Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works Page 9

  Georgiana skipped lightly toward her waiting conveyance. Even Eunice, silent as always, couldn’t lower her mood. Joy bubbled up. Not tomorrow, but soon they would talk about the past.

  Abigail Clarke stepped from her door directly across from Andrew’s and cast a shadow like a great black bird across Georgiana’s path. Georgiana met her once or twice when Mrs. Potter or Molly Harding had invited her to tea with Cambridge wives. She didn’t care for her.

  “Good day, Lady Georgiana. Visiting our Mr. Mallet, I see.” The woman’s eyes were avid but not kind. Unmarried women didn’t visit men’s homes. They both knew it, no matter how Mrs. Potter tried to wrap it up in fine linen.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Clarke. We study together. He is one of the best tutors in Cambridge, aside from the Fellows themselves, of course.”

  “Study. Of course. I heard something of your interest in his scholarship.” She dragged out the last word suggestively while she looked Eunice over as if to evaluate her worth as a chaperone. Poor Eunice shrunk even more.

  Georgiana lost patience with her. She drew herself up, chin high, for a set down. You don’t question a Duke’s daughter, Madame. “Good day, Mrs. Clarke. I must be on my way.” She left, but she would be back. The neighbors could make of it what they would.

  Andrew’s “one day’s rest” turned to four, however, when Georgiana’s own weakness overcame her on schedule. She sent a message round and told Andrew she would be delayed until Monday. To her delight, she felt much like her own self by Sunday. Mr. Peabody’s regime of beef broth, large helpings of dark green vegetables, and water from a particular iron-rich spring ordered down from Yorkshire appeared to be working.

  A missive delivered on Sunday afternoon crushed her buoyant mood.

  Lady Georgiana,

  I regret I will be unable to keep our appointment tomorrow or for some days to come. I am indisposed.

  I understand we have an agreement and will keep the bargain when circumstances permit.

  Yours respectfully,

  A. Mallet

  Shaky writing snaked across the paper in uneven lines. She reread them. The fear that he might relapse, which had lapped over her the entire previous week, struck her like a tidal wave. Immediate disappointment turned quickly to alarm.

  She wrote two messages in rapid fire succession. The first, to Mr. Peabody, described his patient’s failure to heal. It offered him three times his normal fee to attend Mr. Mallet at his own house as quickly as may be possible. She hesitated over the signature. Finally she scribbled, “Lady Georgiana Hayden, Mr. Mallet’s neighbor.” Close enough.

  The second message, to Harley, proved to be more difficult. She stopped mid-sentence, reread her words, and crumpled it. With the message to Mr. Peabody in her reticule, she called for her carriage and set out for Little Saint Mary’s Lane.

  Chapter 11

  Harley preferred to carry out the wishes of his master, except of course when they were just plain wrong. Today the man was mad as a hatter.

  He couldn’t drag the man to Peabody if he wouldn’t go. The lady could, but Mallet threatened to flay him alive if he so much as peeped to her. Harley knew that Mallet would never have done it. He also knew that his employer would drop of the fever unless someone did something.

  The loud rap of the knocker below stairs saved Harley from coming to any conclusion. When no barrage of colorful cursing greeted the sound of the knocker on a Sabbath afternoon, Harley thought, “The man be ill all right.”

  Lady Georgiana didn’t stop to sit or pause to greet him. Like a ship at full sail, she swept into the sitting room crowded with her boxes and bins and demanded, “Have you sent word to the surgeon?”

  “Someone has to, but he won’t let me,” Harley answered.

  Georgiana handed John Footman a sealed packet of vellum without responding. “This is to be given directly to Mr. Peabody himself, do you understand? Tonight. His premises are on the second floor of the same building we visited near Magdalene College. If you don’t find him there, search. Take the carriage.”

  “But, my lady, if I take the carriage, how will you—”

  “If you value your position, don’t hesitate another moment.” How she would travel back to Helsington, if she went back, was not his concern.

