When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  Using one arm, she’d braced herself above him when she’d dearly wanted to sink down until her lower ribs met his, to feel the pleasure of warm smooth skin against heated flesh.

  With her bloodied clothes in a heap on the floor and a clean shirt and skirt finally properly secured on her person, she trudged over to the kitchen, poured cold water into a bowl, and repeatedly splashed it on her face in an attempt to cool her cheeks. She didn’t have to look in a mirror to know they were burning bright red, were fairly scalding. She was surprised they didn’t steam.

  Shaking off the lingering water droplets from her hands, she grabbed a towel and patted her face dry, feeling more in control, ready to see to the stranger, although he hardly seemed one any longer, not after the unintended intimate position she’d found herself in with him.

  She needed to get some broth into him. Then finish cleaning him, in spite of the intimacy of the act. Never in her life had she blushed in front of a man. She certainly wasn’t going to start now.

  But when she returned to the room, his eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and even. She wasn’t particularly happy with the relief or the disappointment that swept through her. Curiosity about him had her wanting to pepper him with questions. Embarrassment that she had marveled at his breath blowing over her flesh had her wanting to avoid him.

  He could eat later. For now, she needed to remove the last of the dirt and blood from him. Scrubbing her home or tavern had always been her least favorite chore. Odd then that now she was quite looking forward to the task awaiting her.

  Consciousness slowly came to him. He hurt. He hurt all over, but the pain came in varying degrees. His left shoulder, his right thigh, his right buttock provided the brunt of the agony. He wasn’t certain he’d ever move them again.

  Before he could groan, growl, or cry out in protest, he became aware of the nearby presence, the gentle touch of a warm, damp cloth, so he concentrated on that, shoving aside the aches, relegating them to the farthest corners of his mind, where he shoved all unpleasantness rather than dealing with it. The linen moved slowly over his chest, and he imagined the holder of said linen counting each rib as the cloth journeyed down, until there were no more, only the flat of his stomach, his hip.

  Struggling to open his eyes, he managed to create only very narrow slits through which to peer. His rescuer sat on the edge of the bed, a little farther away, still blurry, but not as much, and he wondered why he’d ever doubted her gender. Her hair and clothing were confusing, but her face, limned by lamplight, was a delicate, refined silhouette. A small button of a nose, a rounded chin, a long slender neck. However, it was her eyes that drew him. He couldn’t determine the color, the lighting was too poor for that, but her compassion, her concern, was evident in the way she studied what the cloth had brushed over. She was gentle with the bruises, not so much with the dirt.

  It was a bit of a shock to realize he wore no clothing; only a mere sheet draped loosely over his hips provided a modicum of privacy. When he’d awakened before, he’d noticed very little beyond her. She’d captured all his attention, keeping him spellbound. He’d wanted to stay awake until her return, but obviously he’d not managed that feat, which might have left him disappointed if he weren’t certain she’d have not taken such liberties with him had he been awake.

  Now she seemed to take great care in working around the flimsy covering, moving it aside as needed to reach his thigh, his calf, his foot, but ensuring his cock was always hidden away—as though it might take a chill if exposed to the air. But that seemed hardly likely considering the warmth in the room, no doubt a result of a fire dancing on the hearth if the undulating shadows were any indication of what was happening beyond his vision.

  Not that he cared about any of that. He cared only about her and the gentleness with which she touched him, as though he were something to be treasured, protected, appreciated. Not a man from whom women ran.

  Her ministrations with his lower body completed, she brought the sheet up over his waist, dropped her head back, rolled it from side to side and released a low groan that would have had him growing hard under different circumstances. He wanted to reach out, rub her back, ease her aches as she’d eased his. “Thank you,” he croaked.

  She came up off the mattress fast enough to jar the bed, and the pain that had taken up residence in his body protested by increasing, causing him to moan low.

  “I’m sorry.” She reached for him, then withdrew her hand, stepped farther back as though not quite certain what to do with him—or herself, for that matter. “You startled me yet again.”

  “It seems to be my way.”

  “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

  The dimness from the nearby lamp allowed him to see her more clearly, but the faint lighting prevented him from gaining a complete picture of her. She was tall, possibly the tallest woman he’d ever seen, a couple of inches shorter than he was. Slender, but not in a sickly way. There was meat on her, strength in her.

  “Are you thirsty?” she asked.

  It was an effort, but he nodded.

  “I’ll get you some water.” She wiped her hands on her skirt, before leaving the room, and he wished he’d kept his need to himself, but his throat was so dry he could barely swallow. The urge to drift back off to sleep was strong, but he fought it because he didn’t want her going to such trouble for nothing, so he focused on his surroundings. Or what he could see of them. A rocker by the fire and a thickly padded chair nearby. Mermaid and unicorn figurines on the mantel. He thought it was the mermaid she’d thrown earlier, when he’d first startled her. Was he doomed to always startle her? She didn’t strike him as a nervous sort; she’d braved the ruffians to save him. Yet he seemed to cause her to be wary. But then what did she really know of him or him of her?

