Yours Until Dawn Page 5

  The splash of water and the brisk flapping of sheets confirmed her claims. Gabriel took a deep breath—a breath poisoned by the sweet tang of lemon verbena and laundry starch. As he exhaled, he heard a rustling from the direction of his dressing room like the sound a rat might make. A very plump, balding rat, wearing a waistcoat.

  “Beckwith?” Gabriel barked.

  The rustling ceased, fading to stony silence.

  Gabriel sighed. “You might as well come out, Beckwith. I can smell your hair pomade.”

  Shuffling steps informed him that the butler had come creeping out of the dressing room. Before his nurse could offer some cheery explanation for his presence there, Beckwith said, “Since you don’t wish to have a valet hovering over you, my lord, Miss Wickersham suggested that we group your clothing according to type and color. Then you should be able to dress yourself without the aid of a manservant.”

  “And you were kind enough to volunteer for the task. Et tu, Brute?” Gabriel murmured.

  Not only had his new nurse invaded his only remaining sanctuary, she had enlisted his own servants to lead the charge. He wondered how she had managed to earn their loyalty so quickly. Perhaps he had underestimated her charms. She might be a more dangerous adversary than he’d suspected.

  “Leave us,” he commanded curtly.

  A frantic bustle of activity that involved much rustling of sheets and clanking of buckets informed him that the servants weren’t even going to pretend to misunderstand him.

  “My lord, I really don’t think…” Beckwith attempted. “I mean, it’s hardly proper to leave you alone in your bedchamber with—”

  “Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

  Miss Wickersham didn’t pretend to misunderstand him, either. He was probably the only one who noted her slight hesitation. “Of course not.”

  “You heard her,” he said. “Go. All of you.” The air stirred as the servants rushed past him. As he heard the last of their footsteps fade away down the corridor, he asked, “Are they gone?”

  “They are.”

  Gabriel fumbled behind him until he found the doorknob. He dragged the door shut with a thunderous bang, then leaned against it, cutting off her only hope of escape. “Did it never occur to you, Miss Wickersham,” he said tautly, “that I might have left my door closed for a reason? That I might have wished for my bedchamber to be left undisturbed? That I might cherish my privacy?” His voice rose. “That I might prefer to keep some small corner of my life free from your meddling influence?”

  “I should think you’d be grateful.” She sniffed pointedly. “At least it no longer smells as if you’ve been keeping goats in here.”

  He glowered in her general direction. “At the moment I would much prefer the company of goats.”

  He actually heard her open her mouth, then snap it shut. She paused precisely long enough to count to ten before attempting to speak again. “Perhaps the two of us simply got off on the wrong foot, my lord. You seem to have received the mistaken impression that I came to Fairchild Park to make your life more difficult.”

  “The words ’a living hell’ have come to mind more than once since your arrival.”

  She blew out a gusty sigh. “Contrary to what you may believe, I took this position so I could bring more ease to your life.”

  “Just when were you planning to start?”

  “As soon as you’ll allow me,” she retorted. “Rearranging the house for your convenience can be just the beginning. Why, I could help alleviate your boredom by taking you for walks in the garden, assisting you with your correspondence, reading aloud to you.”

  Books were yet another cruel reminder of a pleasure he could no longer enjoy. “No, thank you. I won’t be read to as if I were some dull-witted child.” As he folded his arms over his chest, even Gabriel knew he was behaving like one.

  “Very well. But even so, there are a hundred other things I can do to help you adjust to your blindness.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have no intention of living the rest of my life this way!” Gabriel roared, his control finally snapping.

  As the echo of his shout died, the silence swelled between them.

  He sank against the door, raking a hand through his hair. “At this very moment, even as we speak, a team of physicians hired by my father is traveling through Europe, gathering all the information they can find on my condition. They’re scheduled to return here within the fortnight. At that time they will confirm what I’ve always suspected—that my affliction isn’t permanent, but is only a temporary aberration.”

