Candice Hern (22 page)

Adam himself had had a great deal to drink, but as often as not had made a pretense of drinking so he could insure the party continued into the wee hours. His ploy had worked. Sherwood was so drunk he couldn’t possibly perform. And he was gentleman enough not to visit a lady when he was so thoroughly foxed.

Sir George Lowestoft, a young man with an amazing capacity for drink, made an effort to rise from his chair.

"Call it a night," he said in a thick slur. "Shleep on m'feet. Well done, Shlerwood. Exshellent punch." He rose with deliberate slowness, then placed one foot carefully in front of the other in an unsteady path to the door. "God'sh teeth, wadda head I'll have t'morrow. 'Night, lads."

Sherwood glared plaintively at Adam, obviously not wanting to desert his last guest still awake. Adam was satisfied that there was no way the man would disturb Marianne at this hour, and in his condition. His work for the night was done.

"Yes, I believe I will call it a night as well. Egad." He surveyed the room in a sweeping glance. "Had quite a time of it, didn't we? Better get some help for those two, Sherwood." He gestured toward Leighton-Blair and Havering.

"Right y'are." Sherwood rose very carefully. "Good God. F'got how potent th' duke's punch could be. Yesh, better fin' a footman t' help get theshe two t' bed. Wonder where t' find one at thish hour."

He stood for a moment, seeming to gather his bearings, to steady himself before attempting to walk. "All right, then. I'll jus' go — Arggh!"

Sherwood's feet became tangled with Adam's outstretched legs, and he went sprawling on the ground. There was a horrible crunching sound, and then a crack as his head hit the brick hearth.

Hell and damnation.

Adam scrambled out of his chair and looked down at his young host, who lay in a heap at Adam's feet, his head bloodied and one leg bent at an unnatural angle.

Adam uttered a moan of horror. Good God, had he killed him?

Sick with worry and chagrin, Adam bent over Sherwood and placed a hand in front of his nose. He was still breathing. Thank God!

"What the devil?" Lowestoft, who'd not quite made his way out the door, turned to see what had happened.

"He tripped," Adam said, neglecting to mention it had been over his own leg. "And he looks to be badly hurt. His head is bleeding and I believe his leg is broken."

"My God." Lowestoft came back in the room and stood beside Adam. "He ain't dead, is he?"

"No, thank heaven. But he needs help. Can you make it downstairs?"

"Yes, of course," he said, suddenly sobered and pale with shock. "What should I do?"

"Find the butler. Hibbert is his name, as I recall. Tell him to send for a doctor at once."

"Are you going to try to move him?"

"No, I don't think we should move that leg. We might do more harm. I'd prefer to wait for the doctor. Now please, go find Hibbert."

The young man hurried out, still not entirely steady on his feet, but considerably more agile, and more sober, than he'd been a few minutes earlier.

"Wha' happened?"

Lord Havering's sleepy voice startled Adam. He'd forgotten about him. Had he seen anything? Had he seen Sherwood trip over Adam's foot?

"Thought I heard a crash. Somethin' fall over?"

"Sherwood tripped and fell. I'm afraid he's badly hurt."

"Good Lord."

The young man rose shakily from his chair and walked on wobbly legs to the hearth. "Egad. That leg don't look right. Damnation if he ain't broken it." He bent down to examine the twisted limb.

"Don't move it," Adam said. "I think we should wait for the doctor. But hand me that neckcloth, will you?" He pointed to one draped over a nearby chair.

Havering retrieved the neckcloth, moving slowly, dropping it twice before he handed it over. Adam carefully examined Sherwood's head. There was a gash above his right ear where he'd hit the sharp edge of the hearth. It did not look deep, but there was a lot of blood. His blond hair was soaked on one side.

Adam used the neckcloth to stanch the bleeding. He removed his own neckcloth and wrapped it about the head as a makeshift bandage. It might not be at all effective, but he had to do something. He felt helpless and plagued with guilt.

He had hoped to keep the fellow away from Marianne, but he hadn't intended to disable him. He had never meant any real harm. But he kept seeing Sherwood's ankle locking with his own. Had he left it stretched out on purpose? Had he wanted the fellow to trip?