  She was courageous, no doubt. She possessed inner and outer strength that had forced him to reach deep into his own well of determination in order to get himself up the stairs, which might have possibly saved his life. She was kind, gentle, not quite comfortable with his presence. Was she married? Were there children? How did she manage?

  Speculating about her sapped what little energy remained to him so he returned to his perusal. A dresser. A wardrobe. Not much else. Nothing particularly fancy or decorative. She had simple tastes, this woman who had been out and about when decent folk were abed. Was she a harlot? If so, she didn’t dress provocatively enough to sell her wares profitably. In addition, her enunciation was too refined for the streets, not quite cultured, but she’d definitely received some sort of education. She could have had a position in a noble house, or perhaps one of her parents had. In rebellion, she’d run off and now she was here. What did it matter? Yet, somehow it did. He didn’t like the notion of men pawing at her when she had risked herself to save him. What if the footpads hadn’t dashed off? What if they’d decided to take advantage of her? And yet they’d run off because she was the one calling out. Who the devil was she?

  Hearing footsteps, he turned his attention to the door. She moved too quickly to be seen as clearly as he’d have liked, but he did note her clothing gave the appearance she had no curves to speak of—although he knew that to be a falsehood—but her shirt, hugging her nowhere, billowed out when she walked, like a sail striving to catch the wind. She didn’t want her feminine attributes to be noticed. He wondered at the reason.

  She set a tray on the bedside table, grabbed the glass, sat on the edge of the mattress, slid a hand—cool and comforting—beneath his head, and lifted it gently. “Easy now.”

  He didn’t know if anything had ever tasted as good as the water trickling into his mouth, along his throat, quenching his thirst with a sweetness that was almost painful.

  “Just a bit,” she cautioned, taking the glass away and setting it back on the tray. “We don’t want you to make yourself ill.”

  As though he could feel any worse than he did at that moment. She began fiddling with something on the tray. A bowl, with steam rising fro
m it. She dipped in a spoon, stirred, seemed to concentrate on her actions as though her very existence depended on doing it correctly.

  “You didn’t think I was a woman,” she said quietly.

  It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the statement he’d uttered upon his first awakening, when she’d thrown the figurine at him. The blow to his head must have rattled his senses. He did hope it wasn’t permanent, because he suspected carrying on a lucid conversation with this woman would be an unforgettable pleasure. “I couldn’t see you clearly. The bastards took my spectacles.”

  “Bastards,” she repeated softly, giving her attention back to stirring the bowl. “That word is tossed about so carelessly.”

  “Apologies. I meant no offense. I’m not quite myself.”

  He could see the corners of her mouth curling up slightly, and suddenly the loss of his watch paled in comparison with the theft of his spectacles. He’d have liked to bring her into sharper focus, to make out the concise edges of her nose, her chin, her jaw. He wanted to make note of any freckles or blemishes, flaws and perfections.

  “You have had a bit of a rough night.”

  “I owe you my thanks.”

  “You’re not out of the woods yet. Dr. Graves says you can’t travel for a while, because of all your wounds. They’d reopen and you’d die.” She didn’t sound at all happy with him. “I’ve kept some broth simmering in case you should awaken again.” He wasn’t heartened by her tone, which implied she’d had doubts regarding the likelihood of his avoiding an eternal sleep. “Shall we see if we can get a spoonful or two into you? You’ve got to keep up your strength.”

  Whatever strength he might have had seemed to have abandoned him completely. Still, she was correct. He needed to recover quickly, and nutrition was the path to rapid healing. But when he tried to lever himself, his body didn’t want to cooperate.

  “Don’t move,” she commanded, once again giving the impression she was accustomed to being obeyed. Most of the younger women with whom he associated wouldn’t dream of telling a man what to do, ordering him about, expecting him to fall into line with her wishes. Yet, considering how rotten he felt, it was nice to have someone else in charge.

  Standing, she came nearer, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him slightly, adjusting the pillows behind him so he was partially sitting. She was a strong one, but then he’d known that, recalling how she’d borne his weight when he’d been so weak, sapped of strength, encircled in a vortex of agony. He was rather embarrassed that even now he still required her assistance, that she should see him in such an enfeebled state. But with her nearness, she brought a conglomeration of smells: oak and yeast, dark and rich, yet underneath it all was a fainter, more feminine fragrance, the scent of a woman. He would blame his injuries for his earlier idiocy in ever doubting her gender.

  With him sinking back into the pillows, she settled on the edge of the bed and raised the bowl, again stirred the contents, then lifted out the spoon and carried it to her mouth, her upper lip touching the edge of the liquid, then her tongue darting out to touch her lip as well. In spite of the pain radiating throughout his body and extremities, the lethargy that wanted to drag him back into oblivion, he was mesmerized by her actions, felt his mannerless cock twitch in response to her sensual—but he was rather certain innocent—gesture. She wasn’t trying to lure him into her arms; she was striving to get him out of her bed.

  He nearly laughed aloud. That was a first. Women were never in a rush for him to leave their beds. Lady Lavinia would have discovered that fact tonight had she not left him standing at the altar that morning.

