A Wicked Pursuit (24 page)

There had been even more surprises from the rest of his clothes. Harry had always prided himself on having his clothes perfectly tailored to his body. His coats and jackets were cut to display his broad shoulders and chest and fit precisely around his well-muscled arms, and he liked to wear his breeches so shamelessly close that he often caught even the haughtiest of ladies stealing a look, to his considerable amusement.

But now his very clothes seemed determined to betray him. He hadn’t realized how much flesh and muscle he’d lost while he’d been ill, not until Tewkes had fastened the long row of buttons up the front of his favorite embroidered waistcoat. The silk no longer fit snugly across his chest the way it once had. Instead it sagged forward, pulling away from his diminished body by the weight of the silk embroidery. The coat was even worse. Not only did it hang loosely from his shoulders, but because he’d lost so much of the muscles in his arms from inactivity, the sleeves were too long, falling over his hands. It all made him feel like a frail old man in borrowed clothes.

“No matter, my lord, no matter,” Tewkes had said loyally, trying to pull and smooth the too-big clothes into place. “I’ll send for Mr. Venable to come directly. A tuck here, a stitch there, and he’ll have you looking handsome as ever, my lord.”

Before the week was over, the tailor had come down from London and altered his clothes to fit. It had been gratifying, if predictable, that Mr. Venable had also made a fuss about how the adjustments were not permanent. They could be reversed as soon as “his lordship is back to his old self.”

His old self:
Not an hour passed that Harry wondered if such a creature had even existed. At least the tailor’s pinning and stitching had been familiar, fragments of his former life. He could not say the same about the man who brought his newly ordered crutches. While Sir Randolph had taken Harry’s measurements, the crutch maker had brought the finished products to Wetherby Hall himself, not only to trim them if necessary, but to instruct Harry in their use.

Harry had scoffed at such instruction. How hard could it be to master a pair of wooden sticks? Yet he’d learned soon enough that the answer was very hard, very hard indeed. The crutches made him feel like a baby learning to walk all over again, and his clumsy, tripod self lurched unsteadily along the abbey’s galleries and halls with a rhythmic thump that he came to loathe. In the beginning, he’d shamefully required a pair of footmen to catch him if he lost his balance and collapsed like an ill-built house of cards, but with practice he became more adept, albeit no more graceful.

He was encouraged to straighten his still-splinted leg, and to put as much weight as he could bear upon it, which to his chagrin was pitifully little. Sir Randolph assured him that no matter what he accomplished, any exercise could only help the healing. With no other course to follow, Harry persevered with the crutches each day as long as he could, pushing himself until his good leg shook and his shoulders ached, and suffered through the torturous stretching that the recovering leg required. But each day, too, he could last a little longer, and go a little farther, as his strength gradually began to return.

He swallowed his pride and let himself be helped down the stairs, so that he could make his way through the gardens and down the long drive and back. As clumsy as the crutches were, they gave him independence, and though he remained a cripple, at least he was no longer a rebarbative invalid.

It was, he thought cynically, simply one more example of degrees and rank.

He had never worked so hard at anything as he had learning to maneuver on the crutches, but then he’d never had such a grand goal before him, either. What he’d tell anyone who asked was that he wished to dance once again beneath the stars at Vauxhall Gardens. This had been his first goal, and because it made others smile, he fell into offering it so often that it became pat, an amusing and convenient response to a difficult question.

But he kept his real goal to himself, buried deep within somewhere near to his heart, and he shared this goal with no one—not even the one person for whom it was intended.

He wanted to be worthy of Gus.

For her, he wanted to be whole, without flaw, for that was what she deserved. The fact that she accepted him as he was, as damaged goods, was unbearable to him. He wanted to be able to take her hand and proudly lead her into a room. He wanted to help her into his carriage, and give her lovely bottom a surreptitious pat as he did. He wanted to chase after her laughing through the garden, and climb the steps to the little temple beyond the roses and hide away with her there until they missed dinner, and supper, too, if they pleased. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her to his bed, and make passionate, perfect love to her, until she cried out his name with joy and promised to love him forever.

