Her Mystery Duke

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  Totally her responsibility.

  She swallowed hard and in the semidarkness they rode in silence for long moments. Silence but for the subtle wheezing issuing from his open mouth as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Two

  The driver had helped her to carry the gentleman up the stairs to her rented garret chamber. Now she stared at the gentleman lying on her bed. The heavy shadow of coal-black stubble dotting his cheeks stood in stark contrast to a complexion that was so ashen it made her pillowcase look dingy.

  The realization that he’d been truly ill left her shaken. How could she have been so mistaken? She was so good at spotting an unbalanced person. How could she have missed how utterly ill he appeared? The answer was obvious. He was growing sicker by the moment.

  A quick search of his pockets had yielded nothing but several pound notes and a handkerchief stained with yellowish spots and monogrammed with a very grand-looking H. Nothing to indicate who he was or where he belonged.

  Clammy nausea clutched at her insides and she fisted her hands.

  Should she call for a doctor? To what end? The doctor would leach and bleed and purge the gentleman. She’d never seen that do any person any good. Not Mama when she was dying of consumption. Not Papa in the desperate grips of madness. No, in both cases the doctors’ ministrations had seemed to hasten death.

  But what if this gentleman died in her room, alone with her? Anyone would ask what he was even doing here in the first place. They would accuse of her of being a pickpocket who had lured him in, then allowed him to die so she could take his money. Even if she escaped suspicion of being a thief, the inquiry would surely make her look like a harlot. Mr. Ratherford wouldn’t like that. She could lose her chance to be published.

  Her nails cut into her palms. Think about what you’re doing.

  She had no way of knowing just how ill the gentleman was or how ill he would become. His condition seemed to be rapidly disintegrating and aggressive treatment could leave him weakened to the point he might die.

  You don’t owe this stranger anything. You especially don’t owe him this kind of risk.

  A groan sounded, long and deep. The sound jerked her out of her thoughts. She refocused on the gentleman lying on her bed. From his open mouth, wheezing sounds issued forth to fill the small space.

  She threw one hand to her throat and pressed, trying to ease the sad, burning pressure there. God, he was so helpless. He depended on her completely to make the correct decision.

  She took a long shuddering breath and then released her remaining clenched fist.

  No, she couldn’t risk Dr. Edmonton. She must care for the stranger herself. While living here in this boardinghouse, she had learned much from listening to the other women, too poor to afford doctors for their families. They often shared nursing wisdom and herbal recipes handed down through generations. She would dose him with elderberry tea and other things.

  What to do first? The delirium. His fever must be brought down. It appeared to be cooking his brain. She must unclothe him and bathe him in cold water.

  The prospect of stripping an unconscious man didn’t intimidate her. She wasn’t a virgin. For a young woman on her own, and who was good for nothing but aimless daydreams, virginity was an unaffordable luxury. From the doctor who cared for Papa in his worst crisis to the clergyman who had seen him laid in a pauper’s grave, there were always men willing to give her a little help along the way. And she had so badly needed help, so many times. Too many times.

  Bedding men in exchange for their help, their money—that was one thing. But what she did not need was to have her private life entangled with any man. And this one was sleeping in her bed

  Well, she’d just have to care for him the best she could and hope that when he awoke his memory would be fully intact and he could take himself back to his own world. The sooner the better. But first she’d have to nurse him back to some semblance of health.

  She peeled out of her pelisse and let it drop to the floor, then rushed to the bed.

  Her gaze traveled over his well-tailored cutaway coat with its brass buttons. She reached out and ran her hand over his dove gray pantaloons. Velveteen. A finer nap than could be believed covered his hard musculature. She jerked her hand back.

  Good heavens. She’d never been alone with a gentleman so finely attired. His wealth must be spectacular. That was a bit daunting to be perfectly honest. Still, a man was a man. Only with much tugging, pulling, and shifting on her part did she manage to get his jacket and waistcoat off. His pantaloon buttons proved to be so damned tight. Inexpressibles. Ha!

  He groaned a few times but never awoke. She, however, paused many times, sweating, trembling with fatigue. She’d never actually disrobed a man. She hadn’t expected it to be so damned difficult. But she dared not ask for help. The other women here were rather prone to gossip. And if they knew she had such a fine gentleman in her garret, they might actually come in the night and attempt to take his clothes, his fine Hessian boots, and his money.

  With no other choice, Jeanne pressed on, peeling every layer off. The tremendous heat of his body seemed to singe her fingers and her hands began to shake with urgency.

  Her hands still shook as she stood holding a basin of cool water and sloshing the contents on to the wooden floor. From his broad shoulders to his well-muscled chest, flat stomach and narrow hips, he was absolutely gorgeous. She’d never seen a man so well formed. Well, at least not bared.

  She sat on the side of the bed, dipped a cloth into the water, and wrung it out. She ran the cloth over his forehead. The linen quickly became warm. Her mouth dried considerably. Would she really be able to care for him adequately herself? When she lifted his head and ran the cloth across his nape, her hands were shaking again. She had no choice. She must care for him. Must do the best she could—no, better than her best. She couldn’t allow herself to fail.