  She watched as emotions rolled over his face like storm clouds chasing the sun, so quickly she might have missed them if she hadn’t been scrutinizing him so closely. Initially, he’d appeared to have a spark of yearning, which was ridiculous because there was nothing about her for which a man as magnificent as he would yearn—well, maybe her ability to grant him a speedy recovery. Then there had been a flash of anger, followed rapidly by what seemed to be mortification. He’d averted his gaze as though embarrassed. On the other hand, he was lying in a stranger’s bed without a stitch of clothing. He had to be feeling rather helpless and vulnerable.

  “Here we go,” she said as flatly as she could, having no desire to bruise his pride any further. There were far more men than women in her world, and she’d replaced enough glassware to know what idiots those of the male gender could be when their vanity was at stake—as though throwing a glass or a punch at an offender would suddenly proclaim the tosser as courageous and strong. Carrying the spoon to his mouth, she wondered why he had to possess such gorgeous lips that made her imagine the wicked things he might do with them. Her stomach tightened as he sipped the broth, then licked his lips and closed his eyes as though he’d never tasted anything so sublime.

  “How long?” he rasped.

  “Pardon?”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A few hours. Sun’ll be rising soon.” She’d indulged herself and taken a good deal of time and great care while removing the blood and dirt from his person. She scooped up more broth, tested its temperature—

  “Stop doing that,” he commanded with a forcefulness she’d have not expected in his weakened state.

  Startled, and a bit angered by his tone, she said succinctly, “I don’t want you to burn your mouth.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  She fought not to be offended, lost the battle. “My mouth is clean.”

  “I need to get out of here,” he grumbled, made a move to get up, groaned, dropped back down.

  “Did I not remark on Dr. Graves saying you can’t leave for a spell? Not to mention he cut off your clothes. I’ll have to mend them before they’re serviceable. I’m not any happier about this than you are.”

  “Your husband will be even less so.”

  “I have no husband.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “With whom do you live?”

  “No one.”

  “You’re a woman living alone?”

  “Don’t get any naughty ideas. I could lay you flat if I had to.” She set the bowl back on the tray. “You should probably try to get more rest. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner you’re out of here.”

  “Who knows I’m here?”

  What the devil difference did it make? “Me, Graves, Robin.”

  “Who’s Robin?”

  “The lad I sent to fetch Graves. I’m really not enjoying this inquisi—”

  “No one can know I’m here.”

  Again, another spark of anger. “Worried about your reputation?”

  “Worried about yours.”

  Taken aback by his words, she felt her anger dissipate. She owned a tavern. Her reputation had long ago gone to hell. “My reputation is hardly your concern, and it’s not likely to take a beating.”

  “You’re a spinster with a man in your bed. I won’t be able to marry you.”

  “I bloody well wouldn’t want you to, you arrogant arse.” Coming up off the bed, she picked up the tray. “Get some sleep before I decide to ignore Graves’s warnings that you could bleed to death and kick you out into the street.”

  Storming from the room, she couldn’t help but think that men were the most irritating creatures God had created.

  Good Lord! He’d never had a woman yell at him. He found it rather invigorating. If he weren’t in so much pain and so embarrassingly weak, he might have reached out, grabbed her, and brought her down to the bed so he could taste that tart mouth of hers. But he was weak and in pain and so bloody tired.

  Her reputation wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to have to explain his presence here—not so much in her bed, but in this part of London. What did it say about him that his bride would choose to run off to Whitechapel rather than exchange vows with him?

  When the time for the bride’s appearance had passed, Thorne had begun to have a bad feeling about things. Then her broth
er, the Earl of Collinsworth, had walked down the aisle to the front of the church without the bride on his arm and whispered to him that Lavinia had asked the coachman to deliver her to Whitechapel. The man, loyal to the earl, had refused, and so she’d gone off in search of a hansom. Thorne had announced to those in attendance, “It appears Lady Lavinia has taken ill. As I wish our wedding day to be one of fond memories for her, the nuptials will be postponed until she is feeling more herself.” Then with humiliation mingled with fury coursing through him, he’d stormed out to go in search of his bride, determined to locate her at all costs and discover why she had decided to make a fool of him in such an incredibly public manner.

  In hindsight, he’d been an idiot to strive to find her on his own, under the misperception that if he just wandered the streets, eventually their paths would cross. As he’d gone deeper into the night, his stubbornness had asserted itself and he’d continued with his quest, even knowing it wouldn’t bear fruit. He’d had his carriage bring him to this area of London, and then sent his driver on his way, fully intending to hire a hack when he was ready to return to his residence. Obviously he’d not been ready soon enough. And it had cost him.

  As oblivion beckoned, he answered the call and began sinking down into the welcoming fog, distantly wondering how what should have been the most important day in his life could have gone so horribly wrong.

  She didn’t dare return to the room, not until she heard the snore. It was a soft hum, more the purring of a cat than the snorting she’d heard from drunkards who fell asleep in the corner of her establishment. Rousing them so they could stagger home was never any great enjoyment. If the chap was a regular customer, someone she liked well enough, she’d give him leave to sleep it off where he’d landed. Besides, it made Robin feel important when tasked with the chore of keeping an eye on the inebriated blokes for her, as though he were guarding her place from miscreants.