He smiled ruefully at that last. Hell, he’d frightened himself with the intensity of his own need. There had been something shockingly primal in it, something deep and desperate — a hunger that went beyond the urgency of his flesh and made him yearn to love all of her … heart, soul, and mind.
As confused by his own behavior as he was by hers, he picked up the second tart and nibbled on a corner. As the sweet, syrupy filling flowed over his tongue, he become aware of an odd tingling in his mouth. The unpleasant familiarity of the sensation made him pull the pastry from his mouth and eye it with alarm. The last time his mouth had felt like this was when he’d unwittingly eaten the pineapple garnish on the ham at the Kingsdale soiree. Talk about a miserable night!
Shuddering at the memory, he tossed aside the tart and hastily gulped down his entire glass of cider. To his everlasting relief the tingling instantly subsided. It was then, after his momentary panic had passed, that his senses returned. And his senses told him that there couldn’t possibly be pineapple in the tarts. Not only had he not tasted it, Cook would never allow it to be served to him, knowing as she did how it affected him.
His mind thus eased, he returned to his problem with Sophie and his theory that he’d either frightened or disgusted her with his passion. After brief but serious contemplation, he dismissed it. Neither reason made any sense. Not when he remembered how she had kissed him back. The way she’d grasped his buttocks and moaned for more bespoke of an ardor that matched his. It was remembering her abandon that made him hit upon another idea: Could it be that she was ashamed of her own conduct and thus too embarrassed to face him?
He reached down and scratched his side as he considered. Embarrassment would certainly explain the way she bolted every time she saw him. Then again — he scratched his neck — one couldn’t always count on logic when trying to fathom the workings of the female mind. As all men knew, there was no rhyme or reason to the way women thought. As for the way they acted …
Wanting to howl his frustration, Nicholas gave his neck another scratch, vaguely noting as he did so that his tongue had begun to tingle again. This time, however, he was too absorbed in his problem with Sophie to pay his discomfort much mind.
After several moments of deliberation and a furious bout of scratching, he came to the conclusion that there was only one way to solve it: He must chase her down and simply ask point-blank why she was avoiding him. Whether or not she would give him a satisfactory answer…
Scrape!-Scrape!-Scrape! — at the door.
Annoyed by the interruption, he barked, “Enter!”
It was the majordomo, his face flushed and his breathing labored, as if he’d been running.
“Well? What is it, Dickson?” he growled, rubbing at his neck. The blasted thing itched. Jessup must have shaved him too closely this morning.
After panting several times, the man gasped out, “A thousand pardons, my lord. But Lady Chadwick’s outrider has arrived — puff! — and reports that her ladyship’s coach is but moments behind him.”
Nicholas rubbed his neck again, none too pleased by the news. Not even trying to mask his irritation, he muttered, “Thank you, Dickson. I shall go outside to welcome them.”
The man bowed. “Very good, my lord.” Then rushed off to resume his post.
Testily imagining the horrors that awaited him, Nicholas clawed at his belly through his clothing, trying to assuage its sudden itching. No relief. The maddening sensation simply increased. Grimacing, he tried pinching and slapping the area. The discomfort persisted. Oh, bloody hell. The laundresses must have overstarched his shirt.
Firmly ignoring his urge to remove the offending garment, he stalked from the library, scratching assorted body parts as he went. By the time he reached the entry hall, he felt hot and cold in turn, and itched all over.
As he miserably awaited Dickson to open the door, he again speculated upon the tarts. Could Cook have filled them with some exotic new fruit that didn’t agree with him?
“My lord! They are here! The coach has pulled up to the steps,” the majordomo exclaimed, growing flushed again.
Wanting nothing more than to strip off his clothes and dive into a cool bath, Nicholas stepped onto the stoop, praying for the coming greetings to be brief. Staunchly curbing his impulse to scratch his backside, he proceeded down the steps, determined to do his gentlemanly duty and assist the ladies from the coach.
The first person to emerge was an older woman in a stylish yet dignified lavender and black ensemble. Deducing from the colors that she was in half-mourning and thus the widowed marchioness, he sketched a courtly bow. “Lady Chadwick, I presume?” he murmured, offering his hand.