  Harley watched John Footman leap to the carriage and licked his mouth in satisfaction. He did like the lady’s way of getting done what needed doing.

  “Now, show me upstairs.”

  “Gladly, my lady. Needs someone to take charge, he does.”

  “You won’t take my leg.” Andrew felt Georgiana grip his hand and hold it firmly. He wanted to bat it away, but he found himself holding on for dear life.

  “The wound has festered.” Peabody, to his credit, didn’t try to coddle him. “We discussed the possibility. Another surgeon would take the leg. I’m surprised they didn’t do it in Belgium.” Andrew heard Harley, who fought the surgeons off when they tried, snort rudely.

  Peabody attempted to cover concern with a jovial tone, and Harley fretted. Georgiana stood steadfast and earned Andrew’s gratitude.

  “You won’t take my leg.”

  “No, I won’t.” The young surgeon paused and appeared to choose words carefully. “All I can do is drain the poison and cauterize it. The process may be even more painful than actually removing it, but it should do the trick.” If I survive the process, Andrew thought.

  Andrew held Georgiana’s hand more tightly. She should leave. “Georgiana, you—”

  “No. I will stay.” There was steel in her voice.

  Peabody protested. “My lady, I really must insist that you leave.”

  “Do you wish it?” Georgiana’s eyes searched his.

  No, I don’t wish it. “You ought to go,” he said aloud.

  She shook her head.

  “My lady, this is no place for a woman.” Peabody’s compassionate voice was firm.

  “I will stay.”

  “Give it up, Peabody.” Andrew clung to her hand. “No one moves Lady Georgiana Hayden when her mind is made up.” That was his last coherent speech for several days.

  “Georgiana?” Andrew heard his own voice as a distant and unfamiliar rasp, but he was sure of Georgiana.

  “Andrew,” she said on a breathy whisper, “all will be well.” When she said it, he believed it. He wondered if even God could bring Himself to gainsay Lady Georgiana Hayden.

  “Are you feverish? Has it returned?” She took his hand in one of hers, deftly checking for fever with the other. Relief registered on her face when there was none.

  “No. No fever,” she said. “It abated even more quickly than Mr. Peabody predicted. You are healing for good this time, I think.”

  She had overridden Peabody’s protests and stayed with him through the procedure. While she allowed Harley and her footman to hold him down, she murmured reassuring nonsense in his ear and kept a firm grip on his hand until the surgeon finished the nasty business.

  “What is it, Andrew? What do you need?” In the cool dark, her words were balm.

  I need your touch, to hear your voice. The timbre of her voice soothed his soul, and the sweet scent of lilacs filled his senses. They had become the rhythm of his life. “I need some water.” She had anticipated him. The cool drink was almost as welcome as her care.

  “Hush now. Sleep.” He did.

  A week passed before Peabody decided Andrew needed to get out of bed for a short time every day. Andrew attempted a few tentative steps.

  “The pain is lessening.” That surprised him. The searing burn of the cauterization remained uncomfortable, and weakness threatened to overset him; but the deep pain that cut into his hip and back no longer cut through him.

  “And not soon enough! You had more than your share,” Georgiana said.

  She watched his halting steps with fear-filled eyes. He hated the anxiety he saw in her expression. A primal need to protect her and to prove her wrong propelled him the final two steps. He sank into his deep wi
ng-back chair. After a moment to rest his eyes, he gave her a reassuring look. Her relief made him proud.

  He closed his eyes for a moment’s rest and then drank in his study, letting his books soothe his soul. His eyes found something out of place. A pallet, coverlets neatly arranged on it, rested in the fireside corner.

  “What is this?” Harley had never folded coverlets so neatly. Andrew realized that it wasn’t Harley who had come to him in the night. He called himself every kind of fool. She comes to me in the night, every night. Georgiana must be sleeping on the floor of my study! It outraged his sensibility. He knew that he should send her away.

  “Don’t say it.” She stood over him like a general.

  He bit back a retort and mumbled, “It can’t be comfortable.”

