by Corwin, Amy
Chilton nodded at Miss Archer, thankful she didn’t offer him her hand. His hands were occupied with clinging to the walking stick and gripping the side of the gig. And he was fairly sure both he and his hands stank unpleasantly.
Then she smiled at him, and he nearly forgot everything, including his throbbing thigh. Her plump, upper lip curved upward over the merest suggestion of an overbite and rounded her mouth into a permanent pout. She had the warm appearance of a woman waiting to be kissed.
“Mr. Dacy and his dog had a minor accident, Oriana,” Archer said. “I couldn’t leave him to suffer alone in London.”
“Surely his servants would have cared for him?” Miss Archer asked.
Archer shook his head. “Sadly, no. He was in the process of moving when he was, um, injured. Knowing that I would be coming here since my lovely Victoria is staying with that infernal—I mean, dear Harriet—I felt it would be the perfect place for him to recuperate.”
“But—”
“And look at his dog, Oriana,” Miss Helen said. “We couldn’t very well leave the two of them alone. His dog is simply starved for attention. Would it be so bad if Mr. Dacy and his dear little doggie stayed for a few days?”
“What about his servants?” Miss Archer asked with a certain rising tone of panic.
He felt a ripple of sympathy for her, having been the victim of her uncle’s wiles, himself. He wondered if the dog story was going to be quite as effective as Archer seemed to think.
“He must have servants if he isn’t—” Miss Archer stared at her uncle. “Uncle John, just who is Mr. Dacy? Is he one of your–uh, friends? Why doesn’t he have a valet to take care of him? He doesn’t look like a gent—em, oh, excuse me!” She glanced at him, her eyes soft with an agonized apology.
He shrugged helplessly and watched Archer.
“He just returned from overseas, my dear,” Archer said. “He had no time to hire staff, before, well, you see he was wounded . . .” With undeniable skill, John Archer wove a rambling story out of whole cloth.
When Miss Archer’s brown eyes flashed toward Chilton again, he tried to look calmly disinterested.
“Where?” Miss Archer asked. “Where was he wounded?”
“Lond—” Chilton said.
Archer simultaneously and unequivocally said, “France.”
He stared at Archer in disgust, but their mistake was covered by a question from Miss Helen.
“Oh, you mean where on his person?” Miss Helen bent forward and whispered something in Miss Archer’s ear.
When she finished, both women glanced over at Chilton. Their eyes gleamed with speculation before the pair flushed in embarrassment. Miss Helen turned back and leaned toward her sister to whisper in her ear, although her gaze remained fixed on him.
“So you see he is quite incapacitated.” Miss Helen’s voice carried clearly to him.
He hoped he misunderstood what she had said. Surely, Miss Helen hadn’t meant to imply he was impotent. Perhaps she only meant he was mentally incapacitated.
And at this juncture, he could only agree.
Miss Helen continued relentlessly, “And Uncle John claims they are the dearest of friends.” She dropped her voice, although it carried quite clearly despite her obvious intentions to remain unheard. “He is well, a little rough—but I suppose Uncle John enjoys his company. So having him here will make it much nicer for Uncle, won’t it? He will have someone to play cards with after dinner. You won’t mind, will you? You cannot hate all men, and I am sure he won’t bother you.”
Chilton watched them all with increasing irritation. Did Archer and Miss Helen realize how disjointed and unconvincing their stories sounded? In fact, they were not only implausible, but confusing. They confused him, anyway. Miss Archer just seemed disbelieving and tired.
“He's quite the gentleman, despite his appearance,” Archer said, which further galled Chilton. After all, it was Archer’s fault that his appearance was anything but gentlemanly. “And let us not forget the dog. Mr. Dacy is in no condition to care for a mong—uh—animal. Surely you don’t want to see it suffer?”
“Certainly not,” Miss Archer agreed. She patted the dog on the head. “Mr. Dacy, what is your dog’s name?”
“Napoleon,” he answered without thinking. If the dog was his, then he had to give it a name.
“Napoleon?” Miss Archer stared at the mongrel for a moment. Her dark gaze returned to his. An odd light danced in their depths. “Your dog is a male?”
