Yours Until Dawn Page 8

  But as she folded back the sheet, revealing his well-muscled chest and taut abdomen, it became painfully evident that he was not a child, but a man. And an extremely virile one, at that.

  Dipping the cloth in the warm water, Samantha dragged it over the swells and valleys of his chest, wiping away every last trace of dried blood. Glistening drops of water caught in the golden whorls of his chest hair. As one particularly bold rivulet trickled beneath the sheet draped over his narrow hips, her helpless gaze followed, hypnotized by the lure of the forbidden.

  She had assured Phillip that it was quite proper for her to be bathing him. But there was nothing proper about the sudden dryness of her mouth, the quickening of her breath, the wicked desire to lift that sheet and steal a peek beneath.

  She stole a furtive glance at the door, wishing she had thought to lock it.

  Nibbling on her lower lip, Samantha grasped the edge of the sheet between thumb and forefinger and tugged it upward, one tantalizing inch at a time.

  “Is it just me or is there a distinct draft in here?”

  As that smoky baritone, faintly slurred, but no less mocking than usual, poured over her, Samantha dropped the sheet as if it had burst into flames. “Pardon me, my lord. I was just ch-checking your—your—”

  “Circulation?” he gently provided. He waved a hand in her direction. “Do carry on. Far be it from me to hinder you from satisfying your… curiosity. About my condition, of course.”

  “Just how long have you been conscious?” Samantha demanded, her suspicions growing.

  He stretched, the motion sending a ripple through the taut muscles of his chest. “Oh, I’d say since just before Phillip knocked on the door.”

  Remembering how she had lingered so lovingly over the sculpted contours of his upper body, Samantha wanted to sink through the floorboards. “You were awake the entire time? I can’t believe you were just going to let me—”

  “What?” He blinked his sightless eyes, the very portrait of innocence. “Carry out your duties?”

  Samantha snapped her mouth shut, knowing she couldn’t argue further without incriminating herself.

  She jerked the sheet up, shielding his naked chest from her gaze. “If you’re having trouble resting, I can give you some more laudanum.”

  He shuddered. “No, thank you. I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all. Then at least I can be sure I’m still alive.” As she checked his bandage, he offered her a rueful half-smile that squeezed at her heart. “I only hope it doesn’t leave a scar. I should hate to spoil my fine looks.”

  Brushing aside his tousled hair, she pressed a hand to his brow. Oddly enough, it was her flesh that felt fevered. “Vanity should be the least of your concerns right now. You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”

  “So they keep telling me.” Before she could withdraw her hand, he caught her wrist and gently drew it down between them. “But what of your luck, Miss Wick6ersham? Weren’t you supposed to be back in London by now, plying your tender mercies at the bedside of some grateful sailor who would make calf’s eyes at you and propose as soon as he was back on his feet?”

  “And where would be the challenge in that?” Samantha asked softly, unable to tear her gaze away from the sight of those large masculine fingers curved around her pale, delicate wrist. His thumb lay directly over her thundering pulse. “I much prefer squandering my mercies on ungrateful bullies with beastly tempers. You know, if you wanted me to stay, there was really no need to cut your throat. You could have just asked nicely.”

  “And ruined my reputation for beastliness? I think not. Besides, I was only ringing for you so I could have the pleasure of dismissing you myself.” His thumb skated across her tingling palm in something dangerously close to a caress.

  “Well, I can hardly go now,” she said briskly. “My conscience would never allow me to leave until you’re fully recovered from your fall.”

  He sighed. “Then I suppose you’ll just have to stay. I should hate to sully a conscience as pristine as yours.”

  Discomfited by his words, Samantha tugged her wrist from his grip. His fingers left a sizzling brand on her skin.

  “Of course, you’re not entirely perfect,” he added, nodding in the direction of the chair. “You do snore in your sleep.”

  “And you drool in yours,” she retorted, daring to touch a finger ever so briefly to the corner of his mouth.

