“Stop!” he called out, not caring who heard him. He ran toward her, knowing she was trapped within a prison cell formed of illusions. When she hoisted herself onto the balustrade, he repeated, “Lady Penford, don’t move.”
At that, she hesitated, looking back at him. Her eyes were unfocused, her face deathly pale. A long braid of fair hair hung below one shoulder, and her gray wrapper was falling open.
He could seize her and force her back, but if she screamed, the entire household would awaken and believe that he’d attacked her. No—better to save that as a last resort. He was close enough to grab hold of her, if needed.
It seemed that she was too far gone, that she would not heed common sense. Iain struggled to think of something—anything—that would keep her from throwing herself down to the first floor.
“The wolves,” he said quietly.
The moment he spoke of the imaginary wolves, she jerked back to stare. “W-where?”
He moved beside her and pointed to the floor below. “Don’t you see them?”
She began trembling and lowered her leg from the balustrade. “Oh no. You’re right. They’re down there, waiting for me.”
He let out a breath of relief, not caring that he’d lied. One of the maids came running, and behind her was another young woman who resembled Rose. “What is going on, Mother?” she demanded.
Lady Penford never looked at her daughter, but lowered her head. She gripped her palms together, but Iain didn’t leave the matron’s side. Her mind was in a fragile state, and he didn’t want to risk her trying to flee.
“Lily,” the matron whispered. “I do not think you should have left your bedchamber. Not this late and certainly n-not with a gentleman in our presence.”
Lady Lily regarded Iain with grave suspicion. She did not appear surprised that he was staying in the house—he guessed her sister had told her—and yet, she eyed him with a dark warning. From behind him on the stairs, the cat padded down and approached, weaving between his legs. The feline nudged his knee, and Iain picked up the animal, stroking its ears.
“I was just telling Lady Penford that it was not wise to climb over the railing,” he told her.
She gave a visible wince and hurried to her mother’s side. “Mother, please. You should let me walk you back to your room. It’s late.”
“In a moment,” she promised. Her voice was weary, and she regarded Iain once more. He offered his arm to escort her back, but her expression turned confused. “Thank you for saving me from the wolves, sir.”
“You are most welcome, Lady Penford.”
“And why aren’t you wearing a nightshirt? Your attire is most improper.”
“I had retired for the night when I heard you needed help,” he said. “There was not time to dress.” The woman was lucky that he’d been wearing trousers, to be honest. He far preferred to sleep without confining clothes.
“Well. See that you put something on in the future. My daughter should not be exposed to . . . that,” she finished, taking Lady Lily’s hand.
The young woman’s cheeks flushed, but she behaved as if he were fully clothed. She sent him a quiet look of thanks. “I’ll walk you back to your room now, Mother.”
“And what of Lady Rose?” he asked.
“She is sleeping soundly in her own room, you needn’t worry.” With that, she took her mother back, followed by the maid. The cat trotted behind both of them, leaving him alone on the stairway landing.
Iain waited a moment to ensure that they reached their rooms safely. He was about to return upstairs when he heard a small voice. “Mr. Donovan.”
He followed the direction of the sound and saw a door slightly open, near the end of the hallway. When he reached the room, he saw Lady Rose lying on the ground. “Is my mother all right?”
“Yes. Lady Lily took her back to her room.” He crouched down and asked, “Would you like me to help you up? Or perhaps summon a servant?” It appeared that she’d dragged her body across the floor in an effort to reach the door.
“No, thank you,” she remarked. She strained, bearing all her weight upon her elbows until she managed to sit up, leaning against the door.
Iain didn’t like the fact that she’d struggled so far across the room. Someone would have to carry her back to bed, and he asked, “Shall I call your maid?”
Lady Rose shook her head. “Not yet. Stay and answer my questions.”
Iain eyed the door, and then sat across from her on the floor. Although this was not at all proper, he understood her concern. There was no harm in a conversation, albeit a very late one. But there was an underlying intimacy with him not wearing a shirt and Lady Rose wearing her nightgown.
