Page 22 of Persuasions of an Earl's Daughter

Shewas different.

He swallowed hard, put a finger to the button at the neckline of her bodice and waited for the inevitable slap of a hand.

Nothing came and he noted the deep rise and fall of her chest. Panic spurred him into action. She might look relaxed but for all he knew she had fallen into a faint and would never wake again. With unsteady fingers, he swiftly popped open the rest of the buttons and dragged the gown down with as much business-like efficiency as he could. The thin chemise clung to her narrow body, and he only briefly noted the dark shadows of her nipples.

Mrs. Lambert returned, and he sighed in relief. She set a bowl of steaming water on the table at the side of the bed and laid out some cloths. With a yank, she took the gown he forgot he was holding from his hand and laid it over a nearby wicker chair. “You look a little gray, love. Why don’t you go and make some tea and I’ll finish tending to your wife?”

He nodded and ducked gratefully out of the room. It was only when he had dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs did he realize he hadn’t corrected the woman. Still, it was probably better she assumed she was his wife. Mrs. Lambert might not like the scandal of an unmarried couple under her roof.

She’d like it even less if she realized who he was. The reputation of the Marquis of Blackthorpe stretched far and wide—a reputation he’d been instrumental in pushing. But few old ladies would be pleased to have a rake who made deals with the devil in return for good looks and wealth and charm under their roof.

He had to admit, though, he wouldn’t eschew a deal with a devil right now if it ensured Lilly remained safe.

Chapter Eight

Lilly jolted at the icy touch of something upon her abdomen. She pushed up onto her elbows only to be urged down again by a liver-spotted hand. She peered through heavy-lidded eyes at the tiny lady who bustled about and offered the sort of expression one expected of a strict governess.

“Stay still,” the woman ordered. “I need to tend to your wound.”

Mrs. Lambert. The name entered Lilly’s mind and she recalled the blue door and the bespectacled woman and the warmth from August’s embrace as he held her tightly to his side.

She tried to sit up again. “August?”

“Your husband is in the parlor room.” The hand to her shoulder was more forceful this time and Lilly’s limbs felt far too much like liquid for her own liking, so she dropped back onto the narrow bed.

Wait a minute. “Husband?”

“He’s making tea. Doesn’t have a strong stomach I’m afraid to say. He looked rather grim as we undressed you.”

If it had been possible, surely heat would have flowed into her cheeks, but a chill continued to wrack her and it was only now did she realize she was in only her shift, the fabric crispy but dry against her body with a blanket slung over her legs preserving her modesty. Had August seen all? Had he touched her? Oh Lord, if only she had been able to stay more lucid. How would they return to normal now?

Whatever normal was. Him looking at her with vague amusement or annoyance she supposed.

But maybe he hadn’t cared. Maybe he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in a body that offered more muscle than curves. Lilly never much cared whether she had breasts or not. When she saw her sisters trying to squeeze them into their stays, she considered how cumbersome they must be. Now her pride made her wish she had something more, something devastating for him to look upon. Something that would make him remember her and leave her with the upper hand.

She watched Mrs. Lambert mix something vigorously in a bowl. “What’s that?”

“Honey and thyme.” Mrs. Lambert smeared the honey over the scratch and Lilly wrinkled her nose at the sticky sensation.

“To kill any infection?” Lilly asked.

The woman’s eyes widened, and her expression softened. “So you know of the healing properties of honey?”

“My sister tends to sick animals and often uses honey to aid healing.” Lilly paused, cold dread wrapping around her heart. “Is the wound infected?”

“I shouldn’t think so, love, but we must take precautions. You are more cold than anything I think. When your husband is done making the tea, I shall have him light the fire in here.” Mrs. Lambert scowled and peered toward the doorway. “He’s taking an awfully long time.” She clucked her tongue. “I didn’t even ask your name.”

“Musgrave,” Lilly said. “Lilly Musgrave.”

“Mr. Musgrave?” she called with such vigor Lilly was certain the rafters shook.

August hastened in far faster than Lilly expected at a name that wasn’t even his. “What is it? Is she well?” He met her gaze and Lilly swore she spied pink in his cheeks. But surely not? A man like August couldn’t find a single thing to blush over surely?

“She is quite well,” Mrs. Lambert said patiently, “however she could do with a warm cup of tea. As could you.”

“Oh yes.” He twisted on his heel. “It’s coming right up,” he called from the other room.

When he came back in with a delicate pot of tea balancing on a tray, the china clinking together, Lilly had to smother her smile. A man like August Beresford had probably never made tea in his life.

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