She accepted with a lovely smile. “And you must be Lord Lyndhurst. My, my! Your mother claimed you to be a most dashing and handsome fellow in her letter, but I must say that she hardly did you justice.”
Nicholas returned her smile, liking her immediately. Not only was she gracious and charming, she was quite attractive. If her daughter was anything like her, she would have no trouble making a suitable match, despite the scandalous circumstances of her father’s death. Secretly thinking Chadwick a dolt for dying over a dollymop when he had such a wife, he handed her down. His hands clenching against his urge to scratch his belly again, he then turned back to the vehicle and awaited her daughter’s appearance.
The next to emerge was a pinch-faced woman who was introduced as Miss Benning, Lady Julianna’s abigail. As he assisted her as well, he couldn’t help but to wonder at the physic case she carried. By the size of it, she looked to be on a mission to cure the entire country …
Or one extremely ill patient. Could the girl have sickened on the journey? Suddenly concerned, he peered into the coach.
Darkness. He saw nothing but darkness. The windows were closed and the shades drawn. He frowned. Good God. It must be devilishly hot in there, what with the heat of the day. Whatever could the women have been thinking? Certain that the girl had either fainted or suffocated, Nicholas glanced back at the marchioness.
She scowled at the vehicle as if greatly annoyed. “Do come along, Julianna,” she exclaimed, her voice perfectly matching her expression. “I assure you that the air here is most healthful.”
There was a faint rustling from within, then, “Are you quite certain? You know how susceptible I am to contagion.”
“Quite,” Lady Chadwick replied, while Nicholas shot Miss Benning a quizzical look.
The woman smiled rather wanly. “Lady Julianna has an, ur, inordinate concern for her health, my lord.”
He scratched beneath his chin as he grimly absorbed that disheartening bit of news. Damnation. He hoped she wasn’t one of those tiresome females who chattered constantly about ailments and whose sole interest in life was collecting the latest cures. Such women made Miss Mayhew’s discourses on fish gutting and Lady Helene’s prattle about Ming-Ming’s digestion seem positively scintillating.
Miserably bracing himself for the worst, he dropped his hand back to his side. Whatever the case, he wished the girl would get out of the coach so he could go to his rooms and attend to his itching. Not only was it spreading, it intensified with every passing second. As he balled his hands against his bedeviling urge to scratch his groin, Lady Julianna appeared at the door. The sight of her made him momentarily forget his discomfort.
After her fuss about contagion, he’d expected her to be one of those thin, pallid creatures whose preferred activity was swooning. But this girl! Why, she looked fit enough to live to be a hundred. Not only that, she was beautiful. Indeed, had Quentin been in residence, he’d have instantly fallen slave to her glorious red-gold hair and voluptuous figure. Suddenly remembering his manners, Nicholas stepped forward and offered her his hand.
She shuddered and shrank away. “No … please. I— I — “
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Julianna,” Lady Chadwick snapped. “Do take his lordship’s hand and greet him properly.”
She shot her mother a mulish look.
“I shall do no such thing. His lordship is recently from town, and everyone knows that London abounds with contagion this time of year. Indeed — ” her lovely jade-colored eyes widened as she glanced back at Nicholas ” — he could have some dreadful disease and not even know it yet.”
As Nicholas opened his mouth to protest his health, he heard the pounding of footsteps on the stairs behind him and his father boom, “Lady Chadwick! Lady Julianna! Welcome to Hawksbury.”
He smiled his relief. Good. Let him deal with the chit’s nonsense. He’d had quite enough of her. Besides, his bowels had begun to gurgle in a way that always boded ill.
“My dear Lord Beresford,” Lady Chadwick exclaimed, beaming as he kissed her hand. “I simply cannot tell you how very wonderful it is to see you again. I do hope your wife’s health has improved?”
“What? What? What?” Lady Julianna squawked, sounding for all the world like a hen laying an egg. “His wife is ill?”
“Hush, girl,” her mother chided. “Her ladyship’s ailment presents no threat to you. Now, do get down from the coach so we can go inside and freshen up.”
