Page 34 of The Viscount's Seduction
“Grain. Yes. You knew them from your home to be good, honorable men. Perhaps you knew their mother or some such.”
She had gone very still.
“Are they Catholic?”
“No.”
“Presbyterian?”
“No. They are Church of Ireland, like me.”
“Excellent. They’ll be more practical about oath taking. The others can be unnecessarily scrupulous about what they say with their hand on a bible. Now, the Smith brothers could see that your circumstances had been reduced, and they heard of a ship docking with a great store of cloth that would make you a few fine dresses.”
She had stilled and her breath warmed his neck. That and the swell of her bottom were heating him. When he pulled her a little tighter, her lack of resistance sent a surge of arousal through him.
“The cloth would have to be for Lady Jane. She has a birthday upcoming and I have naught to give her.”
“Then so it shall be.”
He held her, and felt her stiffness relax a bit more, and heard her breathing slow, while his own accelerated and his insides burned.
They were lies and he didn’t care. He didn’t care why she’d gone to the dock alone except for the two Irishmen with prices on their heads. He wanted her, and whether it was simple lust or to spite his father, he didn’t care. For once in his carefully managed life, he was acting a fool, and so it must be.
He let her rest against him, both of them keeping their peace until he thought she must be sleeping, poor girl, after that long walk and such excitement.
The carriage came to a stop and the driver descended, and she quickly slid onto the seat and straightened her garments.
She hadn’t been sleeping at all. She’d been, most likely, plotting.
He helped her out to where Bink and the Smith brothers stood waiting. Well, one stood. The one called John still sagged against his brother.
“What is this place?” Bink asked, staring up at the brick-faced townhouse.
“This, brother, is my very own refuge from the world, my bachelor lodgings.”
Sirena pulledher shawl close around her, contemplating escape while Lord Bakeley himself stoked the fire. That, she supposed, was better than the task his brother, Mr. Gibson, had taken on, that of stripping and washing Josh.
It was unaccountably colder inside than out, like the house had stored every bit of the winter’s chill in its brick walls and heavy draperies. It had been all but closed up, clearly not much lived in, and not even yet fully decorated. He must keep it for bringing his mistress, Lady Arbrough, though such a fashionable lady surely found this place laughable.
Or perhaps Lady Arbrough was looking forward to decorating it, though it didn’t seem grand enough for a viscount with a wife.
This bedchamber sported a full sized bed, plenty big for the man stretched out groaning there. The housekeeper, a competent, congenial sort, had brought out sheets, and Sirena had helped her make up the bed before Josh had been laid there. While Mr. Gibson sponged Josh, a male servant—the housekeeper’s husband, she guessed—worked on Walter’s face.
Michael’s, she reminded herself. Slipping from John to Josh was not so noticeable, but if she called MichaelWalter,Bakeley would have at least a first name to give to his father, and Shaldon would easily rifle through the Home Office’s Irish files and make the connection to Walter O’Brian.
Josh groaned out an oath.
“Sorry, lad,” Mr. Gibson said.
Bakeley stood and dusted off his hands. “How bad is he?”
“Warm the blanket,” Mr. Gibson told the housekeeper. “I’m guessing a bruised rib or two, or maybe broken. I’ll send for a surgeon.”
“I’ll be fine, sir.” Josh tried to sit up and gasped, falling back. “We’d best be off.”
“The surgeon is my man, not Shaldon’s,” Mr. Gibson said. “And you’ll rest there and let yourself be treated.”
