When a Duke Loves a Woman

by Lorraine Heath

  Beast looked at his tankard of ale as though he feared it might sprout legs and run off. He cleared his throat. “Jolly Roger thinks it might be a womanly thing.”

  “Like what?”

  His brother gave him an impatient glare.

  Ah, her monthly. “It’s never stopped her before.”

  “Then I don’t know. Maybe she’s just feeling under the weather or has a cough or something.”

  He dropped back down. “Someone should look in on her.”

  Beast grimaced, shifted in his chair as though it had suddenly become spiked. “What if it is a womanly thing? I don’t want to have to talk about that. It’s only a day. Maybe she’s reading a good book and didn’t want to put it aside.”

  “She’s not you. Doing anything that requires sitting for any length of time makes her want to clamber up a wall. Something must be wrong.”

  “Aren’t you the optimist?”

  He scowled. “It’s odd is all. I’m worried about her.”

  “You’re worried about who is going to bring you your beer.”

  Aiden grinned. “There is that. If she was here, I’d have it by now.” He signaled to a lass walking by. “I’ll give her today, but if she’s not back tomorrow, I’ll know the reason why.”

  Chapter 5

  His last memory was of her clearing horse dung off doorsteps because some oaf was idiotic enough to ride his horse into a residence. The lout could have been any one of a dozen swells he’d known in his youth when he’d gone through a recalcitrant period of which he wasn’t particularly proud, rebelling against the strict restraints that had been placed on him at such an early age. He’d also been vying for attention, striving to elicit some emotion, other than dispassionate non-caring, from his mother. He’d welcomed the heat of her anger over her cold frost. This woman’s story made him even more ashamed of his rebellious past, grateful he’d been too exhausted, was too exhausted still, to reveal much about himself.

  He opened his eyes to a room of shadows. She sat nearby, a lone lamp providing the light by which she worked a needle through material, her head bent over the task, her profile to him. He thought her hair, cropped short as it was, should have provided her with a masculine bent. Instead it gave her an elfin appearance, faerie-like. His grandmother had told him tales of faeries. Tiny delicate creatures who lived in the gardens. He wouldn’t describe this woman as delicate, but she was definitely feminine in her own unique way.

  And she had ministered to him for hours. It had been years since anyone had paid him so much attention or seemed to care whether he lived. His mother was a demonstrably cold woman. His father had been warmer, but his expectations regarding proper behavior were such that the warmth was often lost in his rigid disciplinarian attitude, leaving Thorne to long for a closeness that had never truly existed. Odd to realize all that now. The possibility of death seemed to bring certain aspects of life into sharper focus. But he needed his damn spectacles to bring the woman sitting nearby into the precise clarity he yearned for. “What—”

  Her head came up so quickly, he might have heard her neck pop.

  “—have you there?”

  She lifted what appeared to be a bundle of rags from her lap. “Your fever broke near dawn, after which you slept the day away. I was hopeful you might soon be in need of your clothing.” She seemed embarrassed to have been caught mending what remained of his attire. “Could you do with a bit of shepherd’s pie?”

  “Probably more than a bit.” He’d never been so hungry.

  She gave him a bright glorious smile that would have rocked him back on his heels had he been standing. “I’ll get it for you.” While coming to her feet, she set her bundle in the chair, a smooth graceful movement, made even more so by her willowy height.

  Instead of immediately heading for the door, she stepped forward and placed her cool palm against his forehead. If he were more recovered, stronger, he might have placed his hand over hers and brought it to his lips to demonstrate his gratitude. A chaste kiss against her knuckles or palm.

  Her hand lingered longer than he’d expected, then she curved it around to cup his cheek. “You’re in need of a shave,” she said wistfully before pulling her hand back as though his fever had returned and burned her. “But I haven’t a razor. I shan’t be long.”

  She spun on her heel and quit the room, leaving him to wonder why he wasn’t ecstatic with the knowledge he would soon return to his world and his quest to find Lavinia, why it was he wished he could remain in this small, cramped space longer.

  It wasn’t a need to escape his responsibilities. Nor was it that he didn’t appreciate the privilege into which he’d been born. Yet for some time now, a dissatisfaction had been harping at him, and he’d been unable to identify its exact cause. He’d thought it was his advancing age and lack of an heir. At thirty-six, he was past the time when he should have a wife and a son. But if he were honest with himself, which was becoming increasingly difficult of late, he’d been rather relieved to have been spared the exchange of vows when his bride never appeared.

  His pride had been rather mortified. Hence his foray into the darker realms of London, where much to his surprise he’d discovered a ray of light.

  Now his thoughts were turning pathetically poetic. He’d very nearly died.

  Shifting his body, striving to push himself into a sitting position, reminded him quite forcefully of that fact as his wounds protested those particular portions of his anatomy being put back into use. With a great deal of effort that caused him to break out in a cold sweat, he finally managed to be upright, his back pressed against a mound of pillows.

