Page 12 of When the Marquess Was Mine
Or what if he never woke up? What if he died here? Kitty thought he was Sterling; she would want to write to Lord Pelham, Sterling’s father, and send his body to Pelham Park. Georgiana would have to tell her that, no, it was a marquess, and instead they would have to tell the Duke of Rowland his eldest son and heir was dead. One of the few things Georgiana knew about Rowland was how devoted he was to his family. If he thought Kitty had let his son die because of the deed...
Oh dear heavens. She felt dizzy. She might be ill. She turned to go to her own room, wanting to hide under the covers until she thought up a way out of this nightmare.
“Georgiana!” Kitty took her arm, and Georgiana started so badly she nearly fainted on the spot. Her friend’s expression grew sympathetic and encouraging. “Come in,” she said gently. “Don’t despair. He looks much better now that we’ve cleaned away some of the blood, and Adam will bring the doctor as quickly as he is able.”
“Oh no, I—I—I’m no good in a sickroom,” Georgiana stuttered, resisting her friend’s tug toward the door. Mounds of red-stained linen were already piled up on the floor. The marquess lay motionless on the bed. She did not want to see another man die.
“Of course,” said Kitty at once. “You’ve had a dreadful shock. Go lie down and I’ll fetch you when he wakes.”
When he wakes. When he opened his mouth and said he was most certainly not Lord Sterling, but Lord Westmorland, coldhearted destroyer of family homes. Georgiana jolted forward. “No!” She forced a nervous smile. “I should be there when”—if—“he wakes.”
Still, her feet dragged as she went into the room. The scent of blood was strong and sharp. Kitty said a quiet word to the two maids, who scooped up the soiled linens and left, closing the door quietly.
“Are you sure he won’t die?” asked Georgiana, then wished the words back.
“Well, no one can be certain, but I swear to you we shall fight desperately for him to live.” The door opened and one of the maids brought in a basin of water, which she set down beside the bed. “Let’s clean him up before the doctor arrives.”
She had got herself into this mess, and she would have to cope with it. Georgiana forced her feet to take her to the side of the bed. She touched the marquess’s hand, lying limply on the mattress. A heavy signet ring gleamed on his finger. Why hadn’t the thieves stolen it? It must be valuable. It also had a W carved deep into the gold, which was unlike anything Sterling would wear. With a covert glance at Kitty, Georgiana twisted it off his finger and slipped it into her pocket.
The next half hour was almost unreal. Together with one of the footmen, they stripped the injured man of all but his buckskin breeches, which was small consolation to Georgiana. Lucy, the maid, took the clothes away, leaving her and Kitty to finish washing the blood from his face and torso.
“They beat him all over,” Georgiana murmured, her hand hovering just above a giant bruise blooming on the side of his rib cage. As long as she didn’t look at his face, her instinctive sympathy for anyone in this plight could drown out the guilt at what she’d done.
“But he doesn’t seem to have any broken bones.” Kitty washed and dried his arm with a gentleness that made Georgiana’s stomach knot.
“How can you tell when he’s unconscious?” Carefully she cleaned away the crust of blood over a scrape on his swelling knuckles. It could be from falling on the road, but she suspected it was from punching one of the thieves. There had been at least two of them, and maybe more. Any man, even one as tall and strong as Westmorland, would have been overwhelmed.
Kitty put her hands on her hips and surveyed him. “Nothing is at a bad angle. There is no obscene swelling. I grant you we won’t know for sure until he wakes and can tell the doctor what hurts—”
Georgiana shuddered at that prospect, and Kitty mistook the cause. She rushed around the bed and flung her arm around Georgiana’s shoulders. “Don’t lose heart.”
“It’s just—it’s just so...” Georgiana found to her dismay that her throat was clogged with tears. Not so much for Westmorland—it seemed incredible that he wouldn’t be his usual rude self in a few days—but from fright. The reality of what she’d done was growing larger and larger in her mind. The marquess had been badly beaten, which meant that even if he had no broken bones or fatal wounds, he wouldn’t be able to travel for some time. She pictured him waking up and announcing that he now owned Osbourne House and they must all leave immediately.
No. No, he could not do that. She steadied herself, unconsciously gripping his hand tighter. She would not allow him to do that. When he woke up, he would be in pain, disoriented, vulnerable. She would persuade him that Kitty had saved his life, and in return he mustn’t do anything to harm her. If he had taken Charles’s deed, he must return it immediately. Surely even the Malicious Marquess couldn’t be so evil—or so stupid—as to turn on his benefactress.
And if he were, well, she knew where all his bruises were. A few careless swings of her elbow would persuade him. Her nerves began to recover as she considered how she might turn this around. All she had to do was ensure she was present when he woke.
“No,” she said to Kitty, her voice calmer. She returned the embrace. “I shan’t give up hope.” They exchanged hesitant smiles.
“You didn’t tell me Lord Sterling was so handsome,” said Kitty, her tone growing warmer.
Georgiana avoided her gaze, turning away to dab at the marquess’s scraped knuckles as if it required her entire concentration. “Of course I did. Pooh, Kitty, did you think I would marry an ugly man?”
Kitty laughed. “Of course not! I always knew you would have your pick of gentlemen. I only meant that your description of him left out a great deal.”
“Did it?” She affected surprise. “I’m sure I told you what he looks like...”
“Please don’t take this amiss, but you didn’t do him justice.” Kitty gazed at the unconscious man before them in open appreciation. Georgiana looked, too, in spite of herself. The marquess was tall and broad-shouldered, and had more muscles than any rakish scoundrel had a right to. “I suppose he’s handsome beyond words when he smiles and you can see his dimples.”
Good Lord. Georgiana had no idea if he even had dimples; she’d never seen him smile, at least not in her direction. “As long as he wakes up and smiles again, I shan’t care if there are dimples or not,” she said, silently begging Sterling’s pardon for giving his dimples to another man.
“Of course!” Kitty straightened the bedclothes. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make light of it when he’s so injured—”
“I know.”
Thankfully a servant knocked, and Kitty hurried to the door. Georgiana looked darkly at the man on the bed and blew a loose strand of hair away from her face. She’d better get used to lying about him.
“Williams sent up Lord Sterling’s effects,” said Kitty, returning. “He didn’t bring much. I had his saddlebags put into your room, so they would be out of the way.”
