Her Errant Earl

by Scarlett Scott

  “Will—”

  “Hush,” he interrupted. “I’m your husband. It’s my duty. Would you care for a fresh pot of tea or some water?”

  She stared at him, her expression indecipherable. “Water if you please.”

  Would that he could read her better. Whether it was the darkness of the chamber or the jumble of his emotions, he couldn’t be sure, but something had shaken him from his ability to read her. He poured some water into a cup and handed it to her with care. “Are you hungry? I’ll send for a bowl of porridge from Mrs. Rufton.”

  She took several long, lusty gulps of water before answering him. “No porridge, if you please. I dislike it intensely.”

  He raised a brow. “Porridge and eggs both?”

  “I cannot help what I don’t like.” Her expression softened. “I’ve forgotten to ask after your wellbeing. Were you not hit by the branch?”

  “I was and I’ve the devil of a headache.” He rubbed the knot on his head ruefully. “But it was nothing compared to you. When I came to, I thought…” He hesitated, aware that he was about to reveal more than he wished.

  She took another deep pull of her water. “What did you think, my lord?”

  “Will.” He took the cup from her. “You’re drinking too much, love. You won’t want to be ill.”

  “What did you think?” she persisted, her tone quiet yet demanding.

  He met her gaze. “I thought I’d lost you, damn it.” To his great mortification, his voice shook on the statement. Devil take it. The Earl of Pembroke did not cry. At least, he hadn’t shed a tear in all the years since he’d found his puppy dead at the foot of his bed. Ferdinand. Odd how he could still recall how the mutt felt in his arms, all wiggly and warm. “There.” He replaced her cup on the side table with too much force. The sound echoed in the silence of the chamber, water sloshing over the rim onto his hand. “Are you pleased now?”

  “No.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Madam, in the last two days, I’ve been to hell and back worrying over you. I suggest you give me quarter.”

  “Quarter perhaps.” She patted the bed at her side. “Won’t you hold me, Will? I’m so very tired, and I won’t be pleased until I have you nearer to me.”

  Hell. He’d do anything she asked. Anything. His mind was still reeling with emotion, with all that had happened. But this, her in his arms, he could make sense of. Gently, taking care not to jostle her, he slipped beneath the counterpane and pressed the length of his body to hers. She nuzzled into him with complete trust and a sigh.

  “Thank you, Will,” she murmured against his chest. “Thank you for saving me, and thank you for staying by my side. You needn’t have.”

  He drew an arm around her waist, and if he clutched her to him more tightly than he intended, it couldn’t be helped. She thought he’d saved her. Sweet Christ. Little did she know that it was the other way around. He found her cheek with his lips, bussing it softly. “Of course I needed to, my sweet. How could you ever think otherwise?”

  But she had already fallen asleep.

  Victoria didn’t know how much time had passed, but when next she woke, Will had gone. She turned her aching head with ginger care and pressed her nose into the pillow to catch his scent. Spice and musk—the only sign he’d been there. That, and the pang in her heart.

  He’d been concerned for her. His handsome face had not reflected his customary effortless charm when she’d first opened her eyes to find him at her bedside. She’d caught a glimpse of him without the mask he ordinarily wore, and he’d appeared haunted, his mouth set in a grim line of worry, his dark hair rumpled, purple half moons beneath his startling eyes. She hadn’t mistaken the hitch in his voice when he’d spoken of finding her trapped beneath the fallen branch, either.

  “My lady, you’re awake,” Keats said warmly, bustling to her side and cutting through her heavy musings.

  She’d been so quiet that Victoria had thought herself alone. She gave her dear lady’s maid what she hoped was a chipper smile. “Keats, would you mind terribly telling me what time of day it is?”

  “It’s late afternoon, Lady Pembroke, and if I may say, you’re looking a sight better than you’ve been since your accident. You must be famished. Would you care for a tray to be brought up?”

  “That would be lovely.” Her stomach growled as if on cue, and she was pleasantly surprised to find that the incessant throbbing of her head had abated somewhat. “No porridge, however, if you please.”

