by Jo Beverley
Would she have to go through the whole thing again?
Steadying her nerves, she carried the tray over and set it on his knees.
He put a hand to it, smiling up at her. “Better?” He was teasing, yes, but perhaps a little puzzled. Did that mean he did remember?
“You startled me.”
“I couldn’t find my clothes.”
“They’re in the kitchen being dried and cleaned—as best we can.” She couldn’t stop her hands fiddling with her skirt. “You were found in a muddy ditch.”
He studied the tray, then picked up a triangle of honeyed bread. “I wish I could remember how or why. But clearly I could have drowned if I’d ended up facedown, and without that, I’d likely have died of cold. You have my eternal gratitude, Mrs. Gillsett.”
Did that refer to their wicked arrangement? She wasn’t sure she could start all over again, particularly in daylight. “I brought tea and bread, but if you want, we can provide something more substantial.”
He added sugar to the tea and stirred it. “I’ll admit to being hungry, but I’d better test my innards on this first.” He glanced up. “I do most sincerely apologize for being so foully ill in the night.”
He meant it. He was, she thought, embarrassed, too.
About being sick? Or other things.
“You remember?”
“I think so.”
Rosamunde gripped her hands together. “All?”
He was sipping the tea, but watching her. “I think I remember everything, yes.”
It was clearly a very subtle question. After a moment to gather courage, she answered it. “Good.”
With the slightest twitch of his brows, he settled back to tea and bread.
Was that all he was going to say? Rosamunde wanted to ask if he was really going to do it. And when. And how—
“Is the mask necessary?” he asked.
She touched it, strange beneath her fingers. “I don’t want you to see my face.”
“Then I assume you’re not Mrs. Gillsett of Gillsett.”
Rosamunde’s heart missed a few crucial beats. “Why would you think that?”
“If I have your name and direction, what point in hiding your features?”
He was right! She should have known she’d make a pig’s dinner of this. She tried to recover. “I never imagined you’d come seeking me.”
“Even less reason for a mask.”
Scrabbling for an explanation, she came up with, “What if we passed on a street one day, or met at an assembly? I’d rather you not be able to recognize me.” Thinking of a phrase Diana sometimes used, she added, “It’s a foible, sir. Humor me.”
And it worked. Shrugging, he said, “I owe you my life, so I will certainly humor you.” He glanced up. “In all ways.”
Even though this was what she wanted, Rosamunde almost squeaked like a cornered mouse.
She watched as he ate, until he pushed away the tray. “That does seem to be staying inside, but I’m afraid I still don’t feel I can do you credit. Is there any chance of the toothbrush?” He rubbed his hand along his jaw. “And a razor would be a blessing.”
At these prosaic requests, Rosamunde wanted to burst into tears. Next he’d be making an appointment for, say, half-past-one in the afternoon!
After a moment she managed, “Of course. You can borrow my toothbrush and powder, and I’ll have warm water brought for washing. I’m not sure about the razor.”
“Doesn’t your husband shave?”
Oh, Lud. How to answer that? “Of course. But he’s away. He’s doubtless taken all his razors with him. But I’ll check!”
She escaped then, locking the door as if he might come after her. No chance of that! He was doubtless delaying in the hope that she’d change her mind.
And he’d guessed about the wrong name. Butterflies and billhooks! Whatever he was, he was no fool. She leaned back against the paneled wall, hand to chest. Diana had been right. The masquerade would have been much simpler.
She didn’t, however, regret this course.
That searing vision of his almost-naked form made her not regret it at all. Her feelings were truly wicked, but if she had to do this thing, she wanted to do it with her handsome wastrel.
She took off her mask and stuffed it in her pocket, then rubbed her face in the hope of clearing up any marks. After a check in a mirror, she hurried down to the kitchen to order Millie to take him the toothbrush, tooth powder, and warm water for washing. “Oh, and he managed to knock a glass on the floor in the night, so clean it up carefully. Don’t leave any bits.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Yockenthwait, can we find a razor for him?”