Yes, please do come down, Nicholas silently pleaded, gritting his teeth as his bowels gave a violent spasm. When the spasm was followed by an excruciating cramp, he knew what was about to happen and gazed rather desperately up at the front door. It might as well have been atop the Alps for all the chance he had of reaching it without embarrassing himself.
“No! I can’t — I shan’t go in that house! Not if there is illness within,” the girl was shrilling.
“You shall do as I say and do it now, or I shall slap you,” her mother growled, clearly at the end of her patience.
“Then, you must slap me, for I refuse to go anywhere near that — that — pest house! — or them.” She pointed an accusing finger at Nicholas and his father. “If her ladyship is ill, then both the manor and everyone within must be swarming with contagion.”
“Fiddle-faddle, girl,” her mother shot back. “Anyone can see that Lyndhurst and Beresford are perfectly fit.” The instant the words left her mouth, Nicholas was struck with a cramp so vicious that he moaned aloud and doubled over. Grasping his belly in agony, he sank to the steps, groaning, “Help me into the house, Father. Now.”
“Colin?” His father was at his side in a flash, peering anxiously at his face. “Good God, boy. Whatever is wrong? You look like death himself.” He leaned a fraction nearer, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “Heavens. I do believe you have spots.”
“Spots?” A shriek. “It’s the pox! The pox, I tell you! We must get away from here this instant!” Lady Julianna wailed, diving back into the coach. Her abigail squeaked and rushed in after her.
His father sighed. “You might as well take your daughter home, Lady Chadwick. I fear that an audience with God himself wouldn’t lure her into the house after this.”
Her sigh echoed his. “Yes. I believe you are correct, my lord.”
As she launched into a barrage of what sounded like well-rehearsed apologies, Lord Beresford slipped his arm around Nicholas and helped him to his feet. Firmly bracing him against his solid form, he murmured, “Easy there, now, boy. Everything shall be fine. Do you wish me to send Julius for the surgeon?”
Nicholas grasped onto his father as yet another cramp twisted his bowels. Fervently praying that he would make it in time, he gritted out, “Just get me to the privy … now.”
“This looks to be a fine article on perfumed waters,” Sophie said, glancing from the magazine in her hands to Lady Beresford’s face. To her consternation the woman was staring again, and with the sly, knowing expression that always unnerved her. Commanding herself, as she always did, to ignore both the look and her disquiet, she smiled and added, “Would you like me to read it aloud?”
Her ladyship returned her smile. “You know, Sophie, you are an exceedingly fine-looking gel. I imagine that you had a great many suitors in — Durham, was it?”
Sophie gazed at her in dismay, hard-pressed not to frown at her question. The last thing in the world she wished to discuss was courtship and romance. Indeed, she doubted she could do so without bursting into tears. Her impossible love for Nicholas made the subject far too painful to address.
Thus, she looked down at her hands and murmured, “Yes, Durham. And no, I had no suitors. Our estate was in a remote area, and I seldom saw anyone save my father and the servants.” There. That response left her ladyship with nowhere to go, hence nipping the conversation in the bud.
Her ladyship, however, merely scoffed, “Come, come, now. Do not try to tell me that you have never had feelings for a man. You did go to school in Bath, after all, which means that you had to have encountered a few gentlemen. Indeed, I have yet to meet a Bath miss who didn’t develop at least one crush while there.”
As Sophie grappled for an appropriate reply, the marquess burst into the room, clearly in a lather.
“Harry? Whatever is wrong?” the marchioness cried. “It’s Colin. The most wretched thing has happened to Colin!”
Sophie and her mistress gasped in unison. “Oh, please — please! Do tell me that he is all right,” Sophie begged. The instant the words left her mouth, she blushed and added, “You have all been so kind to me. I would hate for anything to happen to a member of your family.”
The dreaded look was back on her ladyship’s face, and she resumed staring. Her gaze never wavering from Sophie’s face, she snapped, “Well? Don’t keep us on pins and needles, Harry. What has happened to Colin?” “He ate a pineapple-apricot tart,” he replied, his voice as grim as if he reported that he’d been shot dead.
