Secrets of a Perfect Night (3 page)

As they stumbled to a stop before the stairs, Adrian looked down, into her face, and smiled. “Never waltzed with you, did I, Abby?”

She looked down. “No, you never did. Now concentrate on the stairs.”

She steered him to them, relieved when he grabbed the banister and took some of his weight as they negotiated the first step. It was clearly an effort. Abby was dismayed. There were ten steps to the landing, then ten more to the first floor.

He paused on the first step. “I’m on my way to Bellevere, y’know.”

“You said you were going home.” Abby tried to tug him on, but without his cooperation she couldn’t shift him.

“Hmm—s’right. Home.”

He deigned to take the next step. Abby shot him a sharp glance as he paused again.

“Had enough, y’know.”

“Enough of what?” She paused, too, accepting that he’d go at his own pace.

“Them.” It was with evident difficulty that he focused on her face. “You know what they call me?”

“I know you’re called ‘Scandalous Lord Dere.’”

The smile that twisted his lips was bitter. “The scandalous part’s all they care ’bout—you know that?”

“I assumed that might be the case.” Abby managed to propel him into another step. Then another. She was starting to hope he’d continue on without pause when he abruptly drew back, nearly falling out of her arms. Only his grip on the banister saved him.

“Harpies! The lot of them.”

He flung out an arm—Abby had to duck, then she grabbed him again, more tightly. His shirt had come free of his breeches; he looked thoroughly wicked and definitely wild.

“I daresay, but you must come upstairs—”

“That’s ’xactly what they all tell me.” With totally spurious sobriety, he nodded, and consented to climb another step. “Come upstairs—to my boudoir, my bedroom, my bed. Come into my arms, come into my—”

“
Adrian
!” Abby felt her cheeks heat. “You don’t need to tell me about that.”

Tilting his head, he looked down at her, the expression in his eyes puzzled. “But I always tell you everything, Abby.”

There was a lost look in his eyes that, entirely unexpectedly, wrenched Abby’s heart. “That was then,” she said gently, “this is now—and we have to get you upstairs.”

She urged him on; after an instant’s hesitation he went. Through his fine shirt she could feel the deep chill investing his muscles. Despite the fact he was moving, he was terribly stiff, not supple as she knew he should be. They reached the landing and she steered him on to the next flight. They were halfway up it when he abruptly halted, turning to look at her, pulling out of her hold and leaning back—half over the banister!

Abby gasped and grabbed him. He caught her in his free arm and hugged her to him. For an instant they teetered, then steadied.

“You’re not like them, are you, Abby?”

Her heart was in her throat—she couldn’t answer. She prayed the banister was strong enough to hold their weight.

“You’re my friend—you always have been. You don’t want anything from me, not like they do.”

Her forehead against his shoulder, Abby closed her eyes and clung, too shaken to reply.

Then she felt him nuzzle the hair coiled on the top of her head, then trail lower to dip his nose behind her ear. He breathed in, deeply.

“You smell of the moor—all wild and free and open.”

Abby pulled back, out of his arms, hands locked in his shirt, arms braced for balance. “Up the next steps—come on, you can do it.” She pushed and prodded, harried and bullied, filling his ears with exhortations, giving him no chance to make any further observations. Finally gaining the first floor, she blew out a breath, then staggered as he did.

“Adrian!” If he leaned too much on her, she’d collapse, and then they’d both end on the floor. “It’s just a little further.”

Like a pair of drunken seamen, they tacked side to side along the corridor. When they fetched up against the desired bedroom door, Abby paused to catch her breath. She studied his face. His lids were heavy, almost shut. “Don’t fall asleep on me yet, Adrian.”

His lips twisted, but his eyes remained closed. “Never
ever
fall asleep before a lady’s satisfied. Carnal rule number one.”

Abby humphed. “In this case, I’m not going to be satisfied until you’re out of those damp clothes and tucked up in bed.” She set the door swinging wide.

“Out of my clothes, tucked into your bed—you’re sounding like them, Abby.”

“Well, I’m not—
Adrian
!”

He pulled out of her arms and went lurching into the room. Abby shut the door, then ran to push him away from the fire. Another push had him reeling toward the bed. She rushed along beside him, trying to guide him—he careened past the end of the bed, but she grabbed him and slowed him, then turned him. With a sigh, he sat down.

Abby regarded him, frowning. “Adrian, when last did you eat?”

He settled on the bed, sitting straight, and frowned back at her as he thought. It was a slow process. Then his brows rose consideringly. “Breakfast?”

He looked at her hopefully. Abby humphed again. “No wonder! You’re half drunk.”

He tilted his head and considered, then sighed. And closed his eyes. “Tired. So tired…”

His voice died away, and he fell back across the bed.

Abby looked at him, but he didn’t stir; with another humph, she bent to pull off his boots. Once she had them and his stockings off, she chafed his feet, worried to find them still as cold as ice. She added more logs to the fire, building it into a blaze, then she returned to the bed.

“Adrian.” She shook his shoulder. “Come on—wake up.”

He lay like one dead.

Abby frowned. Climbing up on the bed, she lifted one lid.

Her charge was unconscious.

“Damn!” Sitting beside him, she glared at him. “How am I supposed to get you undressed?”

