The Rake Page 8

  He opened one eye and looked at her. “I’m not likely to die of so paltry a wound … unless it gets infected, of course. I’ve had worse.”

  Gently disengaging her hand from his, she wrung the cloth out and placed it on his forehead again. “We won’t let that happen,” she said after a moment.

  “We?”

  “Mr. Fitzhugh, Sarah and I--we’ll take good care of you. You’ll see. You’ll probably be feeling much better by tomorrow and tired of lying in bed.”

  “I’m tired of that now. How long have I been here?”

  Demi bit her lip, feeling a flutter of alarm that he’d lost track of the time. She could not think that that was a good sign. “Since about noon today … well, I suppose yesterday now.”

  He frowned as she removed cloth and dipped it into the water again. When she turned back, she discovered he was studying her. “Flemming should have been horse whipped. I’d have had a better opinion of Lord Moreland if he’d at least offered to instead of sitting there with his mouth agape like a fish out of water.”

  Demi flushed uncomfortably at the reminder of her fall from grace, but at that last comment, she looked at him in surprise. “He’s only a boy, and not even half the size of Mr. Flemming.”

  “He’s as much a man as he’ll ever be, I’ll warrant. He should have called him out.”

  Demi gave him a look. “I can’t imagine getting himself killed would’ve helped me in the least. You know how bad he is with a gun. He could not hit the side of a barn if he was standing no more than ten paces from it.”

  “He hit me--without even trying I might add.”

  “Exactly. If he’d been trying, most likely he would’ve hit one of the others.”

  He chuckled, then winced as the movement jarred his injured leg.

  Demi frowned. “Sarah said I could give you a few drops of laudanum for the pain if you needed it,” she said tentatively.

  He shook his head. “I’d as soon keep my wits about me.”

  “Sleep is what you need to mend,” she said admonishingly. “I didn’t intend to wake you, or to keep you awake.”

  “You are a font of wisdom for one so young,” he murmured, smiling without opening his eyes. “Where did you learn that?”

  Demi frowned, trying to think. “My mother,” she said finally, with a touch of surprise.

  He looked up at her. “You don’t remember much about your parents, do you? I’ve never heard you mention them before.”

  The comment struck her as odd, since she’d only spoken to him a handful of times in all the time she’d known him. She dismissed it finally, shaking her head. “Not much. I was very little when they were killed.”

  He frowned. “You were eight when you came to live with the Morelands.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Did I tell you that? I guess I must have. Almost eight, anyway.”

  “Surely that’s old enough you should remember a great deal?”

  She concentrated on rinsing the cloth again. Discovering that the water was warm, she got up and poured the water from the bowl into the chamber pot, then refilled it from the bucket Sarah had left. Lord Wyndham was studying her when she returned. She glanced at him a couple of times as she soaked the cloth and finally sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I just don’t remember very much. I’m sure there are probably plenty of people who don’t remember their childhood that well.”

  “In truth, you’re little more than that now,” he said wryly.

  She sent him an irritated look. “Geoffrey is only a little older than me and you said he was a man. If that is true, then I am most definitely a woman, not a child.”

  Something gleamed in his eyes. A slow smile curled his lips. “Prove it.”

  Demi’s stomach went weightless at the look on his face, but she couldn’t help but chuckle. Leaning down until her lips hovered just above his, she whispered, “When you’re better.”

  “Tease,” he said without heat when she pulled away.

  “And you’re not?” Her back and shoulders had already begun to burn from bending over to apply the cool cloth. When she’d dipped it and wrung it out again, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  “No. I always keep my promises.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that he’d been the one to call a halt to their interlude in the meadow, but she thought it best not to. The entire conversation was wildly inappropriate. She doubted, if her situation had been different, that he would have spoken so outrageously. She couldn’t imagine that he would speak so suggestively to Phoebe--or any other lady for that matter--but then a lady would not have been in his room in the dead of night, wearing nothing but her nightgown. A lady would not have allowed, much less encouraged, the kisses they’d shared.