  In that moment, Gabriel was almost thankful he couldn’t see her eyes. He was afraid he’d find in their depths the one torment she’d spared him thus far—her pity. He would almost prefer her laughter.

  “Do you know what the best thing about getting my sight back will be?” he asked softly.

  “No,” she replied, all of the bravado gone from her voice.

  Straightening, he took one step toward her, then another. She refused to give ground until he was almost on top of her. Feeling the air shift as she retreated, he clumsily flanked her until their positions were reversed and she was the one backing toward the door. “Some might believe it would be the joy of watching the sun dip below a lavender horizon at the end of a perfect summer day.”

  When he heard her back come up against the door, he splayed one palm against the thick mahogany behind her. “Others might judge it to be perusing the velvety petals of a ruby red rose…”—leaning forward until he felt the warm tickle of her breath against his face, he deepened his voice to a smoky caress—“or gazing tenderly into the eyes of a beautiful woman. But I can promise you, Miss Wickersham, that all of those pleasures will pale in comparison to the sheer unmitigated joy of being rid of you.”

  Sliding his hand down until he encountered the doorknob, he flung open the door, sending her stumbling backward into the hallway.

  “Are you clear of the door, Miss Wickersham?”

  “Pardon?” she snapped, plainly confused.

  “Are you clear of the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Without further ado, Gabriel slammed it in her face.

  Samantha was passing through the foyer later that day, on her way to retrieve Gabriel’s bed hangings from the laundress, when his smoky baritone came floating down from the landing above. “So tell me, Beckwith, just what does our Miss Wickersham look like? It’s straining the limits of my imagination to envision such a vexatious creature. All I can see in my mind’s eye is some sort of withered crone bent over a cauldron, cackling with glee.”

  Samantha jerked to a halt, her heart lurching with panic. She touched a trembling hand to her heavy spectacles, then to the dull, reddish brown hair she’d wound into a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

  Seized by sudden inspiration, she drifted back into Beckwith’s line of vision and pressed a finger to her lips, silently pleading with him not to reveal her presence. Gabriel was leaning against the wall, his imposing arms folded over his chest.

  The butler drew out his handkerchief and mopped his damp brow, plainly torn between loyalty to his master and Samantha’s beseeching gaze. “As nurses go, I suppose you could describe her as rather… nondescript.”

  “Come, now, Beckwith. Surely you can do better than that. Is her hair icy blond? Or faded gray? Or black as soot? Does she wear it cropped? Or wound around her head in a strangling crown of braids? Is she as shrunken and bony as she sounds?”

  Beckwith shot Samantha a frantic look over the banister. In reply, she puffed out her cheeks and drew a huge circle around herself with her hands.

  “Oh, no, my lord. She’s a rather …l-l-large woman.”

  Gabriel frowned. “How large?”

  “Oh, about…” Samantha held up ten fingers, then eight. “About eighty stone,” Beckwith finished confidently.

  “Eighty stone! Good God,
man! I’ve ridden ponies smaller than that.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes and tried again.

  “Not eighty stone, my lord,” Beckwith said slowly, his gaze riveted on her flashing fingers. “Eighteen.”

  Gabriel stroked his chin. “That’s odd. She’s rather light on her feet for such a large woman, don’t you think? When I took her hand, I would havesworn…” He shook his head as if to clear it of some inexplicable notion. “What of her face?”

  “We-e-e-e-ell,” Beckwith said, stalling for time as Samantha closed her fingertips over her pert nose and made a tugging motion. “She has a rather long, pointy nose.”

  “I knew it!” Gabriel exclaimed triumphantly.

  “And teeth like…” Beckwith narrowed his eyes in bewilderment as Samantha crooked two fingers over her head. “A donkey?” he ventured.

  Shaking her head, she curled her hands into paws and made tiny hopping motions.

  “A rabbit!” Finally getting into the spirit of the game, Beckwith stopped himself just short of clapping his plump hands. “She has teeth like a rabbit!”

  Gabriel snorted with satisfaction. “No doubt perfectly suiting her long, horsey face.”

  Samantha tapped her chin.