“What happened to my mother?” she asked, turning serious. “Tell me everything.”
“She was trying to climb over the railing,” he said. “I don’t really know what it was she intended, but she was unaware of the danger.”
Lady Rose shivered and gripped her elbows. “Dear God. I’m so glad you were there to save her.”
So was he, but he merely nodded. He didn’t doubt that if he hadn’t heard Lady Penford’s footsteps on the stairs, the matron would have broken her neck from the fall.
In a low voice, she admitted, “We had to . . . leave London. Because of Mother’s illness.” She glanced away from him, as if embarrassed by the confession. “It was the best way to conceal what was happening.”
He understood that well enough. “How long has she been this way?”
Rose drew her hands together. “Nearly a year. After my father died, she was never the same. I know we ought to find a doctor to help, but I fear he would put her in an asylum. They would lock her away or give her laudanum to make her sleep all the time. She doesn’t deserve that sort of life.”
“You ought to hire a companion for her and lock her bedchamber at night. It would be safer.”
Lady Rose gave a nod and then regarded him again. “I know you are right. But I somehow thought she would be safe. Apparently, I was wrong.” She adjusted her wrapper, concealing her nightgown from view.
“I would ask for your assistance in lifting me into bed, were it not so improper,” she said softly. A trace of irony crossed her face. “It seems I must drag myself back.”
“Do you really believe I’m going to allow you to do that?” He fully intended to help her, but he knew that he would have to leave as soon as he did so. And right now, he wanted to spend a few minutes more with Lady Rose.
“Just ring for Calvert,” she advised. “He will assist me.”
“I’d rather summon the demons of hell.” He drew his knees up, pretending as if he intended to remain on the floor.
“Calvert is not that bad. And at least I can trust him to lift me up. He’s old enough to be my father.”
“Grandfather,” Iain corrected. “And he’s as crotchety as a gelded rooster surrounded by hens.”
“He is that.” She bit back a laugh, covering her mouth. As she gained command of her amusement, her gaze swept over him. “Why is it that nearly every time I see you, you are half-naked, Mr. Donovan?”
He sent her a wicked smile, glancing at the prim wrapper that covered her from chin to ankles. The ruffled garment was shapeless, like a muslin suit of armor. “Why is it that every time I see you, you are always fully dressed, Lady Rose?”
She laughed again, and he warmed to the sound. For a moment, he remained seated across from her, and the air grew charged between them. He liked seeing her brown hair braided across one shoulder, a few reddish strands framing her face. Her legs were folded beneath her, and the snow-white gown made her appear like an angel.
Like the devil, he wanted to lean forward and kiss those lips. He wanted to pull her into his lap and taste the sweetness of her skin. If he were wicked, he would peel back that wrapper and kiss a path down the thin muslin to her breasts. They would harden beneath his mouth, and he would take great pleasure in awakening her desire.
His mouth tightened as he tried
to gather up the remnants of control. “Put out your arms, and I’ll carry you back to bed.”
He got to one knee, reaching out to her. She shied away, leaning against the door frame. “That would be most improper, and you know this, sir.”
Iain did, but he hardly cared at all. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms, rising to his feet. She was aghast at his gesture, but truly, he could see no reason to trouble the stone-hearted Calvert.
“Mr. Donovan, please, you cannot—”
She never finished her sentence before he deposited her back in bed. “Would you like the covers pulled over you?”
“I can manage,” she gritted out. “Now go, before my servants believe that we’ve been having a passionate liaison.”
Right now, that sounded very fine indeed. He could easily imagine resting his body upon hers, his erection nestled between her thighs. This time, he gritted his teeth hard, trying to push back the desire. “Are you wanting a passionate liaison, Lady Rose?” He kept his voice teasing, though he didn’t bother to hide his interest.
“Don’t be silly. You’ve helped me to bed, and now you can go.”