  “I am comfortable, and I am where I want to be. I am needed, and that, I tell you, is a novel feeling.” She smoothed a blanket over him and reached up to bring him a warm cup of tea.

  Well enough to realize what she had done and gentleman enough to know how great a scandal it created, he still felt too sick to care. One more night. I will send her away tomorrow. For now, I will rest.

  “Georgiana?”

  “What is it Andrew? Another nightmare?” Her hair stood in disarray; a dressing gown covered her nightclothes. He was too desperately ill all those previous nights to notice her nightclothes.

  “Nightmares? I don’t remember,” he lied, hoping against hope that he hadn’t called out in his sleep. It sickened him to think she might know the nature of those nightmares. “Did I speak?”

  “Yes. No. Nothing I could understand. You seemed disturbed.” Deep green velvet wrapped her from head to toe, but tantalizing snatches of white ruffle peeped out at her wrists and neck. “What do you need?”

  Relief seeped into him. She hadn’t heard his nightmares, but her nearness disordered his thoughts. “It is nothing. I just …” You, Georgiana, I needed you. “I awoke confused. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” The white eyelet around her neck fascinated him. Honey gold hair lay next to it. He reached up and took a lock of hair to give it a gentle tug. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I no longer care. I am where I am needed. It’s too late to change, in any case.” Her face looked less confident than her voice sounded.

  “I’m grateful for it.” To say anything else would be churlish. “I meant to ask yesterday, how did you get Peabody here so quickly that night?”

  “Foolish question. Money and title, of course–and a well-sprung carriage. He came without complaining. After his error, I’d have brought another surgeon, if I knew of one.”

  Andrew smiled wanly. Lioness! “I think he’s done it this time. He did know his work. He had an ugly wound, badly healed, to work with.”

  She looked doubtful. “He better be right. I need my tutor back.”

  “Ah. Your tutor.” He felt her body lean over him where she sat on the side of his bed. Her thigh pressed against his uninjured hip. Her hand caressed his. Her breath, warm on his face, overwhelmed his will. His body responded to her nearness of its own volition, and he thought ruefully that his strength appeared to be returning more rapidly than he expected. He groped for words to send her away but could find none. He could only whisper her name.

  “Georgie,” he began uncertainly.

  “Georgie.” The sound of her old pet name in his deep voice caused heat to pool deep inside her. She cupped his cheek and rubbed a thumb across his lips to silence him.

  “Hush. Go back to sleep. You need to rest. I want my tutor back.” His face took on an odd look when she said “tutor.” It seemed to her that he had forgotten the nature of their relationship. “While you’ve been ill I’ve been making free with your library. I read the entire list of works you suggested to understand the lives of women in ancient Greece. Shall I tell you what I found?”

  His face looked pained, but he nodded. He didn’t let go of her hand.

  “Not much.” She laughed. “I did learn a little.” She began to talk about the lives of women then and now. The words meant nothing. She intended only to quiet and soothe him. He listened only briefly before his eyes drifted shut and she felt his grip on her hand loosen.

  Drowsy and ill at ease, she rose, but the sound of his rhythmic breathing held her fast. It sounded endearingly different from the sound he made when feverish and ill. In the gloom she could make out the line of his arm, elbow bent so that his hand pillowed his head. She followed the line of it up to his strong shoulder and continued up his neck to the sight of black lashes against his cheek. Since his color had improved the now familiar scar looked less stark. Her eyes drifted down to watch the rise and fall of his chest. She could see the covers bunched down around his waist. His shirt opened at the neck.

  Propriety demanded that she cover him, that she go, that she shouldn’t even be there. Even Mrs. Potter fretted, and the normally impassive Eunice looked ready to faint when she arrived only to be sent home. The damage was done.

  She told only a partial truth earlier when she insisted she wished to be in his house. The place she longed to be above all others was in his bed. She wanted to feel his warmth; she needed his closeness, if only for tonight. She couldn’t bear to be alone. Need overwhelmed reason.

