As if Charlotte could read his thoughts, she straightened the arm that rested on his chest. Her fingers absently glided over the scars around his ribs and under his left arm, their soft caress sending a series of shivers through him. His breath caught, and she stirred, her head moving a bit and her fingers deliberately retracing the path that sent his skin trembling. He was about to place a hand over hers … not quite sure if he wanted to still it or to hold it for the sake of … touching her, he thought, his body still thrilling at the thought of her body pressed against his.
“Has it stopped?” she whispered, her head suddenly lifting a bit from his shoulder.
Joshua held his breath for a moment, thinking, God no, don’t stop, as the pleasurable frissons darted under his skin. He didn’t realize what she was asking until a dim glimmer from a far away lightning flash appeared in the window. “It’s almost passed over,” he whispered, his left arm moving to rest under the arm she had draped over his chest. “What … frightened you?” he wondered, his head turning so hers was under his chin. The scent of jasmine wafted under his nostrils and he took a deep breath. If I marry her, I could have this scent under my nose every night for the rest of my life, some part of his mind reasoned.
Charlotte was so still he thought she might have gone to sleep, but her soft voice sounded again. “I saw a tree hit by a lightning bolt once. It burst apart … pieces of it went everywhere,” she murmured, her head burying into him again. “And then the tree burned, and part of the stables burned, and one of our grooms died in the fire. His room was in the attic of the stables, and he couldn’t get out.”
Damn! Joshua thought, suddenly understanding her fear as the thought of forever smelling jasmine flew from his brain. “Was anyone else hurt?” he whispered, his hold on her more protective as he turned his body just a bit toward hers. His cock was suddenly pressed against the satin over her belly. When she didn’t move away or otherwise react, Joshua took a deep breath. If he wasn’t careful, he might find himself taking her as his betrothed this very night, whether she truly wanted him as a husband or not.
“I don’t remember anyone else being burned,” Charlotte whispered, her voice sounding very far away. “But there were several who could not breathe very well for a long time.”
Smoke inhalation, he thought, remembering all too clearly how his own lungs had burned while he tried in vain to get his sister out of her room and down the stairs and out the front door of the estate house. He hadn’t even noticed his burning clothes, his left side engulfed in flames as he descended the front steps. Before he passed out, from pain or from lack of oxygen, he knew not, he was aware of someone taking his lifeless sister from his arms and of someone else throwing him to the ground and covering him before intense pain and blackness surrounded him.
For four weeks, he was in and out of consciousness, only occasionally aware of someone in a room with him, and usually because severe pain or a fever or chills would awaken him.
“You were a very quiet patient.”
His thoughts suddenly pulled from the past, Joshua held his breath. He considered the words he’d just heard. “What did you say?” he asked, his hoarse whisper cracking a bit as a silent sob took his breath. My sister died in my arms that night, he remembered, wondering how long it had been since he’d thought of his futile attempt to save her. Despite the daily reminder of the fire that destroyed the estate house, every time I look in a mirror, he thought with derision, he tried not to think of what else had been lost besides half his face and the skin on his left side down to the top of his hip. Of who else had been lost. Because to think of the loss of his sister and mother filled him with a sense of despair and hopelessness that took days to overcome, and he could not afford the time to mourn their loss. Not now.
He didn’t know at the time that his sister had died in his arms that night. In fact, it was weeks before he discovered she had died and been buried in the family plot on the east end of the estate lands under a large evergreen oak tree.
And that a plot had been dug for him, as well.
“I said you were a very quiet patient,” Charlotte repeated, her voice still sounding far away.
The words finally penetrated his addled brain and he moved to lift his head from the pillow. “When … when was this?” he replied, his voice sounding loud to his ears.
Charlotte tilted her head on his shoulder so he could more easily hear her. “When you were in hospital, recovering from your burns,” she replied sleepily. “They couldn’t care for you in Petworth. The doctor there had no experience with burns, so I arranged to have you moved to the one I worked at in Westminister.” She didn’t mention the doctor in Kirdford who had managed to keep him alive those first few days. The man had obviously had experience with burn patients, but his clinic’s medicine cabinet was woefully understocked; the morphine was gone after the second day.