Adam did not think so. But he kept seeing his outstretched leg, and thinking how he might have moved it, but didn't.

Hell and the devil. He'd gone too far this time. But no more. Never again. He would never, ever interfere with Marianne's life again. If she wanted a dozen lovers, she could have them. If she wanted to set up a male harem full of her personal love slaves, she could do so.

It took almost killing a man, but Adam had finally realized how utterly ridiculous he'd been as far as Marianne was concerned.

The door opened and Lowestoft entered with the butler, who'd thrown a dress coat over his nightshirt.

"Dear heaven," he said when he saw his employer.

"We did not move the leg," Adam said. "I thought it best to wait for the doctor."

"Yes, yes, that is best," Hibbert said.

"You've sent for him?"

"Yes, I sent one of the grooms who can ride faster than the rest. Dr. Sneed is only about three miles from here, in Richmond. It should not take him long to arrive. Poor Lord Julian. I hope he is not in too much pain."

"Fortunately, he'd had enough drink to dull the pain," Lowestoft said.

Hibbert looked up and took in the room for the first time. His eyes narrowed for the briefest instant before he schooled his features into his usual cool butlerian reserve. "Thomas."

A young, disheveled footmen who'd been standing wide-eyed in the doorway came into the room. "Yes, sir?"

"I want you and Charles to tidy up this room."

"Now?"

"Now. Before the doctor arrives. And help Mr. Leighton-Blair to his room. Dr. Sneed may need use of the couch."

In all the commotion, Adam had forgotten about Clarissa's father, who was still asleep on the sofa. Hibbert excused himself so that he could be dressed properly when the doctor arrived. Adam helped the footmen rouse Leighton-Blair. Once fully awake, he was surprisingly alert. He did not return to his room, but stayed behind to offer what help he could.

Dr. Sneed made an appearance some forty-five minutes later. He set the broken leg — during which time Sherwood came awake, howling with pain — and stitched the head wound. Sherwood was given a heavy dose of laudanum, and fell unconscious again. He had to be carried upstairs to his bedchamber, which was an awkward process, with Leighton-Blair, Havering, Lowestoft, and Adam taking turns with the two footmen to lift him.

When they reached the corridor of his bedchamber, several heads popped out of doorways to see what the commotion was all about. Rochdale's dark head appeared in the doorway of a bedchamber that was not his own. Lady Drake's? Adam was not sure.

Rochdale closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. "My God, what have you done?" he whispered.

"I'll tell you later," Adam said, keeping his voice low. "But it was not deliberate, I promise you."

Grace Marlowe's startled face peeked out from another doorway, a woolen shawl clutched at her breast. One thick, blond plait hung over her shoulder all the way down to her waist. "Good heavens, what happened to the poor man?"

"An accident," Adam said. "His leg is broken."

"Oh, my." Her eyes darted from the limp form of Sherwood being hauled into his room to the other end of the corridor. She saw Rochdale, pursed her lips in disgust — she likely knew it was not Rochdale's bedchamber, and probably also knew which lady's it was — and closed her door.

Lord Troutbeck's head peered out from another doorway, a long-tailed nightcap on his head, and Miss Stillman's shocked face appeared from another. Mrs. Leighton-Blair, in a voluminous cap, glared daggers at her husband from yet another open door as he helped carry Sherwood into his bedchamber. When Adam walked into the room to help settle Sherwood on his bed, there were a great many hushed whispers behind him.

Marianne's door, he noted, had remained closed.

The doctor settled his patient, taking care with the splint on his leg and insuring the head wound would not be jarred during sleep. The other gentlemen departed one by one, feeling confident there was nothing more they could do. Adam remained, along with Hibbert and Jarvis, Sherwood's valet, who'd been roused to come to his employer's aid. There was nothing Adam could do, either, but he felt so damned guilty for what had happened, he needed reassurance that the young man was in no danger.

"A clean break," the doctor told him. "It was easily set and should heal without difficulty. And the gash on his head was not deep. I have no fear of infection. He will have a fine goose egg of a lump by the morning, though, and will be in some pain. Thank you for your help, sir. It was very helpful to have that bleeding stanched early."