“Are you sure you want to give a man like that a blade, milady?”
“He’s harmless.” Even as she said it, Rosamunde knew it wasn’t true. He wouldn’t take the razor on a murderous rampage, but something dangerous wove about this Mr. Malloren. Drawn though she was, like a fly to a spider’s web, she’d feel safer once he’d done the necessary and disappeared from her life.
Safer, but not necessarily happier.
Mrs. Yockenthwait provided her husband’s razor, and Rosamunde quietly reminded Millie of the deception before sending her upstairs with the water and blade. She wanted to go herself, but it would look peculiar. Meanwhile, she searched for a way to keep the housekeeper from paying him a visit.
She’d still not found a plausible excuse when a plump young woman burst into the kitchen, red-faced and panting. “Auntie Hester! Auntie Hester! Carrie’s having the baby!”
Then the lass saw Rosamunde. “Milady!” She bobbed a curtsy.
“My niece Dilly Beckworth,” said Mrs. Yockenthwait, frowning. “Well, and this has come at an awkward time. I said I’d go and help, but…”
“But you must!” Rosamunde insisted, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt. “Jessie can take care of things here, with Millie to help. Quite likely I’ll be on my way later today, anyway.”
After a moment, Mrs. Yockenthwait nodded. “Right you are then. And you can always send up to the big house if you need aught. I’ll just get some things.”
She marched off, and her niece fidgeted around the kitchen.
“Is Carrie your sister, Dilly?” Rosamunde asked to put her at ease, and to cover a whole new set of alarming thoughts.
The girl curtsied. “Yes, milady. And it’s her first.”
“I hope all goes well with her.”
Rosamunde, however, was thinking that a birthing was a grand place for gossip. Many women would gather, and then there’d be hours to pass talking.
“Is she near her time?” Rosamunde asked.
“I don’t think so, milady. Her pains only started this morning.”
Could be all day then.
Mrs. Yockenthwait came back in. “Are you bothering Lady Overton, Dilly?”
“No,” Rosamunde said. “I was just asking about your niece’s welfare.”
“She’ll be all right, God willing. A sturdy lass, and healthy.” But then Mrs. Yockenthwait said, “Dilly, you wait outside.” When the girl had gone, she said, “I’m a mite worried about leaving you here with that man, milady.”
Rosamunde felt as squirmy as poor Dilly. “No need. I’m keeping his door locked. And if he gives any trouble, there are men nearby to help.”
Mrs. Yockenthwait gave her a Yorkshire look. It could reflect worry, or it could be suspicion as to what Rosie Ellington was really up to.
There was no help for it. Rosamunde seized her courage. “Mrs. Yockenthwait, I’m thinking it might be better if people didn’t know about him. About the man…”
“Aye, milady?”
Rosamunde tried to look calm and in control. “He spent the night unconscious or vomiting, but still. It might look a little strange if people heard about it. My reputation…”
After a moment, the woman nodded. “Happen you’re right, milady. Best anyways to keep these things to ourselves. You hear, Jessie?”
“Yes, Mrs
. Yockenthwait!”
“I’ll have a word with Mr. Yockenthwait, too. Perhaps you should speak to your groom and coachman, milady.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.” Rosamunde spoke as calmly as possible, but inside she quivered with the certainty that Mrs. Yockenthwait knew.
Knew what she planned.
And why.
Which was why such a stern, upright woman was willing to turn a blind eye to sin.
The housekeeper took off her apron and put on a cloak and hat, barking out a stream of orders. “Jessie, you be sure to look after Lady Overton properly. And to put that bread in the oven when it’s risen. And to take it out right. And don’t forget to put that ham in for supper. And pick the beans. And…”
Eventually she ran out of instructions, gathered up the basket she’d prepared, and cast one last considering look at Rosamunde. “You take care, milady.”
Rosamunde nodded, and watched her leave.