  Keats frowned, worry grooves bracketing the older woman’s eyes. “My lady, Lord Pembroke has us on strict orders to follow the doctor’s advice. I’m afraid ‘tis only porridge and tea for you until he says otherwise. Perhaps I can fetch you a warm glass of milk. He didn’t say anything of milk, now that I think on it.”

  Just the thought of warm milk made her stomach roil. “No warm milk, if you please. Keats, where is his lordship?”

  “He’s returned to his chamber for a bath and a shave. The stubborn goat wouldn’t go until I promised I wouldn’t leave your side. All bloodied and stinking of mud from the excitement, he was, and refusing to do anything about it. He spent the entire first night watching over you. Didn’t even sleep a wink, I daresay.”

  Victoria had to suppress a smile at Keats referring to Pembroke as a stubborn goat. It was true, of course, but it really was the sort of thing one ought not to call one’s employer. Fortunately, Victoria was possessed of what some would consider rather odd sensibilities. She admired free thinking and candor.

  Keats seemed to think better of her words, for her cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I should not have called his lordship a stubborn goat. I wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t acted the part.”

  She couldn’t stifle the small laugh that escaped her at Keats’ grudging apology. Heavens, her entire body still seemed to ache with the force of the fall she’d taken. She wondered if she was one plum-colored bruise from head to toe.

  “He does possess a rare tenacity, does he not, Keats?” she asked, mirth creeping into her tone.

  “That he does, my lady,” Keats agreed, fussing over the bedclothes, straightening them to her satisfaction. “There now. But if I may be so forthright, I have to say that I’m happy to see his particular tenacity being directed toward a good cause at last.”

  A good cause at last.

  Yes, so too was she. “Did he truly stay by my side for—oh dear, how many days have passed now?”

  “Three whole days, my lady,” Keats surprised her by revealing. “Aye, that he did.”

  Three days. She recalled Will telling her she’d been unconscious for two days, so that meant she’d slept away yet another day. He hadn’t even remained in her presence for more than three hours after their wedding vows had been spoken, and yet he had remained with her, the comforting warmth at her side, the hand holding the cup to her lips, the beloved voice urging her to survive.

  Fight, my darling. You must fight.

  It came back to her now in fragments. Will had been there at her side all along, the shadowy figure on the edges of her subconscious when she’d been in such devastating pain. He’d pushed her out of the way of the falling branch that day. One moment, she’d been in his arms, and the next, she heard a loud crack and there she stood, too foolish to move. He’d shoved her out of the branch’s most direct path, even suffering a blow to the head himself in the process.

  None of these actions belonged to a selfish man or a cruel man or a man incapable of emotion. He’d told her that she’d changed everything, even him. But that wasn’t true, for he had changed himself. Something had brought him back to her, and she still didn’t know precisely what that was, but she was grateful for it. Grateful for him.

  Her stomach grumbled loudly yet again. “I must insist on no porridge if you please, Keats. Just a muffin, perhaps, and some jam? Yes, that would do nicely.”

  Keats grinned. “Yes, my lady. I’ll be back in a trice.”

  Victoria scarcely waited
for the door to close on Keats to throw back the bedclothes. She felt most unlike herself but good enough to have grown weary of lying about like an invalid. With a wince and considerably more effort than she’d thought the act would require, she hauled herself to the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the soft carpet. Food would help to replenish her strength, she knew, but she wasn’t about to lie abed waiting. With another heave, she stood on the wobbly legs of a newborn foal. She shook out her nightdress and remained still, willing the abrupt thumping in her head to subside enough that she didn’t fear she’d cast up her accounts.

  So much for being strong, she thought grimly as she forced one foot in front of the other. Ah, yes. Walking now. She could do this. The nausea relented like an ocean wave being drawn back out to sea. She took a deep inhalation. Another step. Then another.

