Love With an Improper Stranger (25 page)

Just as she was about to protest, it dawned on her that he used her name.  He knew her identity.  From his tone, it was obvious he was not Blake, but she would wager her life that her anonymous rescuer was sent by her knight.

“Sir, I beg you, can we hurry?”  Even with her vision obscured, she picked up her pace.

“Take your time, and stay quiet.”  He steered her left and then right.  “There is a handle here.”  He settled her palm to the cool metal.  “Now there are two steps and then the floorboard of the coach.”

When she ascended, an unseen person swept her off her feet, and she landed in a lap.  Before she could respond, the bindings at her wrists fell away, the tether at her neck loosened, and the bold assailant yanked the sack from her head.  Preparing to protest the treatment, she blinked, as her sight adjusted, and then she focused on a familiar face.  With a half-smothered scream, she threw her arms about her savior.  “
Blake
.”

#

The woman safely ensconced in his embrace burst into tears, and she bore little resemblance to the fiery lady who commanded him in the middle of a muddy road in Brussels, but in light of her trauma tears were understandable.  What Blake could not reconcile was the sunken cheekbones, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the pallid complexion bereft of her characteristic charming blush, and the bruised and swollen lip.  To think someone struck her incited unadulterated rage, and he would have blood to pay for her injuries, but at that moment her health took precedence.  Later, he would avenge her.

“It is over, love.”  After claiming a brief kiss, he held Lenore close and rocked from side to side.  Inundated by so many emotions, none of which he would master, he simply squeezed her to remind himself that she was with him.  “I have you, and I will never let go.”

As she wept, she said nothing, but she clutched fistfuls of the lapels of his coat and quivered so forcefully she shook him.  While she buried her face in his chest, he inventoried her dirty gown and discovered red welts on her skin.

“Blake, I need to question her.”  Sir Ross leaned forward and in a low voice said, “There is no sign of Lucy.”

“Look at her, Ross.”  Blake brushed the hair from her forehead, and she whimpered.  “She is in no condition to be interrogated and requires medical attention.  I need to get her back to London, where I can tend and safeguard her.”

“Then I will remain behind and direct the search from here.”  Ross opened the door and descended the coach.  “And I intend to have a stern discussion with Hildebrand.”  The agent glanced to the left and frowned.  “Since the magistrate refuses to prosecute the bar owner, as well as the men who bartered their wives, I will use my own special brand of persuasion to ensure such heinous proceedings never occur again in Twickenham.”

“I thought wife selling was illegal.”  As he checked Lenore, Blake realized she had fallen into a deep sleep, and he pulled a blanket to her shoulders.  “Is there not something we can do?”

“Given the relative poverty of the participants, the collaborative comportment of the other women, and the legal standing associated with coverture, which defines the female sex as her husband’s property, wife selling is the only means of securing a divorce, of sorts, for some people.”  Logan adjusted his cravat and raked his fingers through his hair.  “But it will be a cold day in hell before Hildebrand auctions a young lady brought to him in a state of unconsciousness, without verifying her complicity in the matter.”  Ross slammed the door and shouted, “To London, and hurry.”

The equipage lurched, and Blake eased into the squabs.  With his precious cargo tucked in his arms, he anticipated euphoria, or at the very least relief, yet such consolation eluded him.  Like an invisible but lethal contagion, anger seeped into his consciousness and spread, as a malevolent plague, infecting every part of him, and he was grateful his bride-to-be slept.

Fighting the urge to lay waste to the town, and kill every single person involved in the nefarious scheme that placed his future duchess on a rudimentary platform to be auctioned as chattel, he rested his head to the cushion, closed his eyes, and relished the steady beat of her heart.  Enclosed in the quiet confines of his best traveling rig, he focused on the passing landscape and drifted into an odd but somewhat serene state, which he sustained throughout the journey.

Approximately two and a half hours later, the scattered, rural outbuildings yielded to the dense population of London proper, and he came alert.  Studying Lenore, he noted a fine sheen of perspiration at her temples, and she shuddered in fits and starts.  When the coachman drew rein at the entrance to Elliott House, Blake eased an arm beneath her knees and lifted her.  With care, he descended to the pavement and charged up the steps.

“Good evening, Your Grace.”  Jennings bowed.  “The staff stands at the ready.”

“Send for Dr. Handley, and tell him it is an emergency.”  As he skipped up the grand staircase, Blake shouted over his shoulder, “Prepare a hot bath.”

“Oh, my heavens.”  On the landing, Mama pressed a palm to her throat.  “Bring her to my chambers, as I was just about to wash, but I can do so, later.”

As he carried Lenore into his mother’s new quarters, his lady peered at him.  At first, she appeared confused, as she reached to touch him but hesitated.  “Are you real?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”  He positioned her on the
chaise
, pulled off her slippers, flipped up the skirt of her dress, and removed her garters and hose.  “Just relax, and let me dote on you, as I missed you terribly.”

“My son, she sleeps.”  Mama patted his shoulder.  “I summoned Dorothea, and we can wait on Lenore.”

