A Season for Love

by Cynthia Breeding

  “I think I am going to faint.” Isabella clutched the side of the house.

  “Take your sister inside,” she said to Juliana as she brushed by her. “Then have Anna bring me some clean linen strips. Tell your mother to send for the physician. And hurry!” She hardly noticed Julianna’s frightened face as she nodded and pulled Isabella inside.

  Elizabeth ran toward Darian, lifting her skirt to tear at her muslin petticoat. “What happened?” she asked as she reached him.

  “The tin slipped as we were trying to cut it,” one of the workers said in a shaky voice. “It would have sliced straight through Andy’s arm. His lordship caught it instead.”

  Andy staggered up the steps, looking shocked, as Elizabeth sank to her knees in front of a barely conscious Darian. “Wait. I have to stop the blood before we take him inside,” she said. “Andy, break off a twig from the tree.” She wrapped the strip of muslin around Darian’s thigh and wrapped the ends around the twig, twisting it until it was tight enough to halt the flow of blood.

  Lady Newberry met them at the door and led them down the hall toward a guest chamber. “Put him there.” She indicated toward the bed that a maid had hastily pulled the counterpane back from. “I have sent word to Stafford.”

  Anna appeared with the linen strips, her eyes wide and frightened. Behind her, another maid carried a small kettle of steaming water. Edward pushed past them into the room and came to Elizabeth’s side. Julianna stood in the doorway.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Get me some whiskey,” Elizabeth said.

  “This is hardly the time to partake of spirits,” her aunt said reprovingly.

  Elizabeth glanced at her quickly as she reached for the buttons of Darian’s shirt. “It is to cleanse the wounds. And,” she added as Darian moaned, “to help relieve his pain.” She began to remove his shirt. “Edward, cut away his breeches and have a care not to disturb that tourniquet.”

  He nodded and slipped a dagger from his boot. The fabric made a harsh, rending sound as he sliced through it.

  “It is not proper for a single woman to see a man in a state of undress,” her aunt said firmly. “Edward can tend to him until the physician comes.”

  “That will take at least an hour.” Elizabeth slipped her arm under Darian’s shoulders and tugged at the shirt. “By that time, infection can have set in. His wounds need to be cleansed now.”

  “You have some knowledge of attending the wounded?” Edward asked as he cut through the other legging.

  “My mother volunteered at a hospital,” Elizabeth said. “As soon as I was old enough to help, I did. I have watched the surgeons tend knife wounds from street fights often enough.”

  “Here is the whiskey,” Julianna said as she started into the room. Lady Newberry quickly turned and pushed her back, but not before her eyes grew round at the sight of a nearly naked man lying on the bed.

  “That will do,” her mother said. “Go join your sister wherever she is.”

  “She is lying down.” Julianna backed out of the room. “She has been quite overcome with the sight of blood.”

  Edward took the bottle and handed it to Elizabeth. “I will hold him, while you pour.”

  She held the bottle to Darian’s mouth first. “Drink a little,” she said. “It will help take away the sting.”

  His laid his hand over her fingers and his eyes, dilated black from pain, looked into hers. Slowly, he nodded and then took three hefty gulps. He let his head fall back. “Do it,” he said.

  The shoulder wound wasn’t bad, more of a deep scratch that crept across the sculpted bicep of his arm and partway across the hardness of his chest. Elizabeth soaked a cloth in steaming water and gently pressed it to him, allowing the steam to do the initial cleansing. She dabbed carefully and then dribbled the whiskey over it. Darian’s jaw set, but he remained still.

  Elizabeth moved alongside the bed to his leg. She willed herself to stay focused on the wound in Darian’s heavily-muscled thigh and not let her attention stray to another area where, thankfully, Edward had left a scrap of the breeches intact. Elizabeth forced herself to concentrate on the wound. It was much deeper and would require stitching. She eased the tourniquet slightly and a small amount of blood began to flow.

  “Should you not leave that on?” Edward moved toward her on the other side of the bed.