  The door joining her chamber to Will’s opened, and there he stood, more handsome than she’d ever seen him. He wore plain trousers and a white shirt without the formality of a waistcoat, and his feet were bare, his dark hair falling wetly to his collar. Their gazes collided. For a heady moment, it was as if the entire outside world was suspended. Only the two of them existed, their hearts beating in unison, their bodies attuned. He was her husband, her lover. He was the man she loved, and it was a deep love, strong and abiding. She’d thought she’d loved him before, but her old feelings were paltry compared to this new, all-encompassing rush.

  “Victoria, what the devil do you think you’re doing?” The irritation in his voice dashed away her maudlin thoughts. “Where the hell is your lady’s maid? I told her not to leave you, damn it.”

  “I’m walking.” She held out her arms and beamed, knowing she must look a sight with her stale nightgown, hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, and a wan face, but she didn’t care. A ridiculous surge of joy coursed through her as she stood there before him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever felt better, Will.”

  “Jesus.” He frowned as he closed the distance between them and placed steadying, possessive hands on her waist. “She didn’t give you more laudanum, did she? I expressly forbid you getting another drop of that poison.”

  “No laudanum, I can assure you. My head is aching ferociously.”

  “Of course it is.” He began shepherding her back to the bed she’d just freed herself from. “You’ve suffered a serious injury, Victoria. You need rest. Bloody hell, I’m sacking your maid when she returns from wherever it is she’s gone.”

  “You cannot sack Keats.” She mustered the flagging strength she had remaining and put up resistance. “Will, stop. I don’t wish to be abed. I want to stretch my legs for a moment. She’s fetching me some muffins and jam at my behest.”

  “You’re to have porridge until the doctor deems otherwise.” His fingers tightened on her waist, and even in her diminished state, the heat of him through the fine linen of her nightgown was enough to affect her. “You must return to bed whether you wish it or not.”

  “I don’t wish it.” Her tone was mulish but she didn’t care. She’d been bursting with emotion, her love for him beating within her with the force of a heart, and he was doing his best to undermine it. “You’re being a bully.”

  “A bully?” He looked genuinely taken aback. “Good Christ, woman. If I must bully you to keep you from injuring yourself more by gadding about your bloody chamber like you’re on a promenade in Hyde Park, then I will. Have you any idea what these last three days have been like? I leave your side for half an hour, and here you are, ordering muffins and about to swoon.”

  Her head continued to pound, but the brightness of her spirits remained undiminished. She grinned. “Muffins shall always be preferable to porridge, and I wasn’t about to swoon.”

  “You’re deuced unsteady on your feet for a woman who wasn’t about to swoon. You need to gather up your strength. I won’t have you injuring yourself worse than you already are,” he growled.

  But she was undeterred. “Truly, I’ve never felt better. Your concern is misplaced.”

  With a long-suffering sigh, he bent and scooped her up into his arms in one swift motion. “You’ll be the death of me, woman.”

  She looped her arms around his neck. Well, if he must be an overbearing barbarian, at least let him be one who cared enough to stay by her sickbed for three whole days. “I don’t see any trees about, do you?” she asked, tongue in cheek.

  “All I see is one lovely, frustrating woman who is about to settle down with a nice, warm bowl of porridge before she gets some more rest.” He laid her gently on the bed and made a great show of arranging the covers over her.

  Heavens, he was more of a mother hen than Keats. She caught his hand. “Will.”

  He stilled, raising his head to look at her with those blue eyes that seemed to see too much. “Victoria?”

  “I would very much like to begin again with you,” she said simply. “Starting today. I want the past to remain where it belongs.”

  A beautiful smile transformed his features then, softening the harsh lines of worry that had hardened his jaw and mouth. He touched her cheek with his free hand, then rubbed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip as though he were committing it to memory. “I’d like that, sweet. I’d like that very much.”

  She kissed the pad of his thumb. “As would I.”