He drew the covers over her, well aware of her body warmth. He tucked her in, sitting on the edge of the bed. “There, now. Would you like a bedtime story?” His voice came out husky, and she glared at him.
“Get. Out.” There was no mistaking her annoyance. “Where is my garden rake when I need it?” Instead, she gathered up one of the smaller pillows, holding it like a shield.
But in spite of her warning, there was something else in her eyes. Not fear or loathing—but her own interest. In the dim candlelight of the room, her brown eyes were fixed upon him as if she saw nothing else. She leaned forward with the pillow, instead of cowering backward.
He wasn’t about to refuse that invitation. “I know what it is we’re missing, a chara. A goodnight kiss.”
Her eyes widened with shock. And yet, her hands relaxed from the pillow, while she supported her weight on her wrists. She looked nothing like a lady who was terrified of a stolen kiss. Instead, her mouth was slightly open, her cheeks flushed.
“Absolutely not. I will scream if you even try such a thing.”
He was tempted to lean in and taste her offering. What would it be like to feel her soft body against his own, stroking the line of her back? Would she wind her arms around his neck and open to him like a summer blossom?
Iain moved a breath closer, watching her reaction. For a moment, she held herself in place, waiting. But instead of desire in her eyes, he saw the first trace of fear.
Before she could protest again, he kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Lady Rose.” Then he stepped back to leave. It wasn’t the kiss he’d wanted, but at least she would not be angry with him.
Yet, he was wrong about that. She appeared angry that he hadn’t stolen a true kiss. “You are a wretched man,” she informed him as he strode to her bedroom door. In one hand, she held the pillow.
But he only paused and smiled. “What was that?” He raised a hand to his ear and said, “You wanted to thank me for taking you back to bed? Oh, aye, a chara, you’re very welcome, then.”
With that, he closed the door gently behind him. A moment later, he heard a soft thunk as the pillow struck the wood.
It was dawn, but Rose lay awake in bed, her mind spinning. It was a miracle she’d slept at all. She could not believe Mr. Donovan had taken such liberties with her—especially when he’d not been wearing a shirt. When he had bent to kiss her, she’d been well aware of the heat of his male skin. Her body had risen to his silent call, gooseflesh prickling over her arms. Over and over, she blamed herself for not calling out for a servant. Someone would have come if she’d only raised her voice.
But she hadn’t. Rose closed her eyes, feeling her cheeks burn with mortification. The kiss was branded upon her skin, even now. Though he had done nothing except touch his mouth to her forehead, she could not stop thinking of the way it had made her feel—almost beloved.
You didn’t scream. You allowed him to kiss you.
She buried her face in the pillow, feeling the weight of the sinful moment. Lord Burkham had written letters to her, kind words of how he would remain steadfast, believing she would get well. How could she let herself forget that?
She should never have allowed her imagination to sway toward another man. The Irishman had soothed her ego, making her feel desirable. And though he had only kissed her forehead, she’d yearned for more.
That was what bothered her most—her own secret feelings burdened her now.
Her traitorous mind had questioned what it would have been like if he’d kissed her lips. Would he have claimed her like a pirate, kissing her until she succumbed to seduction? Or would he have kept the kiss chaste, similar to those Lord Burkham had given? Thomas had only kissed her hand a few times, and once, he’d kissed her lips when they were out walking. Never had he pressed her for more.
Not like the Irishman. She had a feeling that if she’d allowed even the slightest kiss, he would demand her surrender. All night, she had dreamed of him, imagining the touch of his mouth upon her skin.
Stop. Rose clenched her fists against the coverlet, knowing no good could come of such thoughts. She sighed and hoisted herself to a seated position. There was a bell on the table beside her, for her to ring if she required assistance. But she was tired of waiting on people to help. She wanted to take care of herself.
Using her hands to push her useless legs over the side of the bed, she braced herself. I am going to get well. After six months, she had recovered from the violent illness that had left her numb and unable to move. Strange to imagine that food could poison her body in such a way, leaving her immobile.
