Her eyes widened and she gave a tiny yelp.
“Don’tch be mad at Friddy.” His words were a garbled mess.
“I’m sorry, sir. May I help you?”
He looked at her again, blinking a few times to clear his vision and realized that she wasn’t his sister. She was young, but fuller than Bella, who was tall and thin like a birch tree.
A sharp stabbing went through his head and Kit squeezed his eyes shut. As he released his hand from the girl’s arm, he noticed how heavy and dull it was. His body was almost numb, except for the bashing on his skull.
A cool hand felt his forehead and rubbed his temple. Then everything faded and Kit could only see shadows. The room with its large windows and the bed with no canopy vanished as if they’d never been there at all.
In his mind, he saw a face. His sister’s face, scowling at him again. She pointed a long finger at him. The scene from earlier today came back to him, playing its theater across his addled mind.
“Pray tell me what is wrong this time, Daniel. Sylvia Hargrove is pretty, the daughter of an earl, and her uncle is a Belgian duke. She can trace her family all the way back to Henry VII.”
Kit rolled his eyes. They’d had this conversation before, in different times and locations. He wiped the corner of his mouth and threw down his napkin on the mahogany dining table.
“What do I care? Her father could be the Prince of Wales and I still would not marry her. Is lineage all that matters to you? The ugliest horse in Christendom would be fine with you if she could prove she was descended from Charlemagne.”
Frederick laughed. Isabella’s icy stare made her husband choke on his brandy. Sometimes he wondered if Freddy ever regretted his decision to take Isabella to wife. Her obstinacy had only worsened after becoming a duchess.
This visit was a mistake. He’d thought that he could just come and spend a weekend with his family and see the new stud Freddy had bought.
Kit continued. “I will not marry her. And do not think I will reconsider that other one. What was her name? The mousy-haired girl with twisted teeth who thinks that whist is the tool of the devil.”
His sister pointed a finger at him. “Well, in your case it is. If you put as much time into your duties as you do in your gaming hells, I would not have to worry about you.”
It was an old point. Because she was the eldest, she saw fit to inform him of how he should conduct his affairs. At times it was endearing, as their parents had died when he was thirteen and she was eighteen. But now, he’d had enough.
“I am over thirty years old, Bella, not some ignorant boy fresh out of the schoolroom. I can choose my own wife.”
She fixed her dark green gaze at him. “Then act as your age dictates. You are wasting your life with cards and women. And, let me not even start on the…the…boxing. ‘Tis bad enough you sponsor those thick-headed hooligans, but then you have to compete with them, too? A marquess consorting with the dregs of London, letting them maul and maim you for sport. ” She shivered and shook her head.
She stared him down and her mouth went sour. “And despite my repeated insistence, you continue to involve my husband in your debauchery.”
“Freddy is a grown man. I see no need to coddle and shepherd him like a five year old.”
Besides, Kit was bloody proud of the boxing. He competed with the best—in private clubs, open fields, alleyways and everything in between. He knew how to jab, knew how to weave and duck, and he knew how to win. He earned respect not for being a marquess, but for outwitting his opponents.
Bella forgot that a third of his fortune was made from his fists and his instinct at gambling. He never bet what he couldn’t lose, but he rarely backed down from a bet he could win. It was all about strategy, sizing up the opponent, knowing what he could afford to lose—and how badly his opponent wanted to keep it.
“What I do with my time is none of your affair. You are a duchess. Do you not have affairs of your own? Instead of worrying about me, you should see to your own household.” He nodded at Freddy, who was fond of boxing and cards himself.
“Danny, you will waste your life. Waste everything that our father gave us. If you merely boxed at the club or in the privacy of your home as any decent gentleman does, that would be fine. But you compete in illegal matches. For goodness sake, you bribed a magistrate last month!”
Of course he had. He needed to be sure that the authorities didn’t break up the match. Public boxing was still a punishable offence, despite his efforts to have the laws changed.
“You put your energy into such trivial things. Do you not care about your good name? Would you see the estates go to ruin or transfer to Stewart Elliot?”
He rolled his eyes. Not that again. His sister couldn’t bear the thought of their cousin inheriting the title. All because Stewart used to put honey in her hair when she slept and spilled wine on her dress at her coming out party.
Stewart could be a mule’s ass, but he’d been in love with her since they were kids. Isabella thought him the lowest form of rodent she’d ever seen. She baited him like a cat and he took her abuse with the stupidity of a devoted dog.
“When I marry, it will not be to some ignorant chit or some pedantic nitwit who will drag me to an early grave with her nagging.”
“Well, by all means, choose then, but do not wait until you are gray and your pistol is so rusted that it no longer fires.” Her gaze traveled down below the table.
“I shall ignore your terrible effort at vulgar humor. Don’t think that will sway me.”
“Then perhaps this will.” She pulled a letter out of her reticule and handed it to him.
His jaw dropped when he saw the familiar handwriting. His fingers traced it as if he’d never seen its like before.
“What is this?”
“Since you obviously will not listen to me, perhaps you will listen to your father.”