Her ladyship’s gaze instantly darted from Sophie to her husband, horror written on every line of her face. “What? But how could such a thing happen? Cook knows better than to serve him anything with pineapple. She’s seen how ill it makes him.”
“Pineapple makes him ill?” Sophie squeaked, suddenly feeling sick herself.
“Wickedly so,” his lordship retorted. Turning his attention back to his wife, he explained, “The tarts were on Colin’s luncheon tray, though no one seems to know how they got there. Cook and Meg both swear they weren’t there when it left the kitchen. Julius swears they were.” He shook his head. “Worse yet, he sickened while greeting Lady Chadwick and her daughter.”
“My poor darling. How very wretched for him,” her ladyship murmured. “I do hope our guests understood?” The marquess snorted. “No. They didn’t. Well, at least the chit didn’t, which is just as well. She’s almost as eccentric as Brumbly’s — “
“Oh, to Hades with the gel,” his wife interjected, gesturing her impatience. “Where is Colin?”
“In his rooms. Mrs. Pixton dosed him with one of her remedies and prepared a special bath to soothe his spots. Last I saw of him, George was helping him into the tub.” “My poor baby. I must go to him immediately,” she declared, sitting up and tossing aside the covers. “A mother’s place is by her son’s side when he is ill.”
“Oh, no! No, my lady. You mustn’t leave your bed,” Sophie cried, rushing forward to stop her. “You must remember your health.” After poisoning Nicholas, the least she could do was take care of his mother for him.
The marchioness waved her away. “Pshaw, gel. I feel fine. Go fetch me a dressing gown. The purple cashmere shall do nicely.”
“But you can’t… you mustn’t! You might have a relapse, or worse,” she protested, casting a desperate look at the marquess.
He merely shrugged. “Mark this day on your calendar, my dear. You have just witnessed a miracle worthy of being recorded in the annals of medicine.”
“But — “
He shook his head. “She shall be fine. I promise. Go ahead and do as she says. I daresay that Colin could do with a bit of mothering just now.”
Sophie returned his gaze for a beat, then swallowed hard and bowed her head to hide her burgeoning tears. “Yes, my lord. As you wish,” she choked out. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be able to go to Nicholas a
s well. She would —
She would no doubt do something stupid and kill him. That is, if she hadn’t done so already.
Chapter 20
The rest of the afternoon crawled by like an eternity as Sophie awaited the marchioness to return with word of Nicholas. When afternoon dimmed to dusk, and dusk faded to night, she began to fear the worse. Nicholas must be very bad off indeed for his mother to remain by his side so long.
Tense to the point of shattering, she moved restlessly about her ladyship’s rooms, straightening, mending, and rearranging everything in sight to pass the time. She even organized all her mistress’s hats according to color, the lots of which she then arranged in alphabetical order determined by the first letter of their trim.
Therefore, Provence roses came before Scotch heath, and Brussels lace before marabout. It was only when she came to a morning cap trimmed with blue satin ribbons and a cluster of daisies that she paused in her frenetic activity.
The sight of those daisies, so jaunty yet delicate, struck at her aching heart, making her weep at their poignant reminder of all she wished to share with Nicholas, but couldn’t.
Oh, how she longed to hold him again, to feel his strong arms about her and his warm body close to hers. She yearned to hear his voice, so hoarse and rough with desire, so raw with tenderness as he moaned her name. And his kiss!
She sighed and closed her eyes, imagining the feel of his lips against hers, dreaming of the taste of his mouth. So caught up in her wishful fantasy was she, that she still stood before the clothespress, fondling the daisies and envisioning loving Nicholas when Miss Stewart entered the room a long while later.
“Goodness, child! Whatever are you doing up?” the woman exclaimed, frowning at the sight of her. “It’s after midnight.”
Midnight? Oh, dear. Nicholas must be even worse off than she suspected. Much worse … perhaps even dying. That tormenting thought started her tears anew. Wanting nothing more than to beg news of him, she bowed her head to hide her distress and somehow managed to reply, “I had several chores I wanted to complete before retiring.”
For All Eternity Page 28