  “And on her chin,” the butler continued, his enthusiasm mounting, “there’s an enormous wart with…” Samantha put her hand under her chin and wiggled three fingers. “Three curly hairs growing out of it!”

  Gabriel shuddered. “It’s even worse than I suspected. I can’t imagine what possessed me to think…”

  Beckwith blinked innocently behind his spectacles. “Think what, my lord?”

  Gabriel waved away the question. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a consequence of spending too much time in my own company, I fear.” He held up a hand. “Please spare me any more details about Miss Wickersham’s appearance. Perhaps some things really are better left to the imagination.”

  He turned toward the stairs, his tread heavy. Samantha cupped a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter, but despite her best efforts, a squeak escaped.

  Gabriel slowly pivoted on his heel. Did she imagine the flare of his nostrils? The suspicious curl of his lip? She held her breath, fearing the slightest move or wayward draft might give her away.

  He cocked his head to the side. “Did you hear that, Beckwith?”

  “No, my lord. I didn’t hear anything. Not even the creak of a floorboard.”

  Gabriel’s sightless gaze scanned the floor below, returning to linger near Samantha with uncanny accuracy. “Are you certain Miss Wickersham doesn’t have any of the attributes of a mouse? Twitching whiskers? A passionate fondness for cheese? A tendency to creep about and spy on people, perhaps?”

  Beckwith’s brow was starting to glisten again. “Oh, no, my lord. She doesn’t resemble a rodent in the least.”

  “That’s fortunate. Because if she did, I might have to set a trap for her.” Arching one tawny eyebrow, he turned on his heel and started up the stairs, leaving Samantha to wonder nervously just what bait he might use.

  Bells were ringing, sweetly caroling their song across the countryside. Samantha rolled over and nestled deeper into her feather pillow, dreaming of a sunny Saturday morning and a church thronged with smiling people. A man stood before the altar, his broad shoulders straining the fawn linen of his morning coat. Samantha started down the long aisle, a bouquet of lilacs gripped in her trembling hands. She could sense him smiling at her, could feel his irresistible warmth tugging her toward him, but no matter how bright the sunshine streaming through the stained-glass windows or how close she drew to him, his face remained in shadow.

  The ringing of the bells swelled, no longer melodious, but jarring and off-key. Their harsh, insistent jangle was joined by an even more insistent pounding on the door of her bedchamber. Samantha’s eyes flew open.

  “Miss Wickersham!” cried a muffled voice tinged with panic.

  Samantha scrambled out of bed and rushed to the door, tossing a dressing gown over her plain cotton nightdress. She threw it open to find the earl’s harried butler standing in the corridor, clutching a branch of candles in his shaking hand.

  “Good heavens, what is it, Beckwith? Is the house afire?”

  “No, miss, it’s the master. He won’t stop ringing until you come.”

  She rubbed at her bleary eyes. “I should have thought I’d be the last person he’d summon. Especially after all but tossing me out of his bed-chamber this morning.”

  Beckwith shook his head, his quivering chins and red-rimmed eyes making him look only a sniffle away from bursting into tears. “I’ve tried to reason with him, but he insists that he wants only you.”

  Although his words gave Samantha pause, she simply said, “Very well. I’ll be right there.”

  She dressed quickly, blessing the simplicity of her dark blue, high-waisted morning gown and the new French styles. At least she didn’t have to squander precious time waiting for a lady’s maid to lace her corset or wrestle with a hundred tiny silk-covered buttons.

  When she emerged from her chamber, still tucking flyaway wisps of hair into her drooping chignon, Beckwith was waiting in the hall to escort her to Gabriel’s bedside. As they hurried down a long corridor and up a broad flight of stairs to the third floor of the house, Samantha smothered a yawn with her hand. Judging from the murky light seeping through the freshly washed window on the landing, night was only just beginning its surrender to dawn.

  Gabriel’s bedchamber door stood ajar. If not for the vigorous jingling, Samantha might have feared finding him collapsed on the floor on the verge of death.