He scanned the contents until his eyes came upon his given name and the word bride.
Daniel needs the guidance of a good woman, Bella. Without it, he is cast into darkness. I know, for I was just like him. See that he finds a suitable bride, someone who is strong enough to challenge him when his own nature leads him astray. A wife will not only tame him, she will make him the better for it.
With trembling fingers, he refolded the letter, not able to continue. His eyes stung and his chest burned. It had been twenty years since he’d found his father ice-cold and withered, sprawled on the floor next to his chamber pot.
What if Bella had made it up? Another glance revealed that the paper was yellowed and brown and the faded scrawl seemed too distinct to be a forgery. His father had written the words, though he’d never said such things to Daniel. Why?
Kit stood, causing the Chippendale chair to fall back and nearly crash to the floor. A footman caught it before it touched the Oriental carpet.
“How could you keep this from me?” he demanded. She’d obviously had this in her possession for years. Why had she hidden it from him?
Isabella calmly rinsed her fingers in a small dish of water and wiped them dry with a napkin before folding it into quarters and setting it down by her bowl. She motioned to a servant, who pulled out her chair as she stood.
“The letter was addressed to me. If father had intended for you to see it, he would have written the same to you. Since he did not, I can only conclude that it was for my advisement rather than your own.”
“And yet you throw it in my face now because I will not comply with your wishes?” So like Isabella. Though she disdained gambling, the woman was a sharp strategist and master player. This was a ploy to force his hand.
“I do what needs must be done.” She stared at him. “What you will not do.”
He was done with her games. She had gone too far this time. Using his own grief against him was a cruel maneuver.
“And I am done, madam.” He turned to his brother-in-law. “My lord, I think I shall take my leave. I received a letter from our cousin Drake in
Yorkshire. He wants me to come as soon as I am done here. I think that is now.”
Freddy gave a brief nod. Obviously, he was too deep under his wife’s thumb to get involved in this exchange. Kit didn’t blame him. A husband had to choose his battles with a wife as tenacious as Isabella.
Without saying another word to his sister, Kit ordered his things to be sent to Yorkshire, then went to the stables to get his horse.
The Kittricks were a proud and stubborn family. They were bred obstinate and cunning, which made for a dangerous combination. Unfortunately, his sister was a Kittrick through and through.
Being the marquess had never been Kit’s choice. But his father had taken ill and his desire no longer mattered. He’d done what was expected of him.
Freddy caught him in the entrance hall. “I am sorry about the letter. I had no idea. Please consider staying. Bella is high-handed, but she is only that way because she has no idea how to handle you.”
Kit snorted. “Bella has been handling me for twenty years, Freddy. The only reason she is so vexed is that I no longer allow it. I gave her trouble as a boy, but I also went to the schools she wanted, the parties she wanted—hell, I hob-knobbed with Privy Councillors and archbishops because she insisted. Nothing I did was ever enough.”
No matter what he “gave to the family”, Bella always expected more from him. She would never be happy, so he’d stopped placating her. He wasn’t cut out to be a politician and found little joy in pandering to the Chancellor of the Exchequer or the Prime Minister’s cronies.
At first, boxing was a release, a distraction from his own dissatisfaction. It was a channel for the rage inside of him. Eventually it became something more.
“You cannot spend your entire lives with horns locked,” Freddy said. “Eventually, you will have to find a way to make peace.”
“Do not make it sound as if we are Napoleon and Nelson waging war in the Atlantic.” Kit put his hand on Freddy’s shoulder. “I will return for Christmas.”
“Is there anything I can say to convince you to remain?”
“No. Not this time.” He turned back to the door. “Goodbye, Freddy.”
It would take him hours to Stewart’s estate, but he couldn’t stay long enough to even wait for the coach. He wanted to get as far away as possible. Once he was back in relaxed surroundings, he could be calm and reason out what he wanted to do about his sister’s meddling. Like it or not, he’d have to see her again at Christmastide.
He knew he was being stubborn. Ultimately, Kit would do his duty, but bloody hell, he had plenty of time to settle down and have children. Hadn’t the Earl of Southdown married last month at forty-five? There was no cause to rush. He’d be damned if he let Bella trample over his plans and shackle him to a dull lady of virtue merely to preserve her precious family name.
Besides, the truth was, he hadn’t a penny’s worth of interest for modest women, as Bella called them. Pretty though she may be, a proper lady would only get a smile and a dance. He reserved his affections for women with fire.
* * * *
The doctor hadn’t been much help. He’d arrived bedraggled from the storm, looking more unkempt than Violet had ever seen him. He’d looked over the gentleman for a few minutes, pressed his ribs and told them all he needed was plenty of rest.
“He’ll be disoriented. He may not remember things and he may feel dizzy. Make sure he does not exert himself. Monitor his wounds carefully to prevent infection.”
Violet pasted a smile on her face. It took him two hours to get here just to tell her what she and Avery already knew.
He reached into his satchel and handed her a bottle. “His injuries are severe. You will need more laudanum. Give him a dose twice a day for the first week and I’ll come back and check on him in a few days.”