No matter how long it took, she would continue her daily outings to the garden to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. It frustrated her that so many things she’d taken for granted were now lost to her. The simple acts of choosing a morning gown and walking across the room were impossible.
Rose dragged her body across the coverlet until she reached the bedpost at the foot of the bed. Her arms had grown stronger with each day, and she felt certain that one day she would manage to stand up. She still had sensation in her legs, even if they would not bear her full weight.
After taking a deep breath, she clutched the bedpost with both arms, hugging it tightly as she eased herself toward the ground. Her legs slid off the coverlet, and once again, they were like the legs of a marionette, collapsing beneath her.
She gripped the bedpost, struggling to hold herself upright. And still, there was nothing she could do. Her legs would not support her body.
Someone knocked at the door, and she hoped it was her maid, Hattie. “Come in,” she answered.
Lily entered the room just as Rose’s arms gave out and she crumpled to the floor. “Rose, what are you doing?”
“Humiliating myself.” It was difficult to be dignified when one was eye to eye with a chamber pot. She wrinkled her nose and lifted her face from the floor. Lily hurried over and helped her sit upright. With one arm around her waist, her sister hoisted her back onto the bed.
“You should know better than to try and stand,” her sister chided. “It might have been an hour before Hattie found you. You couldn’t reach the bell.”
Rose knew that, and yet, she had no intention of abandoning her practice attempts. Instead, she changed the subject. “How is Mother faring this morning?” She swept a lock of hair out of her eyes and tried to behave as if nothing were wrong.
“Did you hear about what happened last night?” A look of guilt flashed over Lily’s face.
Although Mr. Donovan had told her, Rose shook her head, feigning ignorance. “Tell me.”
Her sister reiterated the story of how their mother had climbed over the balustrade, preparing to jump, when Mr. Donovan had intervened. “I believe he saved her life, Rose.”
“I am glad he was there,” she agreed. But although she was indeed grate
ful to him, she couldn’t stop feeling guilty about the stolen moment in her room.
“Do you think we should offer him a reward to show our thanks?” Lily asked.
Rose hesitated. “I don’t know if that would be wise. He claims to be the Earl of Ashton—which I cannot possibly believe—and he says he is here at our grandmother’s invitation.”
Lily sent her an incredulous look. “Is that even possible?”
“Judging by his appearance, I don’t believe so.” And yet . . . she wasn’t quite certain. He had the air of a man who was accustomed to getting his own way. It wasn’t at all the demeanor of a servant.
Her sister appeared to share her sentiment. “If Grandmother could find an unmarried earl—no matter where he comes from—I wouldn’t put it past her. Honestly, she’s entirely too desperate to find a match for us.”
Rose sent her sister a weak smile. “I know she is only trying to help. But I do not intend to be a candidate for marriage. At least, not until I can walk.”
“Are you still hoping Lord Burkham will offer for you?” Lily asked. Her sister sent a glance toward the six letters Thomas had sent. Rose had bound them up in a ribbon, and the letters gave her hope that he would indeed wait for her.
“He was going to, I feel sure of it.” And if they hadn’t left London because of their mother, she felt confident he would have come to visit her during her illness. She pushed back the uncertainties and took comfort from the letters. Once she learned to walk again, everything would be different. She would return to London, win a marriage proposal, and become Lord Burkham’s viscountess. Somehow, she had to believe that it would happen.
“So do you think Mr. Donovan is an earl?” Lily was asking her. She began helping her to remove her nightgown, and Rose lifted her arms.
“I don’t know what to believe. Either he is an accomplished liar, or he is indeed an earl who has fallen upon difficult times.” When she tried to imagine Mr. Donovan’s face, all she could think of was last night when he had lifted her into his arms. Although he had done nothing except put her into bed, the intimate gesture had unnerved her. Even now, her face flushed with the memory of his kiss. “He behaves in an improper manner, however.”
Good Earls Don't Lie Page 6