“Of course it is,” Archer answered testily. “He wouldn’t have named it that if it was a female. Now, please call Joshua to take the beast to the barn, so we may have tea.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think—” Miss Archer said.
Archer groaned. “Are we out of tea again?”
“Why, no—”
“Then what did you mean by telling me we have no tea? Didn’t your parents leave you any funds?”
“I didn’t say a word about tea, Uncle John!”
“Stop my vitals if you didn’t!” Archer swore. “I heard you with my own ears. I refuse to suffer without the barest necessities—Mr. Dacy, your wallet, if you please!”
Conditioned by his years in the military, he obeyed the firm order and handed over his purse before he realized what he was doing. By the time he reconsidered, Archer had handed it to Miss Helen, who dimpled at him appreciably.
“That’s lovely, dear,” Miss Archer said, her eye on the purse the other girl was transferring to her reticule. “Why don’t you take Mr. Dacy and his dog back to his lodgings? I am very sure his servants will be relieved to see him. They must be frightfully worried. And you really should give his purse back to him—he’ll need it.”
“Oriana, child, I have no wish to denigrate the intelligence of any niece of mine, but you must learn to concentrate. Haven’t I already stated Mr. Dacy—is at present—um—between valets?” Archer widened his eyes in a mockery of innocence.
“I am sure that is inconvenient for him, but his footman will do,” Miss Archer said in a dry tone.
He grew cold listening to Archer, sure he faced a horrendous journey back to London that afternoon. Droplets of sweat ran down his back at the thought of the rutted road. And all those cobblestone streets.
Doubt reflected darkly in Miss Archer’s eyes as she listened to the increasingly improbably tale.
“His servants are all unavailable. He was in the process of removing to different quarters,” Archer said. “I offered him—and his dog—our hospitality while he convalesces. Surely, you can sympathize with his position? You wouldn’t let his poor dog suffer without proper attention, would you?”
The dog jumped up again and placed its muddy paws on Miss Archer’s skirt. To Chilton’s surprise, she glanced down at the mongrel with an indulgent smile and gently pushed it down. “Mr. Dacy, would you please call Napoleon?”
He gritted his teeth and tried to smile. “Certainly.”
He whistled.
The dog flicked him a scornful glance, barked, and jumped up again on Miss Archer, trying in vain to lick her hands or her face. A flush of warmth crept up the hollow of Chilton’s neck as the dog studiously ignored him.
Damn the animal. She’ll never believe it's mine, now.
“Come, Napoleon. Heel.” He gritted his teeth as the dog pretended not to hear him. The tide of warmth reached his cheeks. His entire body burned with embarrassment. “Napoleon!”
“Josephine!” Miss Archer said. The dog barked. “Sit, Josephine.” The dog sat and wagged its tail. “I believe she resents your somewhat infelicitous name, Mr. Dacy. Didn’t you inspect her when you acquired the animal?”
“It was a joke.”
“You received her as a joke?” She scratched the dog’s ear and gave him a look indicating exactly what she thought of men who thought their responsibilities were a matter for amusement.
“No, da—” He stopped abruptly. He had always been a bad liar and the pain distracted him so much he couldn’t
have said what the dog was when he picked it up. “No, I meant the name was a joke.”
“I see—a tricorne, yes, that might have been appropriate. If he wore one.” A dimple flickered in her plump cheek, drawing his gaze to her mouth. “But perhaps Josephine will do better?”
“Tricorne?” he asked, confused by her comment. His leg ached, and he wondered if the throbbing and ammonia smell from his breeches were making him light-headed.
Miss Archer laughed. “Didn’t you notice that either?”
He sighed tiredly. “What?”
“Three legs, Mr. Dacy. Josephine only has three legs.”
“Napoleon’s wife has three legs?” He gave up trying to understand, still bewildered by the discussion of Napoleon’s three-cornered hat since, to the best of his knowledge, Napoleon wore a bicorne.
“Your dog, sir, has three legs. I am sure I have no idea how many the Empress Josephine has,” Miss Archer replied with a pitying glance and barely suppressed smile. “However, I believe it may be two.”