  She’d always believed she was a lady. Now she wondered if she never had been, or if it was only that being around Lord Wyndham was enough to completely undermine the fragile foundation of her upbringing.

  Undoubtedly it was, for she found that, instead of being shocked or outraged as she should have been, she wanted to prove it. She wanted to experience everything the words implied.

  If only she dared!

  She managed a smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to … have such things on your mind, at least.”

  “I would have to be on my deathbed not to have such things on my mind with you in my bed … wearing nothing but your nightgown.”

  Demi blushed and would’ve sprang up from the bed except that he’d undoubtedly expected it. He dropped one arm across her lap, curling his hand along her hip. His grip was surprisingly strong for someone supposedly weakened by fever and injury. She relaxed, unwilling to risk jarring his leg and causing him any more pain. “My lord….”

  “Garrett.”

  “It wouldn’t be prop--” She cut herself off, realizing how absurd it was to prose on about the impropriety of calling him by his Christian name under the circumstances. She shook her head at him. “You should try to rest, Garrett. If Sarah finds you awake when she comes back, she’ll accuse me of not taking proper care of you and she won’t let me come back.”

  “Lie with me then.”

  Demi’s eyes widened. “Are you mad! What if someone were to come in?”

  He shrugged. “Lock the door.”

  Blood surged into her cheeks. “I couldn’t do that! It’d be worse if the door was locked.”

  “It’ll be worse if your aunt decides to drop in to check on me and finds you here.”

  Demi’s eyes widened. She honestly hadn’t thought of that. She frowned, wondering if there was any real danger of it and realized that it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. If her aunt woke and decided to check on her son, she might also decide to check on Lord Wyndham. “You are a very bad influence on me,” she chided him. “I’ll lock the door, but only because I don’t want to take a chance on Aunt Alma finding me in here. I’m not getting into bed with you!”

  He said nothing and after a moment, she got up and moved across the room, locking the door. When she returned, she took the cloth from his head and dipped it into the basin once more. She’d just twisted it to wring the water from it, when he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back, rolling to his side and depositing her on the bed beside him. She gasped in surprise, but froze when he let out a sharp gasp of pain. She sat up. “You’ve hurt your leg!”

  Scrambling over the mattress, she pulled the coverlet back to check his bandages. To her relief, she saw no sign of fresh bleeding. Covering his leg carefully once more, she turned to look at him. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  He dropped an arm across his eyes. “Probably not. It hurts like hell now.”

  Demi sighed. “Sarah was right. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Sarah was … but I’m glad you ignored her.”

  Scooting up the bed, she pulled his arm away from his face and checked his forehead. It was still very warm, but it had cooled a good bit from before. Instead of la
ying the cloth across his forehead, she gently wiped his face. “I’ll get you some laudanum.”

  He took the cloth from her hand and tossed it in the general direction of the basin. It hit the edge and slid in. Turning back to her, he pulled her down and tucked her against his side. “You rest. You need it more than I do.”

  She didn’t resist, but not altogether because she was afraid of hurting him again, or making him hurt himself. “You said you’d rest if I would lie beside you.”

  “I had something else in mind, actually.”

  Demi smiled faintly. “I know.”

  Slipping an arm behind her back, he caught her arm and draped it across his chest, then leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. “Keep in mind that this is a temporary setback.”

  Chapter Eight

  Despite the comment, Lord Wyndham was far worse the following day. Demi didn’t dare even approach the door after the fuss Sarah put up when she returned and discovered the door to the room locked. She had seemed slightly mollified when Demi had pointed out that she’d thought it best, in case her aunt woke, but she was still deeply suspicious and made no attempt to hide it.