  “Yes, but I have heard the surgeons say it must be eased for circulation else amputation might result.” Elizabeth wiped the blood gently from around the wound. “And to have it bleed fresh while I pour the whiskey on it will cleanse it.” She looked at Darian. “Would you like some more to drink?”

  He shook his head. “Do what needs to be done.”

  Elizabeth glanced at Edward. “Put your weight over him and hold his leg as still as you can.”

  She waited for Edward to get in position with a good grip on Darian’s leg. She held the bottle over him. Then, taking a deep breath and biting her own lip, she poured. Darian’s hands clenched into fists gripping the sheet and a moan escaped him, but he didn’t thrash about. Relieved, Elizabeth tightened the tourniquet again.

  “Now we wait for the doctor.” She dipped another cloth into the kettle and began to wipe the sweat from Darian’s brow.

  Not long after, the physician arrived, along with the duke and duchess and Elizabeth’s uncle. His mother approached and took his hand, while the men stood quietly by. “Are you all right?” she asked and at his nod, she looked at the doctor. “He will be all right?”

  “Should be.” The physician took a needle and stitching thread from his bag. “This tourniquet probably saved him from bleeding to death.” He looked up at Edward. “Good work.”

  “I did not do it,” Edward replied. “Miss Townsend did.”

  The doctor looked surprised. “How did a lady learn to do something like that?”

  “My mother and I volunteered at a hospital in London,” Elizabeth replied. “There were wounds aplenty that needed tending.”

  “Umph.” The doctor bent to inspect the leg. “Did you wash the wound?”

  “Yes, sir. With whiskey.”

  “Umph,” he said again and poured some alcohol in a cup and ran his needle and thread through it. “Not squeamish about blood?”

  “No, sir. Not much, anyway.”

  “Good. Then you hold the flaps of skin together while I stitch them.”

  “Doctor, it is hardly proper for Elizabeth to help,” her aunt protested.

  He barely glanced up. “She has already seen what there is to be seen. I have found that a woman’s touch often gentles a patient.” He looked over at Darian. “Any objections on your part?”

  Darian smiled feebly. “None.”

  “Want some laudanum?”

  He shook his head again. “Just get it done.”

  Elizabeth felt Darian flinch as the doctor began to stitch, but she kept the pressure of her hands steady, holding the skin together. Each time the doctor inserted the needle and drew the thread tight to close the gap, she felt like it had pricked her own skin and she had to bite her lip to keep from groaning. Darian lay stoically still as the doctor finished and then applied a salve and dressing.

  The physician sat back. “He should not be moved for two or three days. Give the stitches time to take hold. The dressing needs to be changed twice a day.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Since you seem to have some nursing skills, I will leave the salve and a bottle of laudanum with you.”

  The duchess laid a cool hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Do you want to do this, dear? I can send someone from Stafford to administer to him.”

  “I do not mind,” Elizabeth said. “Changing dressings is not hard.” She turned her attention to arranging the sheet over Darian, not wanting to make eye contact, for fear someone would read her want and desire there. She felt her face warm as guilt flooded through her. She shouldn’t be looking forward to tending Darian, to touching him, or even being near him. She should
be avoiding him. Should. Should. Should.

  Stealing a slanted glance sideways at Darian, she sucked in her breath. His green eyes were watching her and she could have sworn, they sparkled with devilry.

  God forgive her. He would belong to Isabella one day. But he would be hers for the next few days. God forgive her.

  Chapter Eight

  “How are you feeling?” Elizabeth asked the next morning when she brought the breakfast tray to his bed. Julianna slipped in behind her to open the heavy damask curtains and let in the sunlight.

  “Better.” Darian propped himself up against the headboard, inhaling her warm, sweet honeysuckle scent as she leaned over him to place the tray on his lap. Last night, when she’d come to change the bandage on his thigh—properly chaperoned by a disproving Lady Newberry—he’d been in too much pain to appreciate the soft brush of her fingers on his upper thigh. Now, since he’d had a sponge bath and the earl’s valet brought him a fresh small cloth to wear along with a clean shirt, he felt like he’d re-joined the world of the living. This morning he intended to enjoy the touch of Elizabeth’s hands on him to the fullest extent allowed under the watchful eye of some chaperone. A smile started to play on his lips.