Joshua considered what her words meant. He remembered the travel in the back of a wagon, remembered how a woman pleaded with the driver to be more careful in how he negotiated the rough road, for with every sudden movement, his body screamed in pain, and he would blackout for some amount of time. Blissful time, he thought, remembering that he felt no pain when he was out like that. But he was strung up in some kind of hammock that allowed for the worst of the bumps to simply sway him as the wagon made the agonizing trip to London.
“You did?” he replied, not remembering seeing her during his stay in the London hospital. Perhaps she was the woman who sat with him, gave him sips of water when he was somewhat conscious, spoke to him in quiet reassuring tones, read to him. He sniffed her hair again, the scent a gentle reminder.
“I wanted you to have the best chance to live,” she explained, knowing her reasons were as selfish as they were humanitarian. With his older brother dead, she could be his duchess; if he died before they wed, her father would simply arrange another marriage, only the next man would be an old decrepit earl still lacking an heir, like the Earl of Gisborn. She shuddered, so relieved her father was not this very minute pursuing her to force that marriage on her. Her mother had seen to that, she thought, somewhat thankful for what her mother had done but so very sorry it had come to such a horrible situation for her father.
“How did you … how did you even come to know what happened?” he wondered, turning his body on his side so that he could look down on her face. Even at this angle, he hoped his facial scars were still mostly hidden in the shadows of the dark room.
He could feel her shrug but also heard a faint gasp, as if she were suddenly in pain. “I … a footman delivered the news the day after it happened,” she whispered, her eyes opening so that she looked into his. “And I spoke with the doctor at St. Bartholomew’s where I volunteered as a nurse in the children’s ward. We left for Sussex that very afternoon. I was so very frightened you would not survive. Most who are burned as badly as you were do not,” she spoke quietly.
Joshua furrowed his brow, shocked that news of his injuries could incite such a response in a woman who had only danced with him at a couple of balls. “But you barely knew me,” he countered.
Charlotte fought back tears. “You were my betrothed. I have spent my entire life preparing to be your wife,” she replied, her breath catching at the end.
Shutting his eyes for a moment, Joshua considered her words, still stunned by her conviction to duty. For that was all it was. Her true betrothed was his brother – had been since the two were quite young. With his brother’s death, perhaps she was his betrothed now. But she did not know him, did not know his character or how he treated his servants or how he conducted the business of the duchy. She is a fool, he thought suddenly. But he cursed himself, thinking that, if she was, then so was he. If he hadn’t been the only surviving son of the seventh Duke of Chichester, he would not have been required to take on the duties of the duchy. He could have continued his life as the second son, enjoying the fruits of the duchy and the life of bedding mistresses, of gambling all n
ight in gaming hells, of attending balls and soirées without any intent to marry. He could have had that life had he not been the one remaining son still alive after the disastrous night of the fire.
All the responsibilities of the duchy were now on his shoulders.
“Given the situation, I … I would insist … I should insist that you find another, more worthy candidate to be your husband,” he whispered, thinking that if he got her out of his bedchamber without a servant seeing them together, her reputation would remain intact and she could still be considered biddable.
“No!” she nearly shouted, her body wiggling up the front of his so that she could better make eye contact. The mere movement of her satin-covered breast against his chest sent desire shooting through his loins. It took all of his resolve not to take her maidenhood right then. “I do not wish to be married to another,” she added quietly, knowing her comment sounded naïve to him. But it was too early to tell him that she had fallen in love with him during the days she’d spent at his bedside, the endless hours holding his hands and tending to his wounds. It had been torture for her to have to hurt him when the doctor insisted she be the one to remove the burned skin with tiny tweezers, sure that each touch of the bare metal teeth to his raw flesh sent searing pain through him. “He will not cry out if a woman is doing it,” the doctor explained, his comment sounding so cruel she nearly had him removed from Joshua’s care. “I have an obligation to …” You, she had almost said. “…This duchy. And I intend to fulfill my obligation.”