  The surgeon was summoned again the following afternoon. He lanced the wound, which was showing some signs of trying to become infected, advised Fitzhugh to clean the wound and change the dressings every eight hours or so, and left again, shaking his head. Demi was beside herself with worry. She spent most of the day in the library with a book open in her lap, listening to the footsteps in the room overhead and trying to interpret the meaning. She managed to waylay Sarah at one point, but the news did nothing to comfort her. “He’s a bit out of his head. Could be the laudanum--the doctor gave him a right smart dose of that when he bled him--but it don’t seem to me that the medicine for his fever’s doin’ a lot of good. He’s been askin’ for a solicitor for hours. Mr. Fitzhugh told me to send a boy round to fetch one for him … thought it might quiet him down.”

  Demi thought for several moments that she might faint. Sarah, looking more than a little alarmed, caught her arms, dragged her back into the library and made her sit down. “Here now! We can’t be havin’ none of this, Miss. Ye know what’ll be goin’ through everybody’s mind if ye faint and I have to run for smellin’ salts!”

  Demi nodded numbly, but she didn’t really care what they thought anymore. “I’m fine. Go. See to … your errand.”

  “Yer sure?”

  She nodded again. She spent the rest of the day wallowing in regrets, wishing she’d done any number of things differently. Her deepest regrets though, were that she’d not somehow prevented Garrett from going with her cousin on the shoot; that she’d allowed herself to be bullied into going off with Mr. Flemming when she might otherwise have known about Geoffrey’s plans; and that she’d allowed propriety, and her fear of what other people would think of her, to prevent her from grabbing what she could of happiness while she could.

  She tried not to think about the possibility that Garrett wouldn’t recover, but she spent most of the remainder of the day praying for another chance. If she just had one more opportunity, she would seize it, take what happiness she could and worry about the consequences later. There would be plenty of time for regrets afterward, she knew, but at least she wouldn’t have to regret what she’d missed out on.

  As interminable as the day was, the night was worse. Exhausted emotionally, she fell asleep almost as soon as she climbed into her bed, but she’d been lying awake for an hour or more when the tap came on her door. Throwing the covers off, Demi rushed hopefully across the room and snatched the door open. To her surprise, instead of Sarah, Mr. Fitzhugh was standing just outside. “His lordship’s been asking for you all day, Miss Standish,” he said in a hushed whisper.

  “A moment,” she whispered back and rushed to grab her robe from the foot of her bed.

  Sarah, she discovered, was in Garrett’s room, methodically rinsing the cloth, wringing it out and placing it across his forehead. Leaving it for only a few moments, she started the process all over again. She looked across the room finally at Demi, who’d stopped just inside the door.

  Nodding, she dropped the cloth on the table and went to pour the water out and replace it with cooler water. When she’d carried the basin back to the bed, she placed the cooled cloth on his head once more, then turned and headed for the door.

  The click of the door closing jolted Demi out of her frozen fear and she moved to the side of the bed to take Sarah’s place. He’d dragged the cloth from his forehead, she saw. When she reached to take it from his hand, he grasped her wrist painfully. Startled, she glanced at his face quickly. His eyes were open, but she could see no recognition in them. Lifting her free hand, she stroked his cheek, resisting the urge to burst into tears. “Garrett?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. Slowly, his grip on her wrist loosened. “Demi?”

  Her chin wobbled so badly it took her several moments to speak. “Yes.”

  He frowned, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “Made arrangements,” he managed finally.

  Demi lost control then. Bursting into sobs, she threw herself on his chest. “Don’t talk like that! Don’t even think it! It’s bad luck.”

  “Shhh. Can’t afford not to. My position. People depend on me. Give you my word I don’t expect the worst.”

  Demi choked back her sobs and sat back, sniffing. “You don’t?”

  He dragged in a ragged breath and shook his head slightly. “I have responsibilities. Can’t afford to ignore the possibility of disaster. Made arrangements for you. If anything happens, Fitzhugh will explain.”