How excruciating to think that the housekeeper guessed what she was up to. On the other hand, it suggested the local people might be willing allies. No one wanted the New Commonwealth in the area, and dale people being dale people, there wasn’t a family at Wenscote without links to every other family hereabouts. Dale people being dale people, they’d not want outsiders to know of their business anyway.
She cast a cautious look at young Jessie, but she had settled to her work. With luck, she didn’t suspect anything.
Normally, Rosamunde would have put the girl at her ease, but it suited her to have Jessie somewhat in awe and fixed below stairs. “Millie and I will take care of the gentleman, Jessie. There’s no need for you to come upstairs.”
“Very well, milady.”
Millie returned. “I’ve done as you asked, milady, but do you know, that wretch has hardly a stitch on! It’s not right, you going in there.”
Rosamunde blushed, but grasped the moment. “I’m sorry it upset you, Millie. I am a married lady, which you and Jessie are not, so I’ll see to him.” Before Millie could form an objection, Rosamunde added, “Meanwhile, there’s mud on my blue petticoat. Please try to clean it. In fact, why not work in the kitchen where it’s warm?”
Millie frowned, but she never really argued with anything. She shrugged and clumped off to find the petticoat. Rosamunde nipped round to the small stables and warned Garforth and Tom not to gossip about the man. When she returned, Millie was close to the hearth with the petticoat, a bowl of water, and some soap.
Everything was in place. It would take something drastic to cause Millie to climb upstairs again, and Jessie had no reason to.
Now what?
Rosamunde wandered to the drawing room, tangled in uncertainty. What on earth was the etiquette of this extraordinary situation? When should she go upstairs?
What would Lady Gillsett do?
Lady Gillsett would doubtless be up there now, ogling his body as he shaved, poised to ravish him at the first opportunity. Rosamunde, however, skulked here, her courage fled to the far sides of the earth, leaving a sick, trembling jelly in its place.
She squared her shoulders. Even with knocking knees and quivering insides, she was going to do this. Now!
She went upstairs, and faced the door to her captive lover’s lair. Oh dear. She did feel like a Christian about to face the lions. Lud…
Smoothing her hands down her simple green dress, she wondered if she should change back into her nightgown. She couldn’t. She couldn’t go in there like that in daytime.
Whatever was to happen, she had to go through the door.
She tied on her mask with nerve-tremored fingers, then had to wipe them again on her skirt before she could turn the key.
Her heart thundered, and her lungs sucked desperately for breath.
She went in.
Chapter 5
He lay in the bed as if he’d not moved, but he was scrubbed clean and smooth shaven. Naked to the hips, hair curling lazily on his shoulders, eyes steady on hers, he stole what breath remained.
Don’t faint! she commanded herself, and did get some control, but she was suddenly sure this was impossible.
With a quirk of his brow, he patted the bed.
Rosamunde sucked in a deep breath, summoned Lady Gillsett, and sauntered over to hitch herself up beside her lover. Still fully dressed.
Oh dear. Should she have stripped first?
Looking down, she saw her scuffed and sensible shoes on top of the bedcovers. No one could be seduced in their shoes! She hastily eased them off and tipped them over the edge of the bed, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
Her stockinged toes felt shamefully naked.
Now, she supposed, she’d have to look at him.
Her eyes skittered sideways. Puzzled and surprised summed up his expression.
“My dear lady, if you want a merry tumble in payment for your care, I’ll give you that. But why don’t you tell me what you really want?”
Rosamunde turned fiery hot beneath the mask. Damn him for not being stupid.
It was tempting to tell him the truth, that she needed a child. But she daren’t. Too much hung in the balance here, and her virtue and reputation were the smallest part. The welfare of all the people attached to Wenscote rested on this moment.
“Why do you doubt what I want?”
“A remarkable lack of lust.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him—strong neck, broad shoulders, sculptured chest, and a soothing hint of plain soap…
“I lust,” she said, and it was true. It was an unfamiliar state, but she recognized it. A dizziness, as if her heart were not quite reliable. A strangeness on the skin, as if it might hurt to be touched.