  It was only then he realized his exertions had not been accompanied by the unpleasant odor of illness, but rather the scent of her. A faint waft of vanilla. She’d bathed him, no doubt after his fever broke, when he was lost in a deep sleep. She’d also managed to change the bedding without disturbing him. Casting aside the crisp and fresh sheet, he noted the bandages protecting his thigh and side were pristine. He rather regretted he’d slept through her ministrations. He wondered if she’d blushed, if she did indeed blush. The room was more shadow than light, and he suddenly longed for the roof to crumble away and sunlight to stream in, longed to be in possession of his damned spectacles.

  When she walked into the room, he almost asked her to wait at the threshold, to give him a moment to study her, to appreciate her features in sharper focus, but she’d no doubt believe the fever had addled his brain. Besides, his interest in her was probably a result of the close quarters, the intimacy of his being in her bed with only a sheet and blanket separating his skin from the air, and the attention with which she’d cared for him. Once he walked out of here, he was unlikely to give her any further thought. He had more important matters requiring his attention, matters directly affecting his holdings and his status and duties.

  “I’m glad to see you found the strength to sit up,” she said as she set the tray on his lap. “Because you should give feeding yourself a try.”

  Taking up the bundle of clothes, she sat in the chair and watched him, encouragement and hope reflected in her eyes. From this distance, within these shadows, they appeared brown. Strange how he had no desire to disappoint them.

  Using the spoon, he gathered up some lamb, carrots, peas, and potatoes. His hand shook slightly, from weakness he supposed, as he carried the utensil to his mouth, acutely aware of her easing up in the chair, ready to assist if necessary. He’d rather die than continue to exhibit weakness in front of her. It was bad enough she’d had to tend to him, bathe him, keep him alive. But all his unhappy thoughts dissolved as the food hit his mouth. Never in his life had he tasted anything so good. His stomach fairly leaped up in an effort to get to it sooner, and he nearly groaned with pleasure. “You’re an excellent cook.”

  “I’m a lousy cook.” Settling back in the chair, she smoothed out the trousers in her lap. “I retrieved it from the kitchen below. I have an excellent cook who works for me.”
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br />   “I’ve never known a woman to own a business.”

  “I’m not the first.” She began sewing. “It took a bit of help from my brother, though.”

  Her tone was telling. “You weren’t pleased about that.”

  Her chin came up, her shoulders stiffened, her gaze never left the needle, which was suddenly moving with greater speed. “I’d have preferred to do it on my own, but I couldn’t get a loan from the bank.”

  “How many brothers have you?”

  “Four. And a sister.” She did look up then. “You?”

  “None now. Illness took my brother and sister. And my father. All those deaths have made a wreck of my mother.”

  “Had to be hard on you as well.”

  “It made me appreciate that Death could visit at any time. I thought he was breathing down my neck the other night, swore I could see him hovering in the corner. But you wouldn’t let him have me.”

  Her lips turned up ever so slightly and there was a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m stubborn that way.”

  “How fortunate I am then that it was you who came to my rescue.”

  She nodded toward the bowl. “Would you care for more?”

  Only then did he realize it was nearly gone. He’d been talking between bites, paying more attention to her than the food, regardless of how delicious it was. She was much more appetizing and interesting.

  “Perhaps later. I don’t want to overdo it.” Besides, the effort had sapped nearly all his energy. He didn’t want her to have to spoon the pie into his mouth as though he were a babe.

  Getting up, she took the bowl from him, set it aside, and returned to her chair. “Do you think you might feel up to traveling? Have you a home to go to?”

  Her question took him by surprise, although on further thought he realized, living in this part of London, she probably knew a great number of people who didn’t have a shelter. “I have.”

  “Your mother must be worried.”

  “I doubt it. I was never her favorite.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. Every child is a mother’s favorite.”

  “Not in our family, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m certain you’re wrong on that score. Sometimes—”

  The knock on the door came loud and quick, followed by a shout. “Gillie!”

  A man’s voice, an irritated man if he judged correctly. “I didn’t think you had a husband.”

  “I don’t, but I do have a brother.” She was already on her feet and heading for the door. “Keep very quiet,” she tossed over her shoulder before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

  Tossing back the covers, he gingerly moved his legs off the bed. Breathing far too heavily, he cursed the footpads who had left him in such a weakened state. He needed to at least get to the door, listen, and ensure he wasn’t needed to come to her aid. Although he couldn’t quite envision the most remarkable woman he’d ever met being in need of rescue.

  Mick Trewlove didn’t wait to be invited in. As soon as she opened the door, her oldest brother strode boldly over the threshold as though expecting to find something amiss or some nefarious soul about who might try to stop him. Coming to a halt in the middle of the room, he glanced slowly around before finally turning to look at her. “I’ve heard you haven’t been working for a few days now. Are you unwell?”

  “No. I simply wanted some time to myself.”

  His eyes narrowing, he shifted his attention to the closed door that led in to her bedchamber. It took everything within her not to leap in front of him and bar his view, as though he had the power to look through wood to see what was being harbored on the other side. “I’ve been working since I was a wee girl. I didn’t think my absence would put everyone in an uproar.”

  His gaze returned to her, but she could see suspicion lurking in the blue of his eyes. “I’m not in an uproar, but the others had concerns.”