  Demi mopped the tears from her cheeks and studied him in confusion. She could tell, however, that his throat was parched with thirst. His voice was rough with it. Getting up, she retrieved the pitcher and glass and helped him to drink until he indicated that he’d had enough.

  He seemed to drift off again when he lay back, but he didn’t seem as restless as before.

  She tested his forehead and cheeks, but if his fever had abated at all, she couldn’t tell it.

  She stayed, as she had the night before until Sarah came and shooed her away.

  Despite her anxieties, she’d had several nights of little or no sleep and when she fell into her bed, she slept the sleep of the truly exhausted and didn’t waken until nearly noon the following day. “Reverend Flemming has called again,” Sarah announced tightly when she arrived in Demi’s room to help her dress. “Lady Moreland invited him to stay for luncheon.”

  Demi’s belly immediately clenched with dismay, but she dismissed it. “How is Lord Wyndham?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I can’t tell he’s a whit better, but he seems no worse. The doctor dropped by earlier … said his lordship’d reach his crisis today. Either the fever’ll break, or….”

  Demi nodded, fighting the urge to burst into tears. It wouldn’t do to arrive downstairs in a state of utter turmoil. She knew better than to think she would be allowed to stay in her room and ignore Mr. Flemming’s visit.

  When she arrived downstairs, she discovered Geoffrey ensconced in the parlor, his leg propped on a stool and a mound of pillows. His expression was a curious mixture of the sullen schoolboy and repentant transgressor. Reverend Flemming was sitting on one side of him and his mother the other, both, apparently, lecturing him on his recent exploits. Phoebe, seated on the couch opposite the threesome, was wearing the smug look of the pious.

  Demi was of more than half a mind to simply turn around and retreat. The look of entreaty Geoffrey sent her way stopped her. She was angry with him for hurting Garrett, but she knew it hadn’t been intentional and there seemed little point in heaping her disapproval on top of that already weighing his shoulders down.

  Sighing, she moved into the parlor, looked around, and finally took a seat in a chair that sat alone, at some distance from the others. If she thought Flemming would take it as the rejection it was, she was wrong. He got up at once, smiling as if his welcome was as
sured, and dragged a chair over next to hers.

  Demi gave him an unwelcoming glare.

  His brows rose. He possessed himself of one of her hands after a short wrestle for it. “I only came to apologize for my unconscionable behavior the other day.”

  She sent him a look. She didn’t believe a word it and she took no pains to hide her doubt.

  He frowned. “You are very sheltered, and a properly brought up young lady. You would know nothing about the baser instincts of men. I lost my head.”

  Demi’s eyes narrowed. “You would have lost it from your shoulders if I’d had anything to remove it with.”

  Both Geoffrey and Phoebe snickered and Flemming reddened alarmingly. Before he could think up a response, however, the butler announced luncheon. Demi jumped up at once, trying to tug her hand free. Flemming’s tightened on hers until she winced and ceased tugging. He smiled then. “I’d far rather escort you in to dine, but our invalid needs some assistance,” he said coolly, releasing her hand finally.

  Demi fumed, massaging her hand and staring daggers at his back, but finally turned and followed Phoebe into the small dining parlor. They dined in virtual silence. Alma Moreland made some attempt to carry on a civilized conversation and was supported by the Reverend Flemming, but neither Geoffrey nor Phoebe seemed inclined to contribute more than a comment or two and Demi refused to be drawn into the conversation at all.

  She would have risen and left immediately after they’d finished, but Flemming forestalled, her, tucking her hand beneath his arm and escorting her back to the parlor. When everyone was settled in the parlor once more, he stood and looked them all over as if he was about to begin a sermon and wanted to make certain he had everyone’s attention. “I have posted the banns.”

  Demi stared at him, too stunned even to speak for several moments. No one else seemed to have a problem, however. Phoebe uttered, “But I thought--”

  Her mother cut her off. “But this is delightful news! Very good thinking on your part, Mr. Flemming! This should still the wagging tongues quickly enough.”