“When do you suspect he will be well enough to travel?”
The old man raised his furry gray eyebrows. “It will take weeks, madam. I’ve seen cases such as this which took two months to heal.”
Her pulse leapt at the promise, despite her silent admonishment to her nerves that she should be wishing him a rapid recovery.
So he would be here for a few weeks at least.
“Keep him calm. His room should be kept dark. Candlelight is fine when needed, but he needs as much rest as possible. Someone should check on him periodically to make sure he’s breathing normally.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Mrs. Laurens, do you need me to check your person for injuries as well? Are you well?”
Violet smiled and patted his hand. “I am perfectly fine, sir. I suffered a fright at watching this poor man suffer in defense of myself, but other than that, I am well.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Thank you.”
She walked him out of the room and down the stairs. He paused in the entrance hall. “My lady, are you sure you do not require assistance? You are a woman alone here with a stranger in your household. Perhaps you should send for a neighbor or relative to be present.”
“Of course,” she said to him, though it was more to soothe his sensibilities than because she thought it was a good idea. “But do not worry. This man is a gentleman of some rank and we will make inquiries to find his family and alert them of his condition.”
“Very well. I shall return in a few days, but if his condition worsens, please send for me.”
The doctor’s joints acted up during the inclement weather, so she watched him amble forward, his hips not quite in sync. A footman helped him into his greatcoat and top hat and she watched the coat billow out as he exited the door.
He was a character from a gothic novel for sure. She could imagine him haunting the moors and frightening some young woman who dared to venture out in the storm.
My, her imagination was active today. First the stranger, now the doctor. Maybe she was more affected than she’d thought by the events of today. Was she in shock as the soldiers had often been after battle?
Or was she merely tired and lonely? Envisioning things around her to be more vibrant and mysterious than they were so she would not have to face what was lacking in her life.
Maybe her brother was right. It is about time that you find a good man to settle down with. John would not want you to grow old alone.
Violet liked her independence, the freedom that came with being a widow of means. But that freedom definitely came with a price.
She could spend her money as she liked, stay out late visiting friends, or make her own choice of investments, but at night, she lay in her large oak bed and listened to the wind echo through an empty house. There were servants, but no husband, no children, no laughter to quiet the silence in her heart.
* * * *
“He still sleeps fitfully, my lady.” Avery put his hand to the man’s head. “A little warm. We should get some ice and keep his temperature down.”
“And you have checked his bandages?” The bleeding had stopped, but the chance of infection was high. She stood by the four poster bed, looking down at her savior, who lay still and quiet, despite the people in the room.
“Yes, the wound is not healed, but neither is it as gruesome as it was yesterday.”
“And he has not awoken?”
“He tosses and murmurs and has managed the chamber pot a couple of times, but he does not speak and his eyes are glazed and unfocused.”
It had been two days since the incident. She prayed it was the laudanum keeping him so dazed and not his injury. But they could not be sure yet.
“If he does not awaken in the next day or two, we shall have to fetch Doctor Littleton. For now, let us keep him cool and make sure that someone checks on him every hour.”
Violet went to the window and opened it. The sky was cloudy and the ground covered with a thin layer of snow. “The fresh, cool air should do him good.” She rang the bell then went back to the bed and sat down. The man’s hands felt hot under hers, but she raised them to her cheek to be sure. Definitely too warm.
<
br /> “My lady?” Miriam entered the room.
“Go and fetch some ice please. If there’s no ice, send a footman outside and gather snow. We need to keep him cool until his fever breaks.”
She leaned over to the bedside table, dipped a cloth into a small ceramic basin, and wrung it out. “I will see to him for a while, Avery.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you.”
Gently, she wiped the man’s face, always conscious of the bandage. She hummed as she worked. It was a very old song that she’d learned as a girl. Sometimes her mother would sing it as she stitched.
“Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove. The hill and valley, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield.”
She washed his arms, noting each twist and turn of muscle. She even tested it with her finger to see if it was as firm as it appeared. Nothing about him was soft— except for his lips and the silky threads of his hair.
She brushed the towel over his neck and down to the exposed skin at the opening of his tunic. The hair there was fine. She couldn’t help but stare as she swept over his chest. His nipples were wide, but tightened into little nubs when she touched them.
What would it feel like to run her palms over them? Would they react to her as they did to the damp cloth? What about her mouth?
Violet turned away and blushed. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember him fighting off the thief and the moment when he’d taken the fateful blow. She needed to focus on her task and not on the yearnings she felt for a man she barely knew.
She might be fantasizing about a man of base morals or a man with a wife and four children. Or what if he was a clergyman? That she doubted considering his skill with weapons and his readiness to fight, but what gentleman would watch an innocent woman get attacked by thieves and not come to her rescue?
A man does what needs must. Even a man of the cloth will take up a pistol if his life or his country demanded it. She had seen boys barely old enough to carry a gun with gaping holes in their chest and villages ravaged and burned in the war.
And this man would die like the rest if she did not do her duty to him. He’d saved her and now she must do the same for him.
A Marquess for Christmas Page 4