  She gave him a quizzical look as she put a spoonful of sugar in his porridge and stirred it. “You seem to be in much better spirits this morning.”

  If only she knew where his lecherous thoughts resided. His hand closed around the soft satiny skin of her wrist as she lifted the spoon toward him. “I think I can handle this,” he said, “but I would enjoy your company. Tomorrow, of course, I will be joining you in the dining room for breakfast.”

  Her plush, delectable mouth pursed slightly. “We shall see about that. The doctor said two to three day’s rest.”

  “An order he knows I will not follow,” Darian replied.

  “Stubborn man,” Elizabeth answered, but her clear, grey eyes held a hint of laughter.

  “Determined,” he countered with a grin and then he sobered. “I heard what the doctor said yesterday about the tourniquet. You saved me from bleeding to death. Thank you.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks turned pink. “I learned that at the hospital. But you are the one who should be thanked. You saved young Andy from having his arm severed or maybe worse.”

  “That was instinctive.” Darian waved his hand dismissively, knocking over the juice glass he hadn’t even noticed on his tray.

  Elizabeth grabbed his linen napkin, blotting up most of the mess before it could reach the sheet. “Maybe you should let me feed you after all.” She smiled and dabbed some juice off his forearm.

  He smiled too. “I may have to rethink your offer.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Isabella asked from the doorway.

  Elizabeth spun around, nearly upsetting the rest of the tray. She laid the napkin down on the table beside the bed. “Of course not. Please come in.”

  Isabella took two steps inside and stopped. “I do not like sick rooms.”

  “He is not ill,” Julianna said from the window seat. “He was hurt.”

  Her sister sniffed at her. “I care not for the sight of blood either.”

  For a moment, Darian was tempted to throw back the sheet and tear the bandage from his leg just to see what Isabella would do. God’s teeth. Was the woman that delicate that she couldn’t take the sight of a stitched wound? He recalled the splattered blood that had covered the front of Elizabeth’s dress yesterday. She’d not even seemed to notice it…or the blood on her hands.

  “I just came to inquire about your health, Darian,” she said.

  “I am much improved,” he answered. “Your cousin has seen to that.”

  Isabella glanced over to Elizabeth and then back to Darian. “Are you well enough to escort me to the dinner the Delaney’s are having tomorrow night? We received the invitation yesterday, but with all the commotion, it was overlooked.” She smiled brightly at Elizabeth. “Papa has arranged for you to meet John.”

  John Delaney? Newberry thought that middle-aged grumbletonian a suitable match for Elizabeth? A burst of anger flared through Darian, followed by a much more pungent thought. Sweet, caring Elizabeth married to someone else. Someone who would claim her lovely, lush body as his. Elizabeth giving herself to her husband. The intensity of his anger rose, followed by the sharp pang like a knife twisting through his gut. He was jealous. The foreign emotion almost left him breathless. He stared at Elizabeth, who was busy tidying the items on the small table. By all that was holy, he loved Elizabeth. He loved her. When had that happened?

  “Darian?” Isabella burst into his troubled thinking.

  He blinked and focused on Isabella, wondering how in the world he would ever bring himself to marry her. Damn his ducal duty!

  “I believe the doctor proscribed two to three days of rest,” he said.

  One of her eyebrows rose. “I see. Well, then, I cannot imagine you would have any objections if I asked Edward to escort me?”

  Darian looked at her, not feeling the smallest ping of jealousy. Isabella and Edward would actually suit very well. Both of them loved Town and the social whirl of the ton. Darian would be quite content to stay in the country and he had a feeling Elizabeth would too.

  “I have no objections,” he said.

  “Good. Then I must go and decide what to wear.” Isabella turned to leave.

  Darian watched her go. Silently, he cursed the expectation that his parents had that he marry into the peerage.