Or not exactly hurt…
“Perhaps you do at that.” Taking her hand, her left hand, he fingered her ring. “If it wouldn’t offend, I’d like to know something of your husband.”
What?
Why?
Would this man ever do the expected? Was he typical of men, or had she just snared a very unusual one?
Since he seemed set on it, she gave him as much truth as she could, unsteadied by the brush of his fingers on hers. “My husband is a good man, a kind man. But old. He doesn’t…” That might ring alarm bells. “He rarely… er… claims his marital rights.”
He raised her hand and kissed it, kissed it—deliberately, she was sure—by her wedding ring. “And you want me, here, now?”
The brush of warm lips against fingers. Such a little thing to stir her so. “Yes,” she said, over a thudding heart. “I want you. Here. Now.”
It was true, but now it was more than lust.
She was driven by rampant curiosity.
She had always been curious about everything, and now she needed to know about this. She needed to know if she’d experienced all there was, or if—as instinct, rumor, and sizzling senses said—there was more.
Still playing with her fingers he asked, “Is it safe? Now?”
“Yes.”
He raised her hand again for a kiss, a slow and lingering kiss to her knuckles, and then his mouth slid to her pale inner wrist. She felt his tongue, wet on her skin. “Very well.”
Already breathless, she braced for something swirling, something as overwhelming as the mysterious longings seething deep inside her, but he merely turned her away. “Let’s get you out of your clothes.” He began to unhook the back of her gown with calm, confident fingers.
On their own, shocked by his prosaic tone, her hands jerked to her bodice, ready to resist. She made herself submit. But did it have to be so businesslike?
A dozen times in the next minutes, she nearly balked. In bed, in the night, in the dark, in her nightgown, she’d been prepared. But here she was, in daytime, being stripped by a naked stranger!
In the end, she did break free, scrambling off the bed to remove her own petticoat and stockings, leaving only her shift. It was sensible cotton with a tie neckline and elbow-length sleeves trimmed with a plain ruffle. It hung like a tent down to b
elow her knees, but she felt nakedly, wickedly exposed.
She dared a glance to see what he was making of all this.
So much for stories of lust-driven men! Here she was, as good as naked in broad daylight, and he looked as interested, as excited as… as a shepherd watching the sheep! Was it all nonsense? No, she thought with a silent groan, the problem was that she kept forgetting to be Lady Gillsett. A willing lover wouldn’t act like this.
Again, she wanted to crawl under the bed.
She reminded herself grimly that it didn’t matter if she was ridiculous, or if he lusted after her. Only that she get with child.
And he’d promised.
As if coming to the same conclusion, he flipped back the sheets. She slid under them, wriggling her shift down neatly—
There she went again! In the night, she’d pulled up her nightgown and snuggled up to him. Now she lay stiffly, covered, and as far away as she could manage without falling off the edge of the bed.
Brand regarded his mysterious bed partner with concern. Neglected wives who sought out men to satisfy their needs were one thing. What was he to make of this?
What he had to make of it, he supposed, was a good experience for her. He had no doubt that she had saved his life, and he remembered her gentle care of him in the night. He owed her a debt and she had specified the payment, one he could afford. It wasn’t for him to back away, even though he felt strangely uncomfortable and unsettled by her manner.
He remembered the fear he’d awoken with. Was that the problem? Terror had faded in daylight, but a taste of it lingered. Perhaps that and his missing memories were upsetting him.
Was this a trap?
Why?
Blackmail?
It was hard to imagine how.
An attempt to trap him into marriage?
Her husband could be imaginary, though her wedding ring had the look of one worn for years. Or she could be a widow. Even so, how could she think to drag a man to the altar this way? Would an outraged relative charge in at a crucial moment and demand marriage or a duel? With regret, he’d fight, and if necessary, kill.
Or would the intruder stab him as he lay, claiming righteous provocation?