“I am not leaving her—not for a minute, not to anyone, not even to you.”  Grappling with an obsessive possessiveness so tangible he could choke on it, he could not begin to contemplate parting from his woman.  Then he recalled Logan’s description of the wife sell, and he swallowed the bitter pill of irony, as Lenore was her own person, and he just wanted a place in her world.  “Mama, I cannot explain what I am feeling, as I have yet to comprehend it, but do not ask me to surrender her, as I cannot do it.”  After a few pointless twists and turns, he grasped the neckline of Lenore’s gown and ripped it down the front.  When she slumped to one side and murmured something indistinct, he barely stopped her from falling to the floor.  To see his always poised and polished bride-to-be in such a disheveled and desperate state damn near broke him, and he resolved to set her right.  “Mother, please, will you help me?”

“Of course.”  Mama glanced at her lady’s maid and said, “Bring me a fresh night rail from Miss Teversham’s things.”

As his mother wielded the soap and a cloth, Blake washed Lenore’s hair.  While he had always presumed the maiden glimpse of her nudity would stimulate admiration and arousal, the sight of her creamy flesh speckled with myriad bug bites incited naught but sorrow.  By the time Dr. Handley arrived, Blake had brushed the knots and tangles from Lenore’s matted long locks and tucked her into bed.

“I came as soon as I received your directive, Your Grace.”  The bespectacled physician bent over the edge of the four-poster, touched his palm to Lenore’s forehead and cheeks, and frowned.  “She is fevered, and her nonsensical ramblings suggest she hallucinates.  What happened to her?”

With attention to detail, Blake recited the tragic events of the past month, as Lenore flinched and babbled.  “I am concerned, Dr. Handley.  We found numerous empty bottles at the inn, which we believe contained laudanum.”

“I consider it a necessary evil in today’s modern medicine, but if Miss Teversham has consumed an unknown quantity for an equally unknown length of time, she cannot simply quit taking it, as that would shock her system, which could kill her.”  From his familiar black bag, the physician retrieved a brown receptacle, moving without haste, as if he had just remarked on the weather.  “We must wean her from the drug, and even that is dangerous.  In future, you must caution any medical professional, as she will suffer a permanent low tolerance for the substance.”

“Your Grace, I have the tray you ordered for Miss Teversham.”  Dorothea approached from the rear.  “Shall I feed her?”

“Wait a minute.”  Dr. Handley lifted the cover and frowned.  “Take it away, as she cannot eat solid foods.  Have the cook prepare a clear consommé and a pot of hot tea, with extra sugar, fetch plenty of fresh water, and bring a large basin, as her condition will worsen before she improves.”

“Yes, sir.”  The maid curtseyed.

“I will administer diminishing doses of the substance, but I cannot pretend it will be easy for her.”  The physician doffed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.  “This will take days, Your Grace, and there is no guarantee Miss Teversham will survive.”

“What is the alternative?”  During the war, Blake had faced death on occasions too numerous to count; yet he persisted.  Lenore’s demise he could not begin to contemplate, and he sank his teeth into his knuckles.  Despite his rank, his privilege, his fortune, and his power, he could do nothing to spare Lenore.  Despair, a new and most unwelcome sensation, spun its tangled web; trapping him in a swathe of despondency so discernible he could not evade it.

“There is no alternative, Your Grace.”  Lenore’s sobs of fear grew more pronounced, and Dr. Handley peered at her and shook his head.  “Worry not, Your Grace, as it is doubtful she will remember anything from the process.  Daresay it will effect you more than her, once it is done.”

“Lucy?”  Thrashing and flailing beneath the covers, she fought some invisible tormentor and shrieked.  “Where is Lucy?”

And so began Blake’s descent into hell as Dr. Handley worked to save Lenore.  The chills increased just after dusk, the vomiting commenced minutes prior to midnight, and the hallucinations intensified in the wee hours.  So much of the experience mirrored that night aboard the
Tristan
, when she battled seasickness, and he prayed she would triumph now.  Again and again, Lenore shouted in agony, and Blake sat helpless, confined to the role of spectator.  But it was the dawn of a new day that gave Blake hope for the prospects he had planned with precision.

At some point during the ordeal, he climbed into bed, boots and all, and drew her into his lap.  Dozing lightly, he envisioned Lenore, garbed in nothing but a smile, as she played the pianoforte now holding pride of place in their newly completed bedchamber.  Then she gazed at him and uttered his name.  It took him a few minutes to realize her call was no dream.

Stretching long, he checked the room and located the physician, perched upright but snoring in a chair.  Lenore nuzzled Blake’s chest, smiled, and sighed, and he bent and kissed her temple.  No, she was not out of danger, but he refused to concede defeat.

“Blake.”  She mumbled incoherently and furrowed her brow.  “Blake, I love you.  I love you.”

In that instant, he reclined against the headboard, stared at the canopy, and grinned, as tears streamed his cheeks.  Oh, no.  Never would he let her go.  Not now.  Not after that precious declaration.

Fumbling in his pocket, he found her betrothal ring, which he had carried with him ever since the chimney sweep returned it.  Blake pressed the diamond to his lips and then slid the jewel to its rightful place, on her finger.  He teased the crest of her ear with his nose and whispered, “Sweet Lenore, I love you, too.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cuddled beneath warm
blankets, Lenore fluffed her pillow, rolled onto her side, and sighed.  Her legs sank into the comfortable down mattress, which she favored more than she was willing to admit, and she giggled, as Blake spoiled her terribly.  Opening her eyes, she was nonplussed to discover her future husband sitting, slumped against the armrest of a high-back chair, at her bedside.