  “Touché, Miss Wickersham! The lady’s tongue is as sharp as her wit. Perhaps you should summon the doctor before I start bleeding again.” He tossed the sheet back to his waist and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Or better yet, I’ll fetch him myself. Despite my little misadventure, I’m feeling amazingly spry this morning.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Samantha caught him by the shoulders and eased him back to the pillows. “Dr. Greenjoy said you’re to remain in bed for at least three days.” She frowned. “Although he failed to leave instructions on how I’m to keep you there.”

  Settling back among the pillows, Gabriel propped his hands behind his head, his sightless eyes sparkling with devilment. “Don’t fret, Miss Wickersham. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Rain pattered against the mullioned windows of Gabriel’s bedchamber. Instead of lulling him to sleep, its cozy rhythm only further frayed his already ragged nerves. Any hope he’d had of escaping his prison bed in the past two days had been stymied by his nurse’s constant presence.

  His growing restlessness seemed to magnify every sound in the room—the creak of the window seat as Miss Wickersham settled deeper into the cushions, the juicy crunch as her teeth sank through the crisp skin of an apple, the faint rustle of paper as she turned the page of her book.

  By employing both memory and imagination, Gabriel could almost see her there in the spot he had so frequently occupied as a boy when this room had been his parents’ bedchamber. The frosted chimney of the Argand lamp on the side table would cast a gentle oasis of light around her, keeping the shadows at bay. She probably had her feet tucked beneath her to protect them from the damp that seeped through the baseboards on a rainy day. As she took another bite of the apple, he could see her white teeth crunching through its luscious red skin, see her small pink tongue darting out to catch a droplet of juice at the corner of her mouth.

  She was probably wearing one of those silly little scraps of linen and lace women fancied as caps perched atop her hair. But no matter how hard Gabriel concentrated, the face beneath it refused to come into focus.

  He drummed his long fingers on the bed-clothes, his frustration mounting. He cleared his throat, but the sound was greeted by nothing but the rustle of another page turning. He cleared his throat again, this time with the force of a pistol shot.

  His efforts were rewarded by a long-suffering sigh. “Are you absolutely certain you don’t wish me to read aloud to you, my lord?”

  “I should say not,” he replied with a sniff. “It would make me feel as if I were back in the nursery.”

  Samantha’s shrug was plain in her voice. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t wish to disturb your sulking.”

  He gave her just enough time to settle back into the story before blurting out, “What are you reading?

  “A play actually. Thomas Morton’s Speed the Plough. It’s a rather sprightly comedy of manners.”

  “I saw it performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane once. I’m sure you’ll find much in common with Mrs. Grundy,” he said, referring to that bastion of prudish propriety who never actually appears onstage. “I would have thought a tragedy by Goethe would be more to your liking. Some grim morality tale where a poor wretch is doomed to eternal damnation for stealing a glimpse of stocking or some other such unforgivable transgression.”

  “I prefer to believe that no transgression is unforgivable.”

  “Then I envy you your innocence,” he replied, surprised to realize he actually did.

  The sound of another page turning told him she’d rather read than argue with him
. He was just resigning himself to a long afternoon nap when she laughed aloud.

  Gabriel scowled, the bawdy ripple stirring him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He propped up one leg, taking care to tent the bedclothes over his lap. “Was that a laugh or has your apple given you indigestion?”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” she said airily. “Just a particularly witty passage.”

  After another merry chuckle, he barked, “Well? Don’t you think it’s rather ill-mannered to hoard such literary brilliance for your own amusement?”

  “I thought you didn’t wish to be read to.”

  “Consider it morbid curiosity. I’m dying to know what would engage such a humorless creature as yourself.”

  “Very well.”

  As she proceeded to read an amusing exchange between two brothers who had fixed their love on the same lady, Gabriel was surprised to learn that his nurse had missed her calling. She should have taken to the stage herself. Her droll inflections brought each character to vivid life. Before he knew it, Gabriel found himself sitting up in the bed and leaning toward the sound of her voice.

