Page 10 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
There was an odd sort of dragging sound from without his room, vaguely metallic in origin, which pulled Luke from a restless sleep.Allhis sleep had been restless, just lately. He tossed and turned through the night, though the bed he’d been provided was comfortable enough. Occasionally he woke, aware of having been searching for something in his sleep, his hand stretched out across the vast surface of the mattress, as if seeking the grip of another.
Shehad given that to him, the little witch—his once-fevered mind played tricks upon him still, searching for the comforting grip of her hand, the feathery glide of fingers over his forehead, the soothing rake of them through his hair. Only she had deserted him these last days, and now he was obliged to hold his own water and to eat the thin gruel she provided for him, delivered by her surly manservant without so much as a morsel of respect to go along with it.
Luke had been stewing in the miserable pit of his anger these past few days, and in the collected sweat and grime of his recent travails as well, since the little murderess had not seen fit to come in and change his sheets—nor had her manservant been willing to do so.
He had been stewing, also, in his unrelenting boredom. He’d shouted his lungs out for the little harridan, since at least he could take his foul temper out upon her, deserving of it as she was—but she had denied him time and time again.
Until now. The door squeaked open upon rusty hinges, and she appeared at last, dragging an ancient hip-bath into the room. Only to leave it once again nearly immediately. Why wasshefetching and carrying? Because he’d demanded her presence?
But no—she returned moments later, carrying a couple of cans of water, which she hefted into the tub. Not enough to luxuriate in, but at least enough towash. There was a strip of toweling slung over her shoulder, and an apron tied round her waist, from the pocket of which she removed a jar of soap to set beside the tub alongside the toweling.
“Your bath, my lord. As requested.” And she turned on her heel once again.
“Where the devil are you going?”
“Away,” she snapped tartly—as if she had any right at all to be tart with him.
“The hell you are,” he said. “I need a damned bath!”
“It’sright there.” The little tyrant jammed one finger toward it. “You may help yourself as you please.”
“You’ll help me to it, then.” Because his legs had been none too steady of late; a consequence of spending so much time feverish and confined to a bed.
“I will not!” She trembled with offense, fisting her fingers in her skirts. “You’re unclothed!”
“So I am.” He jeered the words. “And whose fault is that, hm? I seem to recall you quite literally snipping the clothes straight off of me.” And not only that—there were the warm, gentle fingers that had bathed the sweat from his fevered body.
Her throat moved in a tremulous swallow. “You wereill.”
“Yes,” he said, silkily. “And who, exactly, was responsible for that?”
Those fingers curled even tighter into her skirt, the knuckles going white with strain. Good God, but she was easy to manipulate—the guilt was eating her alive before his very eyes. It was the most entertainment he’d had in the last few days, to see her flinch beneath the pressure of it. And he put his finger upon that nerve andpressed. “Youwill attend my bath, Miss Talbot,” he said. “And you will provide me with fresh clothing, and adecent goddamned meal. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” It was a feral hiss, sucked into cheeks that had hollowed with anger. She snatched the toweling off the floor with a quick stretch and stalked across the floor toward him. Luke didn’t care for the flare of attitude; it was clear enough that she was a provincial nobody who had absolutely no business whatsoever casting that furious gaze at him.
He held out his hand expectantly for the toweling—and it slapped him clear in the face. “Batheyourself, my lord,” she snapped, and that sharp tongue could have flayed the flesh clean off his bones.
Torn between shock and awe, Luke could only watch, dumbstruck, as she stalked out of the room. And this time shedidslam the door behind her, in a magnificent crash of sound that echoed in his ears long after she’d left.
∞∞∞
“He’s bellowing again,” Willie said, his gaze cast to the ceiling as if he might peer straight through it to the floor above, where his lordship was presently occupying himself with making a dreadful racket.
“I know,” Lizzie said, bent over the pot that bubbled on the stove. The leftover stew was too little for five bowls, let alone six. She dumped a cup of water into the pot and a sprinkling of flour to thicken it a bit, then added an extra pinch of salt and pepper. “I do have ears, Willie.”
“Been going on for a half an hour, or thereabouts, I reckon.”
“Iknow,” Lizzie repeated, through gritted teeth. Probably she oughtn’t to have antagonized him. It wasn’t what anyone would have called a wise course of action, though Willie had howled himself silly over it. Still, she supposed a man couldn’t live on beef tea and porridge. But she had rather hoped that he could just alittlelonger. She began to set out the bowls for the remainder of last evening’s mutton stew and tried not to fret about how little of it there seemed to be. “Georgie,” she said, catching the attention of the boy who lingered at the very fringes of the kitchen, hoping to catch a bit of adult conversation, “Call Imogen and Jo to the table, if you please.”
It was a distraction she had learned to use well in order to dish up their dinner before everyone had assembled, obfuscating their portions in comparison to her own. It was easier with things like soups and stews, of course, where the savory broth would mostly hide just how much ofherbowl was filled with vegetables rather than meat.
Imogen had never noticed. But George and Jo—Lizzie thought they had begun to suspect. Above her head, there was the sound of doors opening and closing, feet bustling about ready to come down to dinner.
Six bowls.Six. And she looked down at them as she ladled up the stew and she knew—this was going to be a problem. There had hardly been enough for five.Sixwas well out of reach. But the rapid patter of footsteps upon the stairs sent her into a flurry of panic. Before she could second guess herself, she took the bowl that had been meant to be hers and split it amongst the others, pouring away her dinner as evenly and fairly as she could manage.
It was just one meal. What did it matter? She was not going to starve for want ofonemissed meal. And there—she had baked an extra loaf of bread this morning. She would have a slice of bread instead, and that would tide her over well enough until morning.
“Here, Willie,” she said, and passed him a couple of bowls just as Jo and Georgie came careening into the kitchen. “Take these to the table, please, for you and Imogen. Georgie, Jo, come get your bowls.” And she turned to take a knife to the loaf of bread, laying out thick slices, which would help to sop up the broth that had become just a bit too thin with the alterations necessity had required her to make.