Especially now. Especially after everything else that had happened since Wisborough Oaks had burned, killing Joshua’s family and rendering half the main estate house useless. Once she was sure Joshua was on the mend, but not yet being old enough to marry, Charlotte had returned to society life in London. She attended balls and socials and insisted her betrothed would be as good as new when the time came for their (she hoped) spring wedding.
But most in London society were of an opinion that Joshua Wainwright would never fully recover from the burns that covered so much of his left side. They knew of his penchant for wearing a leather mask over half his face, to protect curious eyes from seeing a sight worthy of hell as much as to protect the tender flesh from further damage. And after several months in London, where he only left his townhouse to attend Parliamentary sessions at the House of Lords, Joshua had returned to Wisborough Oaks to oversee the rebuilding of the estate house and take on his duties as the eighth Duke of Chichester, never returning to London since before Christmas, for the Season or for Parliament. He sent Garrett McElliott in his stead when estate business required it.
“You think me worthy as a duke?” Joshua wondered, the fingers of his left hand threading themselves through her silken hair. He watched as she closed her eyes, heard her purring as his fingernails combed against her scalp. Felt her fingers lightly caress the ropy skin that now made up the scars of his chest and hip. The pleasant sensations she induced coursed under his skin, and he found himself struggling to maintain his sanity.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, wondering why he seemed so hesitant about marrying her. Could he truly be so self-conscious about his burns that he would refuse her on those grounds? She was ready to offer herself as his mistress if he still insisted on not taking a wife. What else can I do? she wondered. She had come to Wisborough Oaks to marry him, to take on her duties as the duchess, to bear him children. And to love him, she thought with a bemused smile. “I believe you to a be a perfect duke. From all that I have heard, you were respected in the House of Lords, you are well regarded by your staff, and by the townspeople and those who do business with you,” she murmured, her fingers still absently stroking his healing skin.
But Charlotte’s father was not so convinced Joshua Wainwright would make the perfect husband for his perfect daughter. When he hinted that he was searching for a more suitable husband for her, one that wasn’t so disfigured he couldn’t appear in public without causing a scene, Charlotte assured him that she was quite satisfied with her arranged betrothal. She was even looking forward to the day she would move to Wisborough Oaks to be reunited with her recovered patient. To become his wife.
Convinced the Duke of Chichester was burned beyond recognition and not fit to even be a member of the ton, Ellsworth had decided to seek a different husband for her, settling on the Earl of Gisborn. But when Charlotte insisted she was going to fulfill her obligation to the Duchy of Chichester by marrying Joshua Wainwright, Edward Bingham became quite angry. At her willful refusal to even consider the arrangement, her father had sworn at her, called her names she was sure were meant to describe the harlots of London, and then drunk an entire bottle of scotch whiskey whilst she and her mother attended a music soirée in Westminister.
When Charlotte and Lady Ellsworth returned to their townhouse, there were no servants about despite the early evening hour. Lord Ellsworth, even more angry than when they had left, pulled Charlotte into his study, ordered her to remove her pelisse and then lashed her across the back with a horse whip, claiming that he wasn’t about to allow a man with half a face to have his daughter unless she shared some of the same ugly scars. Despite the corset that protected the lower half of her back from the slicing leather, the pain she felt had taken her breath away, and then when she did breathe, the pain seemed even worse.
The rest happened so quickly she thought she was merely experiencing a vivid nightmare from which she would awaken at any moment. For as her father was about to whip her a second time, her mother flung herself at him, pushing her husband hard enough that he stumbled sideways. He fell hard, his head impacting the edge of his desk. The pool of blood …
“Well, this perfect duke will need to take an early morning ride to discover what damage this storm may have caused,” Joshua said, the right side of his mouth quirking up as he repeated her word for him. He expected Garrett would plan to make the ride himself, but there was a lot of land to cover; better that both of them ride and cover as much ground as possible. “And I must ask that you return to your bedchamber now,” or you’ll be losing your maidenhood, he almost added, and then thought perhaps she would not find that as undesirable an outcome as she should.