  At the heart of a juicy bit of banter, she stopped in midsentence. “Do forgive me. I didn’t mean to ramble on and disturb your rest.”

  Eager to know how the scene would end, he waved away her apology. “You might as well finish now. I suppose even your infernal yammering is preferable to the sound of my own thoughts.”

  “I should imagine they’d grow tiresome very quickly.”

  It required no trick of Gabriel’s imagination or memory to envision her smirk as she ducked back behind the book. But at least she did as he bade, taking up where she’d left off and reading to the end of the play. At the close of the last act, they both breathed a mutual sigh of satisfaction.

  When Samantha finally spoke, her voice had lost its flinty edge. “Boredom must be the very worst of your enemies, my lord. Before the war, I’m sure you were engaged in the pursuit of many… pleasures.”

  Was it his imagination or did her voice seem to caress the word? “Boredom was the worst of my enemies. Until you arrived at Fairchild Park.”

  “If you’d only allow me, I could help alleviate some of your tedium. I could take you for long walks in the gardens. I could read aloud to you every afternoon. Why, I could even help you with your correspondence if you like! There must be someone who would love to hear from you. Your fellow officers? Your family? Your friends back in London?”

  “Why spoil their fond memories of me?” he asked dryly. “I’m sure they’d much rather think of me as dead.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she chided. “I’m sure they’d all be heartened by a brief note letting them know how you’re getting along.”

  Gabriel was puzzled by the brisk tap of her footsteps crossing the room. Until he heard the drawer of the writing desk slide open.

  Acting purely on instinct, he threw back the blankets and lunged toward the sound. This time, desperation sharpened his aim instead of dulling it. His hands closed easily over the familiar contours of the drawer, slamming it shut. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he realized the soft, warm object trapped between his outstretched arms was his nurse.

  Chapter Seven

  My darling Cecily,

  Now that I’ve been bold enough to address you by your Christian name, dare I hope to imagine my own name shaped by your luscious lips?

  For a dazed moment, Samantha didn’t even dare to breathe. The hypnotic patter of the rain, the gentle gloom, the warmth of Gabriel’s breath stirring her hair, all wove together, suspending her in a misty cocoon where time lost all of its power and meaning. Gabriel seemed to be equally mesmerized. She had insisted that he don a shirt that morning, but she hadn’t insisted that he fasten it. The broad chest pressed to her back barely seemed to be stirring. His palms were still flat against the desk drawer, his muscled forearms rigid with strain.

  Although their awkward stance wasn’t quite an embrace, Samantha couldn’t help but think how easy it would be for him to wrap his arms around her, to draw her into the raw heat of his body until she had no choice but to melt against him.

  She stiffened. She wasn’t some weak-kneed, starry-eyed debutante, ripe for seduction at the hands of the first gentleman who crooked a finger at her.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, breaking the dangerous spell that bound them. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just searching for some stationery and ink.”

  Gabriel lowered his arms, but it was Samantha who quickly moved away, seeking to put some distance between them. Without his warmth surrounding her, the damp she’d barely noticed before seemed to sink deep into her bones, making them feel old and brittle. Sinking back down on the window seat, she hugged back a shiver.

  Gabriel stood still and silent for a long moment, as if deep in thought. Then, instead of reproaching her for meddling as she expected, he tugged open the drawer. His hands didn’t fumble at all as they unerringly located the contents of the drawer. As he turned and tossed the thick bundle in her direction, Samantha was so startled it almost slipped through her grasp.

  “If you want something to read for your amusement, you might try these.” Although scorn darkened Gabriel’s face, Samantha sensed that it wasn’t for her. “I think you’ll find they contain all of the elements one usually enjoys in a farce—witty banter, a secret courtship, a pathetic fool so drunk on love he’s willing to risk everything to win his lady’s heart, even his life.”

  She gazed down at the ribbon-bound packet of letters. The linen stationery was worn, yet perfectly preserved, as if the letters had been handled often, but with great care. As Samantha turned them over, a woman’s perfume drifted to her nose, as evocative and sweet as the first gardenias of the season.