  Instead, he was reclining against the carved teak headboard of his towering four-poster, looking in robust good health. He wore no shirt, and judging from the way the silk sheet rode low on his hips, no pantaloons, either. The candlelight cast a glowing patina over skin that already looked as if it had been sprinkled with gold dust. As her gaze was drawn to that impressive expanse of muscle and sinew, Samantha felt her mouth go dry. A sparkling mat of hair tapered to a narrow ribbon on his taut belly before disappearing beneath the sheet.

  For a moment, Samantha feared Beckwith might actually drop the candles and clap his hands over her eyes. At the butler’s scandalized gasp, Gabriel gave the bell in his hand one last indolent flick.

  “Really, my lord!” Beckwith exclaimed, resting the branch of candles on a nearby pier table before returning to stand at rigid attention by the door. “Don’t you think you should have at least covered yourself before the young lady arrived?”

  Gabriel simply draped one muscular arm over the mound of pillows piled next to him, stretching like some large, lazy cat. “Forgive me, Miss Wickersham. I didn’t realize you’d never seen a man shirtless before.”

  Thankful that he couldn’t see the heat flooding her cheeks, Samantha said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen plenty of men without their shirts.” Her cheeks grew even hotter. “I mean while performing my duties. As a nurse.”

  “That’s very fortunate. But I still wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.” Gabriel fumbled among the bedclothes until he located a rumpled cravat. He draped the scrap of cloth around his neck and tugged it into a clumsy knot before turning a devilish smile in her direction. “There. Is that better?”

  Somehow he managed to look even more indecent wearing a cravat but no shirt. If this was the trap he’d set for her, he had baited it well. Refusing to be caught without a struggle, Samantha went marching over to the bed. Gabriel stiffened as she tucked one finger into his poorly made knot, tugging it loose.

  Despite his wary stillness and her concerted efforts, the backs of her fingers brushed the heated velvet of his skin more than once as she fashioned the lace-edged linen into a snowy waterfall she would have dared any valet to improve.

  “There,” she pronounced, giving her handiwork an approving pat. “That’s better.”

  Gabriel’s gilt-tipped lashes were lowered over his eyes. “I’m surprised you d
idn’t strangle me with it.”

  “Tempting though the prospect might be, I have no desire to seek other employment right now.”

  “It’s rare to find a woman who can tie a cravat with such skill. Have you a father or grandfather who was a fumble-fingers?”

  “Brothers,” was all she offered. Straightening, she moved just out of his reach. Despite his blindness, she feared he still saw more than she wanted him to. “Now would you care to enlighten me as to why you dragged half of your household out of their warm, cozy beds before the crack of dawn?”

  “If you must know, my conscience was troubling me.”

  “I can see why such a rare occurrence might rob you of your sleep.”

  Gabriel drummed his long, elegant fingers on a silk-covered bolster, his only acknowledgment of her riposte. “I was lying here all alone in my bed when I suddenly realized how unfair it was of me to hinder you in the performance of your duties.” His sulky mouth caressed the word, sending a curious shiver down Samantha’s spine. “You’re obviously a woman of high moral character. It would hardly be right to expect you to sit back and collect your rather generous wages for doing nothing at all. So I decided to rectify the situation by ringing for you.”

  “How very thoughtful of you. And just which duty would you like me to perform first?”

  He pondered for a moment before his face brightened. “Breakfast. In bed. On a tray. Please don’t disturb Étienne this early. I’m sure you can manage. I’d like my eggs baked and my bacon lightly charred around the edges. I’d prefer my chocolate to be steaming, but not too hot. I don’t wish to scorch my tongue.”

  Bemused by his high-handedness, Samantha exchanged a look with Beckwith. “Will there be anything else?” She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from adding, Your Majesty.

  “Some kippers and two fresh-baked crossbuns, slathered with honey and butter. And once you’ve cleared up after breakfast, perhaps you could ring up a bath and finish dusting my sitting room.” He blinked in her direction, looking as angelic as that sinister slash of a scar would allow. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”