That
was what he wanted.

What he did not want was to be her burden, her inconvenience, the halting, shambling man whose needs must always be considered. When they went out to the opera or the playhouse, he wanted people to marvel at her, as she deserved, and not crane their necks for a glimpse of the unfortunate crippled Earl of Hargreave. He wanted the world to know that he loved her for who she was and not because she was the only one who’d have him.

And he did love Gus. He wasn’t exactly sure when that had happened, but it had, and he now understood what his father had always told him about love changing everything. It did. He felt a little jolt in his chest each time he looked at her. The time he spent in her company flew by, and the hours they were apart dragged like an anchor in sand. The oddest part was how he felt her to be another part of himself that he’d never realized was missing, a charming addition of wry humor and practicality and kindness. Just as the poets claimed, she made him feel complete.

What made him feel like an utter fool, of course, was that he’d spent so much time and effort settling on the perfect bride, and had decided upon Julia, who would have been a complete disaster of a wife. Meanwhile, he hadn’t considered Gus at all—hell, he hadn’t even realized she existed—and yet here he was, ridiculously in love with her and determined to claim her as his wife.

It was difficult, keeping such a goal to himself. They were together every day, and well into every night, too. She dined with him, and read to him, and walked beside him as he lumbered along on his crutches. She helped him each morning with the exercises to stretch his leg and keep the muscles limber while the bones healed. For this, she’d replaced Tewkes, who’d been too afraid of hurting him. Gus wasn’t, and seemed to sense exactly how far she could push him for his own good, ignoring his oaths in the process.

She laughed with him, but never at him, not even the time when Patch had tangled around his good foot and nearly sent him crashing into the carp pond. She wrapped the heads of his crutches with lambs’ wool to cushion them, and knitted a special giant sock of scarlet wool to fit over his foot and splint. It was the first thing that anyone had made specifically for him as a gift, and as peculiar as it was, he cherished it because it had come from her.

But the most difficult part of each day came at the end of it, after they’d dined together, when they sat together to listen to the music played just for them, exactly as it was now.

Nine weeks had passed since he’d broken his leg, nine weeks that he’d been here at Wetherby. He had improved; even he couldn’t deny it, and Venable had been summoned twice to let out his clothes, exactly as he’d predicted. While Peterson still cautiously kept a splint in place on his leg, it was now more of a light brace for support than to hold the broken bones together. Each day he managed to put a bit more weight on it through his hobbling gait, but at least now he could wear a stocking and shoe on the foot like a gentleman. He’d also grown strong enough to rely on a single crutch, which did feel like progress.

Summer was in full flower, with the warmth of the long, bright days lingering past sunset. With the windows in his corner bedchamber thrown open, the evening air was filled with things that never entered a London night: the sounds of crickets and nightingales, the luminous silvery light of a full moon, the honey-sweet fragrance of the woodbine. In sympathy, the Signor Vilotti chose pieces by Scarlatti, Vivaldi, and Corelli that combined both the sweetness and the sensual indolence of summer, music that sang seductively through the summer night.

Harry sat on the cushioned settee with Gus curled beside him. Because of the evening’s warmth, he had left off his coat and his neckcloth, and carelessly rolled back the sleeves of his shirt over his forearms. Gus, too, had pared down her dress on account of the heat, wearing her light linen gown without hoops or a kerchief around the neck, and no cap to hide her hair. Her head rested against his chest, his arm around her waist.

For him, it was absolute torture.

She was soft and warm against him, her body fitting neatly against his. He’d only to glance down a fraction for the most splendid view of her breasts, raised up enticingly by her stays. Lovely breasts, he thought with despair, high and plump, the skin luminous and dusted lightly with freckles, and practically begging for his caress. A tiny trickle of sweat had gathered between them, there at the edge of her shift, and as he watched it slide slowly downward, over one curve and into the shadows.