  Inspiration hit her. She took the basin and gently lowered the back of his head into it then left his hair wet to continue cooling his head. She fetched another basinful of water, then worked the cloth over the angles and planes of his body, again and again. Gradually his flesh felt less feverish. She put a hand over her stomach and tried to rub away a sudden empty ache. She needed to eat, to remain strong for the gentleman’s sake. Jeanne pulled the coverlet over his nakedness then hurried away to gather some food.

  The cold, stale tea washed over her dry gullet like pure bliss. Day-old bread and hard cheese had never tasted so good. Hunger, thirst. They were such basic drives. Maybe that was what she needed to write the last story. Something drawn from the basics of life. Her mind ran through several scenarios. Each left her grimacing in disgust. Trite, so trite—every thought and idea she had was more ordinary than the last. It had once been so easy. What had happened?

  Deep groans echoed.

  She jerked around and looked to the bed. The large form under her covers startled her. Oh yes, the gentleman!

  He would need something to drink. She took the pot, heated more water and steeped some elderberry tea. Then she filled a cup, grabbed the spoon, and hurried back to him. Settled on the bedside, she spooned small amounts between his lips. Aided his natural functions with the chamber pot. She’d played nurse many times for Papa. There was a resignation about the act. An acceptance that calmed her. It took her mind off the ever-present ache. The emptiness within her. The sense of having been denied and never being given any recompense. It was pure self-pity and enough to send a spiral of shame through her any time she admitted the true source of that inner aching. That pervasive frustration.

  She couldn’t help it. She hurt inside, every moment of every day and every night.

  She shook herself. He would need gruel. She’d better make some.

  Like an automaton, she worked. Bathing his body until it cooled, feeding him sips of tea and watered gruel, and snatching bits of rest in between the times his restiveness and ravings wouldn’t allow it. He developed a rasping, dry,
unproductive cough that alarmed her more than anything.

  But by the morning of the third day, his body felt markedly cooler whilst she bathed it. Exhausted and dreamy minded, she found her strokes growing slower, lingering, as her fingers kept straying from the edges of the cloth to feather over his smooth, slightly moist skin.

  The chiseled angles of his face, shadowed with a thick growth of black beard, caught her eye once again.

  He opened his eyes. Wondrous, clear pools of emerald, framed by thick, dark lashes, gazed at her with lucidity.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Then, hit by the beauty of those eyes, she sucked in her breath.

  He touched her hand. “Who are you, darling?”

  “Jeanne.” Goodness, her voice sounded almost as raspy as his.

  The barest hint of a smile flitted across his dry, pale lips. “Jeannie.”

  “Jeanne.” She repeated firmly. Papa had called her Jeannie, had screamed the name in his sleep, roared the name in rage. She sagged at the thought.

  “Jeanne.” Her name spoken in his voice sent tingling warmth through her insides, chasing away bad memories.

  She stared at him, a little bemused. She knew next to nothing about him, and yet she felt closer to him at this moment than she’d been to anyone in her whole life, except Papa.

  He enveloped her hand with his. As she stared into his compelling eyes, it grew harder to think clearly. She glanced away and studied the lines of a crack in the plastered wall.

  “And what is your name?” Perhaps she should have said “sir” but seeing as he was naked in her bed and she had already touched every inch of his body, she didn’t.

  “David…” His voice faded. Wheezing resumed.

  She glanced at him again. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open.

  The warm, soaring energy building in her at his unexpected lucidness, at the sound of his voice, at his touch, suddenly disappeared and she was left weakened.

  Her gaze drifted towards the rise and fall of his muscled chest. The strong, perfect lines of his nakedness. Her fatigue eased, replaced by a baser type of energy than a moment before. She was aware her mouth hung open. She was aware that she was ogling a helpless, unconscious man. But her greater worry was fighting the urge to run her hand down that expanse of fine dark hair and hard planes. The compulsion to watch his now flaccid, and rather sizable shaft, swell into throbbing life.

  Oh, good heavens, she wasn’t about to take advantage of a helpless gentleman, just to humor her fancy. Yet how novel to be the one in control. Completely in control.

  She’d always been the one desperate for a gentleman’s money. Willing to do anything he wanted to get what she needed for herself. For Papa.

  She took a deep breath, then put the cool cloth to her face. It smelled of masculine sweat: musky, spicy, primal. Sparks of arousal electrified her nerves from head to toe. She tossed the cloth back into the basin. It landed with a splash.

  Water droplets hit her. She startled.

  A man in her bed. No wonder she was edgy. She had never shared this space with another soul since Papa, when she used to sleep on the trundle. Not even a visitor. She had no need for visitors. Her respectable lovers could never risk their neighbors seeing her coming or leaving from their homes. She always visited them in the rooms they rented at sordid little disorderly taverns. Places where no one asked questions and upstairs, no one looked each other in the face. Places where people kept most of their clothes on and didn’t turn back the covers. A memory of the coarse, raucous coupling sounds echoing through the wall, the scent of cheap gin and stale sex from previous occupants lingering in the air, as strong as if though had only been yesterday that she had spent that last afternoon with Bernard.

  Her mind traveled back in time.