  “So they sent for you.” Because he was considered the oldest, even though none of them knew the exact date they were born—only the day they were delivered to Ettie Trewlove’s door. Interfering brothers, the lot of them. “That must have pleased your wife immensely, to be abandoned—”

  “I’ll make it up to her when I return home, much to her delight I’m sure.” His gaze darted back over to the door. “Jolly Roger said you pop down every now and then to check on things—”

  “Yes, everything’s running smoothly. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Do you?” he asked sharply, his eyes once again homing in on her, as though he were well aware she was harboring secrets.

  But if he found out there was a man in her bed, it wouldn’t matter that the gent was injured or too weak to create a fuss or take advantage. Mick would see her married. Her brother cared far too much about respectability, which was one of the reasons that, two weeks before, he’d married an earl’s daughter. The other, and more pressing motive, being that he’d fallen madly in love with her. “Don’t you ever get weary of working all the time?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “What aren’t you telling me, Gillie?”

  “Nothing. I’ll return to work tomorrow.” She heaved an impatient sigh. “I’ll return this very minute if you’re so bothered—”

  He held up his hand. “Don’t be rash.”

  “I’m not the one who burst in accusing—”

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I was concerned. It’s not like you to disappear for days on end—”

  “It was a couple of days and I didn’t disappear.”

  “You retreated.”

  “I didn’t retreat. Damn it, Mick! I just wanted some time to myself.”

  The flare of her temper seemed to satisfy him as her words hadn’t. He gave a brusque nod. “All right then.” He glanced around once more, his gaze lingering on the blasted bedroom door. “I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing.”

  He headed for the front portal. His abrupt departure irritated her almost as much as his arrival had. What if she wasn’t finished speaking with him? “Did you arrive in your carriage?”

  Stopping, he faced her. “I did.”

  She could go in search of a hansom, but his carriage would provide a more comfortable ride. “After your driver takes you home, could he return here? I have a use for a carriage this evening.”

  Those irritating, penetrating eyes of his narrowed once more. “I’ll escort you wherever you need to go.”

  “I don’t need you to escort me.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Never mind. I’ll get a hansom.”

  “Don’t be daft. My carriage is safer. My driver will protect you if need be.”

  “I don’t need protecting. I simply want to take a drive through London at night. I’m always working in the evening, and I am curious regarding what the city looks like for those who have leisure after darkness falls.” What rubbish! That she could say all that with a straight face astounded her, but as long as she didn’t make him suspicious regarding why she needed the carriage, perhaps he wouldn’t question his driver on the morrow. And if he did, well, by then the man would be out of her life and she could stand up on her own to Mick’s scrutiny. The key was to ensure he didn’t confront Thorne now, didn’t learn of his presence.

  “I’ll have my carriage return for you then.”

  “Give me your word you won’t ask your driver where he goes tonight.”

  “Gillie—”

  “It’s nothing nefarious, I promise. But if you can’t give me your word on that, I’ll hire a hansom.”

  He studied her for a long moment before finally sighing in defeat. “You have my word. I simply hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I do. Have your driver bring the carriage around to the mews. Although it may be a few hours before I’m ready to go out, so he’s welcome to have a pint while he waits in the tavern.” She’d also offer him a small stipend to discourage him from volunteering any information to her brother.

  “He’ll appreciate that.�
�� He turned for the door.

  “Mick?”

  Once more he stopped, looked back at her.

  “Thank you for stopping by to ensure all was well.”

  “We know you’re a strong woman, Gillie, perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but you’re our sister and we do worry about you being all alone here.”

  “I know you do. I’d tell you if something was amiss.”

  “See that you do.” And with that he was gone.

  She released a huge sigh of relief that she’d gotten away with him not learning the truth regarding her absence. Now she had a way to send her guest on his way. Odd then that she wasn’t happier about it.

  She returned to her bedchamber to find Thorne sitting on the edge of the bed, studying the floor as though it contained some code to be deciphered, the sheet draped across his hips, sweat beading his face and neck, his breathing labored.

  “And just what do you think you’re about?” she asked, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, legs akimbo.

  He lifted his gaze to her. “It was my intent to be ready in case you required assistance.”

  Men were the most stubborn of creatures. “If you’d fallen flat on your face I’d have had to pick you up. Back into bed with you.”

  “No. I’m weary of lying about. I need to sit up for a while, gather my bearings.”

  He probably had the right of that. When she was under the weather, she worked through it, fearing if she showed any weakness at all, she’d succumb to the demands of the illness. “Would you care for a cuppa tea? Or whisky?”

  He grinned. She did wish he wouldn’t do that. It caused her insides to riot. “Tea with a splash of whisky.”

  “I shan’t be long.” As she headed for her kitchen, she rather regretted that before dawn, she’d be sending him home.

  She draped a blanket over his shoulders before handing him the cup of tea with whisky. Surely it was only his imagination that caused him to feel revitalized by the brew. Or perhaps it was the woman sitting nearby working fastidiously to mend his clothing. She’d finished with his trousers and was now busily weaving needle and thread through the fabric of his shirt. As the white linen wasn’t stained with his blood, she’d obviously washed it at some point. He wondered what else she might have done of which he was unaware.