  Keats bustled back into the chamber before either of them could say more.

  ut the past was not destined to remain where it belonged. No indeed, and when the heavens decided to rake a man over the coals in retribution for his sins, they chose to do so in the form of the petulant opera singer he’d last thrown over. Will’s gaze traveled over the woman perched on the edge of the striped silk divan in his drawing room. Her dark beauty was unmistakable, her fashion sense as impeccable as ever. The cloying scent of French rosewater clung to the air, and it rather made him want to sneeze.

  What was the phrase? Ah, yes. Curses are like young chickens, they always come home to roost. Here then, was his curse. But she rather resembled a raven at the moment more than a young chicken.

  “Signora Rosignoli,” he greeted her coldly. “You must know you aren’t welcome at my home.”

  “Amore mio, this can’t be true.” She rose and came toward him, her gloved hands outstretched. “I’ve missed you. Tell me you’ve missed me.”

  He hadn’t missed her. Had scarcely spared her a thought, engrossed as he was in his wife and his fragile, newfound sense of happiness. “If you had but written with your intentions, you could have been spared the time and expense of your trip, madam. As it is, you must leave at once.”

  “Per favore, do not treat me with so much ice.” She swept closer, her skirts brushing his trousers, and laid a hand upon his chest. “Remember what we shared, my lord. Ti voglio tanto bene.”

  He stopped her hand when it would have roamed lower, holding it in a firm grip to still further explorations. “You must go, Signora. I’ll see to it that you have the means to return to London at once. Do not seek me out again.”

  “But my lord.” She cupped his jaw with her free hand. “Look at me and tell me I mean niente, nothing. This I do not believe.”

  “Believe it.” He caught her wrist, his patience waning. Damn it, he hadn’t wanted to see her at all, but she’d refused to leave when Wilton had informed her he was not at home. He’d been shocked she would travel to the country to see him. Even more shocked she’d have the temerity to appear at Carrington House and demand an audience with him. More than anything, he hadn’t wanted Victoria, who’d yet to come downstairs for the morning, to have any knowledge of Maria’s unwanted presence. “You must leave, Maria. Our understanding is at an end.”

  “No, amore mio.” She pouted. “I refuse to believe it. What can this grim old place hold for you? Come to London with me. I’ll do anything you want, qualsiasi cosa.”

  Her sexual promises held no appeal for him. He felt instead oddly repelled, both by her and by himself. “The only thing I want you to do is leave. Lady Pembroke
is in residence here, and I’ll not have your presence dishonor her another moment.”

  “Lady Pembroke.” Maria scoffed. “Your wife means nothing to me.”

  “She bloody well means everything to me,” he snapped. “Now kindly leave before my thinning patience deserts me entirely.”

  “Mascalzone!” She tugged free of his grasp. “I denied the Duke of Hathaway for you.”

  “Yet you’re now free to pursue him,” he observed drily.

  “Bastardo! He already has taken the French nightingale as his mistress.” She spun away from him and stalked toward a large portrait of the first Duke of Cranley.

  He followed her, intercepting her before she could do any more damage to his family history. How had he ever thought to entangle himself with such a creature? “Damn you, Maria, do I need to throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here, or will you go on your own two feet?”

  Maria’s thunderous expression eased suddenly as her dark gaze lit on something over his shoulder. A feline smile curved her red lips. “Bene.”

  Maria possessed a true bloodlust for the destruction of his personal property. For her to so easily be distracted from her quarry meant only one thing. With a grim sense of inevitability, he turned to find Victoria on the threshold.

  She wore a maroon silk day dress with gold silk underlay and a velvet bow pinned neatly on her trim waist. Her hair had been schooled into an elaborate braid atop her head with a riot of curls falling down her back. She was lovely, a study in contrast to the tempestuous woman he’d been attempting to remove from their drawing room and his life both.

  His wife held herself stiffly, the color draining from her pink cheeks as she took in the tableau he and Maria surely presented. Damn it to hell. “Lady Pembroke,” he bit out.

  But she either failed to hear him or ignored him, for in the next instant, she spun on her heel and left in a hushed swirl of elegant skirts. Somehow, her silence was more deafening than any cutting verbal condemnation could have been.