He turned to the valet. "He should sleep soundly through the night. Give him this dosage of laudanum when he wakes. He will need it. That leg is going to hurt like the very devil for a few days. Don't let him try to get out of bed. He needs to keep the leg still so it can set properly. Keep the dressing on his head dry. I will change it when I return."

After a few more instructions, Hibbert escorted the doctor downstairs. Jarvis thanked Adam profusely for his help, and turned his attention to tucking in the covers around Sherwood's leg. Adam slipped out of the room.

The corridor was quiet now. No one stirred and no lights shone from beneath any doors. The house had settled into a calm peace. It must have been about three in the morning. It had been a very long night.

A candle burned on a hall table, where a small supply of other candles had been set out for guests who might need a light during the night. Adam lit one and headed for his bedchamber.

He stopped at Marianne's door. She must have given up waiting for Sherwood hours ago and fallen asleep. She had been expecting a lover tonight, and damn it all, he had denied her that pleasure. And not only for tonight. Sherwood's leg would keep him out of commission for some time. All because of Adam's bloody selfishness.

But what if she was still waiting? What if she still expected him to come to her? There was no light under her door, but she could be awake, anxiously waiting, tying herself into knots of uneasiness and insecurity and frustrated desire. If she was awake, he really ought to tell her what had happened so she could go to sleep in peace.

Adam scratched softly on her door, but there was no sound from within. He turned the door handle. It was not locked. Of course it was not. She was expecting Sherwood. He very carefully and quietly opened the door.

The room was extremely dark, his small candle offering little light. The fire in the grate had burned out, and the air was cool.

"Marianne?" he whispered.

No response. She must be asleep.

The enormous bed loomed dark in the center of the room. He held up his candle and saw that the bed-curtains were pulled closed. She must have become chilled when the fire burned out. He stepped closer. He wanted to see her. Just to see her. He pulled back one of the draperies and held up his candle.

She lay sound asleep facing away from him. Her dark hair spilled out onto the pale linen of the pillow and over the counterpane. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her hair down. That was a privilege for a husband. Or a lover. He'd no idea it was so long. One hand was curled up against her cheek. He could see part of a pale, shimmery nightgown. Silk, no doubt. She had worn it for Sherwood, for her lover.

He gazed at her for a long moment, drinking in the sight of her. He had never wanted her more than at this moment, when she lay there so peaceful, so beautiful.

It was his fault that Sherwood was not here to see how glorious she looked. But Adam could make it up to her. She wanted a lover.

By God, she would have one.

He dropped the curtain and made his way to the long bench at the foot of the bed. He placed the candle on an nearby candlestand. Adam did not think too closely about what he did. He did not allow his mind to probe, to question his actions. If he considered the matter rationally, he would never do it. And he wanted to do it, so he turned off his brain and let his body lead the way.

He stripped off his coat and waistcoat and shoes. When he pulled the shirt over his head, the air was stirred enough so that the candle blew out.

Damn. It was pitch-dark. The heavy window draperies were closed and not a hint of light crept in. He couldn't even see the hand he held before his face. It did not matter. He did not need light. He had seen her. Now he would feel her.

He finished disrobing until he stood naked in the dark room. He felt his way around the bed, found the opening between the curtains, and gently, ever so gently, slipped beneath the covers.

She stirred slightly and made a tiny sound, but did not yet come awake. He eased his body against hers, his chest against her silk-clad back, and curled his arms around her.

For several moments, he just held her. At last. Everything he'd ever wanted, even though he hadn't realized — or admitted— he wanted it, was in his arms. The rightness of it was astounding. He would think of the wrongness of it later. For now, he simply allowed love and desire to overwhelm him.

God, she smelled delicious. It was a scent he always associated with Marianne — a bit floral, a bit spicy. She wore it often, and hints of it clung to the furniture and draperies and carpet in her sitting room. If he were blind, he would still know when she entered a room because of that distinctive fragrance. He'd asked her once what it was. What had she said? Some odd sort of flower. Tuberoses. That was it. She always smelled of tuberoses, but he'd never been close enough to inhale it so completely. It was intoxicating. He brushed her hair aside and put his mouth on the back of her neck. She tasted as sweet as she smelled.