  She removed her robe and slipped onto the narrow edge of the bed. She slid beneath the coverlet, taking care to stay well away from the sleeping man. He would sleep deeply now. She knew that from experience the past several nights. He was unlikely to be disturbed. She would slip away unnoticed before he woke.

  Very little light penetrated Andrew Mallet’s windowless sleeping chamber. The occupants of his narrow bed slept long past sunrise, late into the morning.

  Georgiana opened one blue eye and then the other. The bed felt heavenly, more comfortable than the pallet. In fact, she felt warmer and more content than she had felt any morning of the past eleven years. She breathed deeply, stretched to greet the morning, and froze in panic. A man’s strong arm surrounded her, and memory flooded back. Andrew had rolled onto his good side. The warmth she felt was his body, wrapped along her entire length. The realization rocked her to her core.

  She blinked to clear her head. She couldn’t remember what madness led her to crawl into his bed. Among the dozens of reasons it was wrong, the worst was that she invaded his bed without his permission. A sleeping man couldn’t refuse her.

  In the night she had assured herself that he was too sick to disturb. She believed she would be safe. She was certain that an aging spinster dressed in her old night rail and dressing gown, with her hair tumbled everywhere, would arouse no passion in a man, particularly one so recently ill.

  In the cold light of morning, she suspected she had been wrong. The body curled around her own was fully male and fully aroused, though her inexperience made her less than certain. Can they do that when they are sound asleep? Apparently they could. Georgiana allowed herself a small smile. She had learned something very interesting already this morning.

  She had planned to slip quietly out before he woke. She miscalculated about that also. When she attempted to gingerly remove his arm, she found it heavy with sleep. She raised the arm just enough to move her body forward. The second she escaped his protective embrace she fell with a thump onto the floor, and the bed shook forcefully.

  For a fleeting moment, she anticipated scooting out the open door while he slept. His voice showed her how futile that was.

  “Georgie? Georgie, what happened? I heard a sound.” His voice, hoarse with sleep, repeated, “Georgie?”

  She briefly considered crawling out the door, but she was too late. Black eyes looked down at her over the edge of the bed.

  She rose up on one elbow with a sigh of resignation and pushed herself up until she rested her chin on the side of the bed. No words came to her.

  Andrew propped himself on both his elbows. “What are you doing on my floor?” he asked reasonably.

  Georgiana continued to stare at him, devouring the sight of sleep
tousled hair, morning beard dark on his face, and his muscled chest crossed with now familiar scars visible through his gaping nightshirt. She couldn’t help herself. His eyes, sleepy and unfocused without his spectacles, looked puzzled. He was adorable.

  “What happened to your robe?”

  She almost choked on her gasp, ducked below the bed, and groped about for the robe. She found it and stuffed one arm in a sleeve. She was convinced the morning couldn’t get any worse.

  “I see everyone is awake at last. Thought I heard a bump. Coffee is ready.” She grasped the side of her robe to her chest and looked up, mortified, into the laughing eyes of Charles Harley. It just got worse.

  Chapter 12

  “Why? You have to ask why?” Andrew ran an agitated hand through his hair. The stubborn woman would be his demise. “Don’t be absurd, Georgiana. You know as well as I do that this will not do.”

  He had blurted out a marriage proposal while he still lay on the bed, with Georgiana on his floor looking like a frightened rabbit and Harley laughing in the doorway. It must have had all the earmarks of pure farce. Her haughty refusal, however, struck him as having no humor whatsoever.

  It took him two painful hours to dress respectably and all his control to ignore Harley’s knowing looks while he did. The time allowed him to nurse his anger. What possessed that woman to get into my bed? Has she no sense?

  Her refusal of his proposal made more sense. The woman wouldn’t lower herself, even to avoid ruin. She had spouted some pompous nonsense about the honor he did her and the demands of her own honor that forced her to refuse. He may have imagined the bitter edge to her voice. She had run from the room before he could pursue it.