With that, she stepped forward to pry his stiff hand from the side of the gig. Although her head only reached his shoulder, she gripped his wrist and wedged her elbow under his arm. The practiced ease of her gesture seemed to indicate she was accustomed to dealing with the old and infirm.
Thankful for the stout support, he leaned against her, trying to ignore how comfortable she felt standing next to him. His arm pressed briefly against the soft side of her breast. He grew intensely aware of her firm warmth.
A slight breeze arose, filling his senses with the lovely, clean scent of rose water and lavender rising from her burnished hair. Her scent settled around them, the rose adding rich notes to the underlying spiciness of lavender, and he tipped his head slightly closer to her hair. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to enjoy the soft fragrance for a blessed moment.
Then the wind changed. He nearly choked as the breeze picked up and flung the odors emanating from his clothing into his face.
“Miss Archer, I am perfectly capable of entering the house without assistance,” he said, embarrassed when he looked over and caught her uncle’s speculative gaze on him.
“Of course you are.” She guided him forward.
She walked toward the steps at a leisurely pace that seemed quite natural and not the least as if she was escorting a stinking, crippled, utterly impotent man into her immaculate house. And he was profoundly grateful to her.
She hadn’t accused him of anything, and her support eased the strain on his thigh.
“And Helen,” Archer said as he followed his niece and Chilton into the house. “Please go at once to the village and obtain a packet of tea.”
“Can’t we send the footman?” Miss Helen asked plaintively.
Archer paused with one foot inside the doorway. “Didn’t we observe a very modish bonnet in the window of that quaint shop? I don’t quite recall the shop’s name, but wasn’t it on the left as we entered the village?”
Miss Helen’s blue eyes lit up. She flitted up the steps to kiss Archer on the cheek before smiling and waving at her sister and Chilton standing in the hallway. He could only marvel at Archer's deft manipulation of everyone around him. First, he had kidnapped a mongrel from the streets in order to play on Miss Archer’s sympathies, and now he managed to bribe Miss Helen with thoughts of a new bonnet, using Chilton’s money.
Even he wasn’t immune to Archer’s wiles.
“I shan’t be a moment!” Miss Helen skimmed down the stairs before running toward the gig.
He glanced down at Miss Archer to find her shaking her head and staring up at him with a pitying expression on her face.
“You gave him your purse.”
“I am aware of that.”
“I hope you didn’t have very much in it.”
“I had some.” He thought wistfully of his thousand pounds.
“Was it all you had?”
“At the moment.” Annoyance crept into his voice, despite his efforts to remain coolly friendly. He belatedly wished he’d had the self-control to ignore Archer’s order to hand over his wallet.
She shook her head at him and sighed. “He gave it to my sister.”
“I am also aware of that, Miss Archer. Do you have a point?” He was beginning to think her Uncle had overestimated her intellect, despite her astute observations about Napoleon—er—Josephine.
“That remains to be seen. But it really wasn’t very wise of you.” She escorted him toward a padded bench set against one wall and then stopped a few paces away. “Uncle John, do be a dear and tell Rose to heat some water and bring it to the—oh, dear.” She glanced up at him and sniffed. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Dacy, but I can’t let you sit down. Your clothes are rather, well, pungent.”
“Yes?” Archer prompted. “Where—bring it where?”
“The west bedroom. We shall put Mr. Dacy in the west bedroom.”
“Fine, fine,” Archer replied. “I suppose we will have to wait until Helen returns for tea.”
“I shouldn’t think so. Let Cook know, and we’ll have some directly.”
“You don’t have any tea,” Chilton reminded her.
“Why, we had some this very morning.” Miss Archer glanced up at him with dancing brown eyes. “I never meant to imply we didn’t have any tea. I’m afraid my uncle made that assumption quite on his own.”
She was a woman who was easily amused, he decided with a certain amount of aggravation. Far too easily amused.
He thought fleetingly of his thousand pounds and Miss Helen and wondered if he would ever see his purse again. It would have been so nice if he could have paid his vowel to his father and been done with the entire matter. An engagement to Miss Burlington sounded better all the time.