  Gabriel dragged the chair out from under the knee well of the desk, turned it around, and straddled it. “Go on,” he commanded, nodding in her direction. “If you read them aloud, we can both enjoy a fine laugh.”

  Samantha toyed with the ends of the silk ribbon, a ribbon that had once been wound through a woman’s lustrous hair. “I hardly think it would be proper for me to read your private correspondence.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Some plays are better performed than read anyway. Why don’t I start with the first act?” He folded his arms over the back of the chair, his face hard.

  “The curtain rose over three years ago when we met at a house party at Lord Langley’s country estate during the Season. She was so very different from the other girls I’d known. Most of them didn’t have a thought in their pretty heads beyond snaring a wealthy husband before the Season was done. But she was warm and bright and funny and well read. She could discuss poetry and politics with equal ease. We shared a single dance, and without even surrendering so much as a kiss, she stole my heart.”

  “And did you steal hers as well?”

  His lips curved in a rueful half-smile. “I made a valiant effort. But unfortunately, my rakish reputation had preceded me. Since I was an earl and she the daughter of a humble baronet, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that I would do more than trifle with her heart.”

  Samantha didn’t know if she could blame the girl. The man in the portrait on the landing had probably won—and broken—more than his fair share of hearts. “I would have thought both she and her family would have been thrilled to catch the eye of such an esteemed—and wealthy—nobleman.”

  “That’s just what I thought,” Gabriel admitted. “But it seems her older sister was involved in some unfortunate scandal involving a viscount, a moonlight rendezvous, and the viscount’s enraged wife. Her father’s fondest wish was that his youngest daughter make a match with some stolid gentleman farmer or perhaps even a clergyman.”

  A fleeting image of Gabriel in a curate’s collar nearly made Samantha laugh aloud. “I can see why you might have been something of a disappointment to him.”

  “Precisely. Since I couldn’t sway her with my title, my wealth, or my charms, I se
t about trying to win her with my words. For several months, we exchanged long, bantering letters.”

  “Secretly, of course.”

  He nodded. “Had it become known that she was corresponding with a gentleman, especially one of my reputation, her good name would have been destroyed.”

  “Yet it was a risk she was willing to take,” Samantha pointed out.

  “In truth, I think we both enjoyed the thrill of the game. We would come face to face at some ball or soiree, murmur a few polite words, then pretend indifference. No one knew that I was aching to drag her away to the nearest moonlit garden or deserted alcove and kiss her insensible.”

  The husky note in his voice sent a dark shiver dancing over Samantha’s flesh. Although she tried to fight the temptation, she saw Gabriel running a hand through his golden hair as he paced some shadowy alcove. Saw the anticipation that brightened his eyes as he scented the rich gardenia of his lady’s perfume. She felt the strength in his arms as he reached out to draw her through the curtain. Heard him groaning deep in his throat as their lips and bodies brushed, consumed with the irresistible hunger of the forbidden.

  “One would have thought I’d grow bored with such an innocent dalliance. But her letters enchanted me.” He shook his head, looking genuinely bemused. “I had never dreamed a woman’s mind could be so layered or so fascinating. My mother and sisters were rarely engaged by anything more stimulating than the latest snippet of gossip from Almack’s or the most recent fashion plates smuggled from Paris.”

  Samantha bit back a smile. “It must have been quite a shock for you to learn that a woman could possess a mind as keen and discerning as your own.”

  “Indeed it was,” he confessed, his silky tone informing her that he wasn’t completely oblivious to her sarcasm. “After several months of this delicious torture, I wrote and tried to persuade her to elope to Gretna Green with me. She refused, but she wasn’t so cruel as to leave me completely without hope. She vowed that if I could prove I had some interest in this world that extended beyond my next winning hand of faro at Brook’s, some passion that didn’t involve horses, hounds, or pretty young opera dancers, she would consent to become my bride, even if that meant defying her father’s wishes.”