Relieved to have had her gruesome recollection interrupted, Charlotte nodded her understanding. “I heard a tree … break,” she said then, remembering the sound of splintering wood as she entered his room, thinking it was so close the limbs might crash through his bedchamber window. “And glass breaking.”
“I heard that, too,” he answered, reluctantly pulling his fingers from her hair and turning onto his back, sure his erection was causing the counterpane to form a tent over him. He saw a wince cross her face as she moved to wrap her dressing gown around her middle and wondered if she’d caught sight of his face. “So … you were truly one of my nursemaids?” he asked then, realizing she had probably seen him – all of him – at his worst.
“I was,” she answered with a nod, her expression not indicating if she felt ill from thinking about it. “May I join you on your morning ride, Your Grace?” she asked then, knowing her still healing wound would probably cause her pain the entire time. But she wanted the opportunity to see the lands of the duchy. And she wanted desperately to ride a horse again. It had been far too long since her last ride in Hyde Park.
“You can ride?” Joshua asked, doubt evident in his voice.
“Of course,” Charlotte replied with a grin, getting out from under the covers without exposing Joshua’s nakedness. “I have been training to be a duchess my entire life,” she reminded him.
Joshua caught sight of one of her long, bare legs before the dressing gown fell around her and covered it. He struggled to keep a growl from escaping his throat. “I plan to leave at nine. Can you be ready by then?” he asked, thinking she was probably used to waking at noon as most of the ladies of the ton were wont to do.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said in a whisper that held humor. She moved to straig
hten the bed linens and counterpane, smoothing the fabric where her body had been. “Thank you … for enduring my time as a watering pot,” she said then, giving him a curtsy.
“You are most welcome,” Joshua replied with a grin as he watched her move to the door. Vixen, he thought as he rolled his eyes.
Charlotte pulled her dressing gown closed, crossing her arms in front of her as she peeked out the duke’s bedchamber door. Sure no one was about, she stepped out and closed the door behind her, careful to make sure the latch didn’t click too loudly.
Padding softly down the hall to her room, she contemplated what had just happened. She’d gone to Joshua’s room with the intention of pretending to be a frightened chit – scared of lightning and thunder – in the hopes of making herself seem vulnerable to the man. Their earlier argument in the study had probably left him thinking she was too willful, too stubborn to be a suitable wife. If she could somehow convince him she needed him (as much as he needed her), he might reconsider their betrothal and ask for her hand.
And then, just as she entered his room, the windows had filled with white-orange light and the sound of a huge explosion, followed by the crackling and splintering of wood and breaking glass. Startled, she’d let out a yelp that had the affect of waking the duke (if the loud boom hadn’t of its own accord) and set her heart to pounding so hard she was sure he could hear that, too. No longer having to pretend her fright, she fell into his arms, not aware until just before she buried her head into his neck that he was nude. The bit of the glow from a lightning strike had illuminated the room as he shot up from the bed, highlighting his broad shoulders, his muscular torso and legs, the dark hair and almost black eyes, and the scars that covered the left side of his body and head. He’d picked her up as if she was a change of clothes, and she’d held on as if her very life had depended on it. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, she was in his bed and pressed against him. The frightened part of her clung to him while the logical side realized, far too late, that he was naked and smelled faintly of sandalwood and tobacco and brandy. And the part of her that was woman was quite aware of his arousal and her own body responding as she pressed against the hardness of his body, as he wrapped his muscular arm around her shoulders, as he murmured soothing words and stroked her hair while she feathered her trembling fingers over his ruined flesh.
The Grace of a Duke Page 5