  * * * *

  Bernard had let the last page fall from his hand. It had drifted slowly to join the remaining pile upon the shabby blanket that covered the bed.

  She released the breath she’d been holding. “Well?”

  “Sentimental pap.”

  She’d known him since shortly after Papa died. His star was on the rise. But he took the time to tutor her in the finer points of writing. In exchange for certain favors, of course. All men were the same, even brilliant playwrights.

  She smiled. “Don’t tease me, Bernard.”

  He looked up, peering over his spectacles with dark eyes so flat, so serious that she sucked in her breath again. He shook his head. “I work with you and work with you. It does no good.”

  Her mouth fell open in surprise.

  “Don’t stare at me with that loose fish expression. It doesn’t flatter you.”

  “I toiled hard on those.”

  “That’s the pity of it.” He made a sweeping gesture over the stack of pages. “It’s complete rubbish.”

  “I am going to submit that tomorrow and you are telling me it is rubbish?”

  He chuckled, the sound cold, almost snide. “Believe me, Ratherford will take it. The public will consume it with relish.”

  Her chest had gone tight. “I don’t understand.”

  “It is beneath you, Jeanne.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it brings some enjoyment to those who read it, haven’t I succeeded in my endeavor?”

  “You could create works of far more depth, if only you weren’t such a dreary little ice queen.”

  “Ice queen?”

  “You’ll never be a great writer.”

  “Bernard, this is not something I wish to be teased over.”

  He leveled a stern look. “I told you already, I am not teasing. You’ll never be a true author or playwright or poetess. Or anything else until you let yourself feel.”

  Her heart began to pound and her chest grew even tighter. “You’re saying I don’t feel? I feel.”

  He cocked a brow.

  “I feel.”

  “You feel nothing. For anyone.”

  “I feel inside. It is not easy for me to bring that out into the open. You know that.”

  “You merely toy with the sensation and drama of feeling, for your own amusement. That’s the only value you place on others—their ability to generate these sham passions in the depths of your imagination.”

  Surely all the blood had drained from her head, for she’d gone all-lightheaded. The candles seemed a bit too bright. Her heart pounded even harder. He couldn’t be right. But why was he being so cruel to her? “Take it back, Bernard.”

  He stared back with a hard expression, his arms crossed over his chest.

  She wanted to run to him and hit him. Hit him again and again until he took back every damned word. Until he became so angry, he would take her to bed and she could feel in the only way that seemed safe.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she took a deep, shuddering breath then fixed him with a steady, cool look. “I feel for you. We’re friends, are we not?”

  He made another sweeping gesture over the bed. “You open your legs to me. That’s all. And you let me read and critique your little scribblings. But here in this bed, even after all this time, you remain a stranger.”

  “From what I have observed, you haven’t a need for complaint.”

  “Haven’t I? Do you think I am without feelings?” His lip curled. “Like you?”

  “What are you saying, Bernard?”

  “I am saying I am done with being one of your playthings. Done with you. “

  “Just now, because you didn’t like my latest story, you’re giving me a congè?”

  “This didn’t just happen this moment.” His expression eased. No, closed was a more apt term. “Ratherford told me if I didn’t either wed you or let you go, he was going to call me out.”

  “But why? What does it matter to him?”

  “An authoress must be beyond reproach, especially if she is writing for children. Consider it a compliment, sweeting. He considers you a very valuable asset.”

  “Wait, you knew you would say goo
dbye today? Before…?” She had to stop and pant a moment, so great was the outrage. “Then what was this afternoon, an extended farewell?”

  “Call it that if you like.” He looked off to the side, as though he must avoid her gaze. “You know my weakness in regards to your physical attributes.”

  He meant her bosom. He’d told her often enough that he’d seen none to compare. Renewed heat boiled through her.

  He laughed softly. “From appearances, one suspects you to be a woman with strong and deep passions. The sad truth is that you have merely wanted me to refine your innate talents and make a writer from a scribbler.”

  Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Pure fear that he spoke the truth. That she was nothing inside. Nothing. The constant ache inside her swelled into agony. The hurt was bone deep. How could she hurt so deeply inside, all the time, unceasing, and yet he said she felt nothing? He wasn’t the first to say that. Only the latest.

  Harsh words rose to her lips. The only protection she knew. “I like the rent money, too, Bernard.”

  He laughed again, the sound cold, empty.

  It cut into her like shards of ice.

  “I had hoped for so much. You were my perfect ideal of feminine attractiveness. You can spin your stories and write quite well. However, you could do so much more if only you weren’t so damned closed off to others. To life itself. You want to stay cloistered here. You want to hide. I don’t want a wife who wants to hide. I want someone who will strive to be the best she can be. I want someone who will share life with me.”

  A series of jarringly hard heartbeats slammed her chest. Marriage? The shock left her reeling. He was leagues above her, in social station, prospects, and talent. “Bernard, please, we never spoke of matri—”

  He turned back to her. His eyes were shiny.

  As though an iron fist had closed over her throat, her words cut off. She had shaken her head and looked away.

  “You broke my heart.” His words had fallen softly in the wake of his boots on the wooden floor planks.