Restful, in fact.
Turning away from the inviting bench, Miss Archer made her way determinedly toward the stairs, dragging him along with her. It was rather like a Man-o-War ship being towed along by a plump little skiff. He wanted to protest, but the longer he remained on his feet, the harder it was to fight his weariness and pain. Holding on to consciousness taxed his remaining strength. His head swam and throbbed with each laborious step up the staircase. He had to concentrate just to lift his feet.
When they reached the top of the stairs, she turned to the left and maneuvered him through a door a few paces down. He tried to maintain the last threads of dignity by walking on his own, but in the end, it was easier to accept her help.
“Here we are, Mr. Dacy,” Miss Archer said finally as she released him. “I wish you had your valet, but never mind. I’ve taken care of two brothers during their sicknesses, as well as my Uncle John, so I suppose it is really no different. We're somewhat short of servants here. And it seems quite cruel to make you stand here and wait until Joshua can be found. You won’t mind if I help you, will you?”
The room swirled around him, glittering with refracted light from the windows. The sunshine hurt his eyes after the cool dimness of the hallway. He blinked dazedly. In front of him stood a massive bed, piled high with pillows and a heavy blue quilt. He focused his entire will on that one objective. If he could make it to the bed, he could let it all go and find oblivion.
With his last ounce of strength, he stumbled toward the vast expanse of comforting, cool blue. But before he could reach it, Miss Archer stopped him. She pulled him back, and he wavered. The floor bucked beneath his feet like a horse trying to throw him off.
He rubbed his eyes with hands that felt hot and heavy.
The warm scent of a woman, mingled with roses wafted up to him. Mind blank, he focused on the top of her head. Her hair was remarkably shiny and soft, he thought disjointedly, squinting in the sunshine. A deep, rich, coppery brown.
She tugged at his jacket.
“Miss Archer,” he said thickly. “Mustn’t—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dacy—but just one moment. I must remove your soiled attire before you can rest on the bed. It’ll only take a moment. Then you will be quite co
mfortable.”
The blasted sun was shining directly into his eyes and scalded his skin. He couldn’t think when it was so hot. Why couldn’t he just lie down on the cool expanse of blue?
His eyes watered, and he raised a stiff hand to his head. A headache throbbed with each beat of his pounding heart.
“But, my linens…” Chilton mumbled. He had to tell her that his linens were missing. She couldn’t decently remove his outer garb, but the words escaped him.
“Do be quiet, Mr. Dacy. I shall send Joshua up directly, but you can’t—well, I’m afraid you’ve had a bit of an accident. You can’t sit on the clean coverlet in these dreadful clothes.”
The soft cadence of her words made him lose track of his own thoughts. Lying on the bed obsessed him. It was all he wanted, all he had ever wanted.
Through the burning haze, he felt a tugging sensation around his waist. A sudden sense of wrongness jolted him, but the blasted sun was shining directly into his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate.
The sunshine was burning him up, turning him to ash and cinders.
“There we are. Step, please. Oh, dear—ahem—Helen was quite wrong about your incapacity, wasn’t she?”
“What?”
“Never mind, we won’t tell her. There is no need to tell her she misjudged the extent of your injuries.” She placed her hands on his shoulder and turned him around. “You may sit down, if you please.”
The pressure on his shoulders made him stumble, and he fell abruptly onto the bed. Cold air streamed over his bare skin, tickling his sensitive flesh. Then Miss Archer drew the comforting covers over him and turned to close the curtains, bathing the room in cooling dimness.
Yes, he thought weakly, as he watched her through half-closed eyes.
Miss Helen was quite incorrect in her assessment of his capabilities. He wasn’t completely incapacitated.
He just hoped no one had been unduly embarrassed.
Particularly him.
Chapter Three
Call for a Change
Although Oriana was sure she had done the right thing by not waiting for Joshua’s assistance with Mr. Dacy, she couldn’t quite pretend there was nothing embarrassing about tending to a stranger, alone. However, her blushes didn’t matter. Mr. Dacy was in no condition to remain standing. He needed immediate rest and care.
