say the very same thing.”
“My sympathies to your husband.”
Julia almost replied in anger. She almost lost her temper and explained to this insufferable man what she thought of his manners. Instead she pursed her soft, full lips into a tight line before saying, still quite angry, “I’m going to wash your wound with the spirits now.”
She didn’t give him time to brace himself or argue. Instead, she swiftly doused bourbon on the cloth she had been using and pressed it against his arm.
Gavin sucked in his breath; then just as quickly, he let out a stream of epithets that sent the color flying to her cheeks.
“You did that on purpose!” he accused, as soon as he could catch his breath.
She faced him with the calm of one who had tasted revenge. “You’re being ridiculous. The wound has to be cleansed. You don’t want to lose the use of your arm to infection, do you?”
A bitter string of curses rose in the back of his throat, but he checked them and concentrated instead on regaining the mastery of himself.
He watched her douse the cloth with bourbon again and he buttressed his will against what he knew was coming. This time, he wouldn’t cry out; this time, he wouldn’t let her surprise him into betraying an emotion as cheap as pain. This time, he’d show the prim-and-proper little widow who she was dealing with.
Julia worked over his wound, knowing all the while that he had steeled himself against her touch. She felt his dark eyes upon her and she was a little unnerved by it.
“Talk to me,” he commanded, after a moment in which he had clenched his teeth so tight his jaw hurt.
She looked up at him, her green eyes wide. “About what?”
“Anything! Talk about your husbandyour William.” His arm hurt like the devil, but he forced himself to concentrate instead on her. “Tell me about him. You still mourn, do you not? How long has it been?”
She decided to ignore his first question. “He’s been gone these twelve months now. I’m just out of black ribbands.”
His gaze swept over the form-fitting habit she wore. “From the way you are dressed, you look more like a merry widow than a grieving one.”
Julia looked down at the green velvet material of her riding kit, then looked up to flash him a brilliant smile. “Thank you!”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment,” he said, in a grumbling tone.
“Oh, but you were much more complimentary than you shall ever know. You see, my riding habit is my most prized possession.”
That surprised a bark of laughter out of him. “Is it? Then I should wager your possessions are few, indeed!”
“And you would win that wager,” she replied, quite unperturbed. “I have, truly, nothing else of value.”
His gaze swept over her again. With a practiced eye Gavin recognized the fine tailoring of the green velvet riding outfit she wore. The material was lush and full and had probably been quite expensive at the time of its purchase. The jacket and skirt had been cut to accentuate the perfection of her figure. Workmanship like that didn’t come cheap; yet he also realized that the style of the kit had to be at least five or six years old.
“I’m not certain I believe you,” he said, quite frankly. “You strike me as the kind of woman who would have new gowns, including new riding habits, every year. Why do you go on without them?”
“I go on without them because I have no choice to do otherwise,” she replied, calmly. “I have no money, you see.”
He said, dismissively, “I am told it is not uncommon for women to fall on hard times once they find themselves widowed.”
“Is it? Then I shall take comfort in knowing I am not alone in my present circumstance,” she said, with the hint of a smile. “It makes no never mind, for I don’t intend to dwell on what has occurred in the past. Now that I’ve thrown off my black, I intend to don my old gowns and attend all the parties, balls and assemblies I am able. My stay with Harriet Clouster is my first social visit in more than a year and I hope I may have many more.”
He frowned. “Who the devil is Harriet Clouster?”
“I already told you,” she said, with exaggerated patience. “Harriet Clouster is the vicar’s wife. She is my oldest and dearest friend. We have known each other since our cradle days.”
There was something in her tone that stung him. “You say that as if you expected me to know her.”
“Well, she is the wife of your vicar, after all. Her husband has his living from you.”
“Oh. Him.”
She almost laughed. “I don’t suppose you and the vicar have very much in common.”
“And what in the name of hell do you mean by that?” he demanded, one dark brow flying to a challenging angle.
She didn’t answer right away; but a moment later, she asked, in a quiet voice, “Do you always curse so in the presence of a lady?”
“No, dammit, I do not!” The words, from habit, were out before he could stop them, and he saw her full lips press into a tight line. He thought of apologizing, but discarded the notion as soon as it was born. He said, instead, “It happens that I am rarely in a lady’s presence.”
“So it would seem,” she murmured, vividly conjuring the memory of all the many bits of conversation she had overheard about the Duke’s scandalous behavio
r.
“So! You’ve been listening to the gossips, have you? What have you heard about me?”
She took up a clean piece of bed linen and began tearing long strips from its length. She said, evasively, “I don’t think it wise for me to repeat tales I should never have overheard in the first place.”
“Faintheart!” he accused. “I would have pegged you as a woman with more bottom!”
“Oh, no!” she said with a slight laugh. “You shan’t bully me into repeating nonsense!”
“Does that mean you don’t believe any of the stories people whisper about me?”
“No. It means I believe only the worst of the stories!” she answered, with a smile of great sweetness.
Disarmed, Gavin almost smiled back, but he quickly schooled his expression into a frown and grumbled, “You’re no different than all the others.”
“In what manner?”
“You believe every wretched rumor and every vile story that passes from one clucking tongue to another.”
“Do I?” she asked, with a credible imitation of wonder.
“Don’t be coy, madam. It doesn’t suit you!”
“Lift your arm, please,” commanded in a business-like tone.
He obeyed without thinking and watched as Julia pressed a pad of clean cloth against his wound and began to twine a strip of bed linen about his arm to hold it in place.
“If you truly believe I am as depraved as people say, you should never have stayed here with me,” he said. “You should have left as soon as you discovered my identity. Common sense should have told you the danger you were in by remaining in my presence.”
“And step instead out into a thunderstorm where I might be struck by lightening? Thank you, but I should rather remain here with you. You are the lesser of two evils, you see!”
“If anyone were to discover our situation, you would be quite ruined, you know.”
“Why?” she asked, most innocently. “Should I be afraid of you? Are you as evil as the gossips say?”
“Decidedly!”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who kicks puppies and plucks the wings off butterflies.”
The Notorious Nobleman Page 2