  It really was a shame that Edward was the second-born.

  * * * *

  “Your stitches are holding nicely,” Elizabeth said to Darian the next afternoon when she removed his bandage. Aware that her aunt hovered behind her, she traced her finger lightly around the wound, taking care not to brush her hand against anything else. His leg flexed and she caught herself wanting to run her hand along the sculpted, sinewy muscles of his thigh. In contrast to the hardness of his muscles, his skin was warm and soft to her touch. Warm. Not hot.

  “There is no infection,” she said with relief. “It might be good to let the wound have air. It will heal faster.”

  “Good. I grow tired lying abed like this,” Darian said.

  “Shall I read to you?” Elizabeth wanted an excuse to linger, even though she knew every minute she spent in his company would only add to the pain of letting him go in a day or two when he was well.

  “I would like that. Perhaps Le Morte d’Arthur?”

  “I will go get it,” she said.

  She returned a few minutes later and Darian peered around behind her. “No chaperone?” he asked.

  Elizabeth smiled. “I told her I did not think reading to an invalid with the door open would constitute a scandal.” She pulled up a chair near his bed and sat down. “Besides, Isabella was all atwitter over some grievance with the gown she plans to wear this evening.”

  Darian frowned. “What are you planning to wear?”

  “I have not given it any thought,” Elizabeth said. “I have a grey muslin that will suffice, but I suppose my aunt will choose something from Isabella’s wardrobe”

  “You do not sound too enthusiastic about that.”

  “Isabella’s tastes in clothing are different than mine.”

  “She does like to be of the first stare, does she not?” he asked.

  “Most women do.”

  Darian studied her. “But not you?”

  She shrugged. “It does not matter to me whether this season lace is worn on the cuff or whether the sleeves have enough pouf. ‘Tis somewhat frivolous.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “You are a unique woman, Miss Elizabeth Townsend.” Then he sobered. “I would wager that half the men in the peerage will envy the man who marries you.”

  “I am not certain that I will marry.”

  “No?” His voice had a strange pitch to it.

  “I believe in marrying for love, my lord. If I cannot have that, I would prefer to remain single.” Elizabeth blinked, will
ing herself not to shed the tears that were burning behind her eyelids. She opened the book. “Perhaps I should get on with the reading.”

  Darian nodded and leaned back, watching her. Too late, she realized she’d chosen quite the wrong story. A demoiselle in love with Lancelot accused him of loving no one but Gwenhwyfar, to which Lancelot replied he would take no paramour.

  What a fool she’d been to not look to see what she was reading! Darian belonged—or would, as soon as a betrothal was announced—to Isabella. And Elizabeth knew, in her heart, that Darian would remain faithful, out of honor if not true love.

  She closed the book and stood. “I should go.” As she turned away, she felt a strong hand close over her wrist and then she found herself half-draped across the bed and Darian’s broad chest. His arm wrapped around her waist and hoisted her closer.

  “Lancelot might not have been a fool,” he said, “but I am.”

  His mouth closed over hers, his lips hungry as he pressed incessant kisses against hers. His tongue glided sleekly against their fullness, until she parted them to let him gain entry. He moaned and delved deeply into her mouth, his tongue exploring, taking, wanting more, demanding even as his hands stroked her back and pressed her to him.

  Elizabeth felt dizziness wash over her. Her head swam, her body floated; she was a boneless, weightless entity clinging only to the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of his solid body against her buoyant, breathless one. The room faded away. Time stopped. There was only this. His mouth making love to hers. Ecstasy…

  Somehow, reality intervened. With a jolt, her mind started functioning again. She gasped and pushed her hands against his shoulders. As though Elizabeth’s fingers were hot coals, Darian released her immediately. He was panting and his darkened eyes smoldered. “Jesu,” he rasped, “I should apologize, but I am not sorry.”

  Elizabeth slipped off the bed, trembling. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “I am not sorry either,” she whispered and then turned and ran from the room.

  Chapter Nine