Choking back a groan, he forced himself to look away, but only as far as her skirts. Without hoops, the soft linen was crumpled and limp, draping and accentuating the shape of her hips and legs beneath it. She’d kicked off her shoes and curled her feet on the settee, not bothering to cover them with her skirts. In pink lisle stockings, her feet were delicate, her ankles neat, and he couldn’t help but imagine the rest, her garters and the white thighs above them, and finally the heaven that lay between them.

He struggled to rein in his thoughts, trying to focus on the music instead of Gus. He wasn’t exactly a hard-bitten rake, but he wasn’t a saint, either, and since he’d left school and come to town he’d kept a succession of mistresses, the way most gentlemen did. When he’d thought he was going to propose to Julia, he had ended things with the last one, sending her off happy with a generous settlement and a few pieces of jewelry.

But that had been over three months ago. Broken leg or not, three months was a painfully long time for him to be without a woman. The fact that the nearest one was also the one he desired more than all the others combined only made his suffering more acute. All Gus would have to do was look down at the front of his breeches.

He was sweating with the effort of not embarrassing himself, and still it wasn’t enough. He had to think of something other than Gus, and from the dustiest corner of his brain he abruptly seized onto the Latin declensions he’d memorized—mostly—in school.

First declension singular: aqua, aquae, aquae, aquam, aqua.

That was so dry and dull that it was actually working. He took a deep breath and marched his thoughts briskly to the plurals.

First declension plural: aquae, aquarum, aquis, aquas, aquis.

Second declension singular: servus, servi, servo—

Unaware of his Latin fortifications, Gus burrowed more closely against his chest with a contented small sigh. Her breasts were pressing against his side, the womanly scent of her body mingling with the fragrance of the honeysuckle, and all of it was enough to make him weep. Then as she settled, her hand brushed innocently across his thigh, her fingers only inches away from his doom.

He swore, jerking against the back of the settee. Startled, she sat upright, and the musicians stopped abruptly, too.

“Oh, Harry, I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” she said, distress all over her face. “I shouldn’t have crowded you on the settee like that, I know, and now I’ve bumped your leg, and—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said quickly, recovering. “None of it’s your fault, sweet. I’m, ah, I’m tired, that is all. Signore Vilotti, I thank you, but that will be all for this evening.”

The musicians gathered their instruments to leave, and as Harry stood, Gus bent down to retrieve her shoes from beneath the settee, presenting Harry with one final, wickedly tempting sight of her upturned bottom.

“I hope you sleep well, Harry,” she said with concern, resting her hand lightly on his arm as the musicians left. “I pray I didn’t make you walk too far today. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, and kissed her, partly to reassure her, but mostly because he very much wanted to. He’d become remarkably skilled at kissing her while he balanced against his crutch. He kissed her hungrily, wanting her to know how much he desired her and how much he cared for her. He hadn’t told her yet that he loved her—that had to wait until he could ask her to marry him—but he hoped that, after kisses like this one, it wouldn’t come as a great surprise. He took his time, too, relishing the response of her velvety warm mouth.

“Goodness, Harry,” she murmured as at last they separated. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her lips were wet and swollen, and when she smiled she looked almost dazed with pleasure. “That was rather—rather extraordinary.”

“You inspire me, sweet,” he said, the simple truth.

He brushed his thumb over her lower lip and she drew it into her mouth with a playful little nip that nearly finished him, then and there.

“You do that and more for me, Harry,” she said, her voice husky with longing. He recognized that longing even if she didn’t, and if he didn’t send her on her way now, it would be too late for them both.

He yawned dramatically, striving to stick to his story of exhaustion. “Good night, Gus.”

She smiled with obvious regret, and kissed him quickly once again. “Good night, Harry.”

He hated watching her leave, her shoes in her hand as she blew him a last kiss from the doorway. Every night it was harder to part from her, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he—or she—would be able to keep his noble, confounding promise to respect her virtue.

He swore softly from frustration as Tewkes helped him undress for bed. Before he doused the candle for the night, he opened the drawer in the table beside the bed and pulled out the curved box with his mother’s ring. He tipped it this way and that, making the diamonds dance in the candle’s light, and he imagined the ring on Gus’s finger as the memory of their kiss still lingered.