The answer was obvious. She considered getting Agnes to help, but she was no doubt busy with Bolt. Summoning Esme, frail spinster that she was, was out of the question. Heaving a sigh, Abby crossed to the door and snibbed the lock. She didn’t want Esme or Tom walking in at the wrong moment.

Returning to the bed, she surveyed her charge, then pushed and tugged until he lay straight in the middle
of the wide bed. She’d left the bed-curtains looped back and the room was warming nicely. Earlier she’d spread an old coverlet over the bed, so the fact that his hair was dripping and his clothes were damp didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was still icy to the touch and pale as a ghost.

The thought that he’d expended his last ounce of strength in climbing the stairs for her spurred Abby on. She yanked his cravat free, then fell on his shirt. The material was thoroughly damp, the buttons difficult to shift. Cursing beneath her breath, she tried to rip them free but couldn’t muttering more direfully, she feverishly worked on. When the last button slid free, she pushed the shirt wide—and paused.

An instant later, she swayed—she’d forgotten to breathe.

She sucked in a breath, then started stripping the shirt from him. “You’ve seen it all before, you ninny!”

But she hadn’t. Eight years it had been, and eight years made a difference. Her senses insisted on pointing out each change—the depth of his chest, the heavier muscles, the alterations in proportions. She was an artist after all, and her eyes couldn’t stop seeing. She’d thought him an Adonis eight years ago; now…

She shook her head again and looked away.

She got one arm free, then the other. Without giving herself time to think, she reached for his waistband. As she pushed and prodded, straining to pop the buttons free, she prayed he wouldn’t choose that moment to wake up.

He didn’t. With his breeches open, she wriggled them down a little, then scooted to his side, reached
under him, and pushed. And pushed, until he rolled onto his stomach.

With a sigh of relief, she flung his shirt aside. Straddling his legs, she grabbed his damp breeches and wriggled and pulled until she got them down. Freeing his feet, she shook the breeches out and tossed them to join his shirt, then grabbed a towel and set to, briskly rubbing him all over.

To her dismay, although she dried his back thoroughly, his flesh remained pallid and icy cold. There was no warmth in him; not even when she pressed a hand under his stomach could she feel any hint of human heat.

Her heart started to feel as cold as his skin.

“Miss?” Tom knocked at the door. “I’ve brought hot water.”

Abby flung the bed-curtains closed, swiped up Adrian’s wet clothes, and ran to open the door. “Thank you—have you taken any to Agnes yet?”

“Just about to, miss.”

She exchanged the clothes for a ewer. “Take those down to Esme. After you’ve taken water to Agnes, set some bricks by the fire. Once they’re warm, wrap them in flannel and bring them up—Aunt Esme knows where the old flannels are.”

“Miss Esme’s already got bricks warming.”

“Good.” Nudging the door shut, Abby carried the steaming ewer to the basin on the chest of drawers. She splashed water into the basin, then tested it. She added cold water until the temperature was right, then, picking up one of the washcloths she’d left ready,
she drew back the curtain and climbed onto the bed, settling the basin beside her. Adrian hadn’t stirred.

She washed his face first, then washed the ice from his hair and rubbed it dry, then quickly worked her way down his back and long legs, covering him with dry towels as she went. She spent some time trying to coax some color into his feet, but got no reward for her efforts.

Setting the basin aside, she spread towels beside him, then rolled him onto his back again. She flicked a towel over his naked loins, then added more warm water to the basin and quickly set to, washing away any residual ice, briskly buffing his skin dry as she went.

By the time she reached his hips, all modesty had flown—she was far too worried to care about propriety. There remained no sign of life in his body; fear tightened its grip on her heart.

Besides, she’d seen him naked before, touched him before—her memories were crystal-clear. But when she held him again and found him so cold, it nearly broke her heart. She’d taken that part of him inside her—it had been so hot, so strong. He was presently so icy and so small—she didn’t like his state at all.

Her worries escalated as she finished with his legs and found his feet still blue-white. His hands were no better; no matter how hard she tried, she could raise no blood under his skin.

With a greater sense of urgency, she rolled him again, this time onto the clean, dry bedsheet. Pulling the old coverlet from beneath him, she tossed it aside
and spread the down-filled quilt that had been warming by the fire over him.

She stared at him for a minute, then she scooped up the towels and coverlet and hurried out.

Five minutes later she returned, flannel-wrapped bricks balanced on a tray. Tom and Agnes, similarly burdened, continued on along the corridor to the attic stairs. Bolt had yet to regain consciousness. Despite the fact Adrian had, Abby wasn’t sure he was in any better case than his tiger. It hadn’t been Bolt who had pushed himself to the last gasp to reach the cottage, and then exerted himself even beyond that to help her get him upstairs.

She packed the warm bricks around Adrian, then stood back.

There was nothing more she could do. The realization left her feeling almost panicked; to settle her nerves, she fussed about the room, tidying, rebuilding the fire, setting his boots to one side of the hearth to dry.

She returned to the bed and checked, but he was still cold as ice.

The door opened; Agnes looked in. “How is he?”

Abby shook her head. “He’s still so cold.”

“Aye, well, all we can do now is keep them warm. I can watch over his lordship as well as his man. No sense you getting up through the night, too.”

“No—I’ll watch here.” She wouldn’t sleep anyway, not until she knew he was all right. “Bolt might wake up, or Dere might, and want something.”

“True enough.” Agnes nodded at Adrian. “S’pect he’s a demanding soul, too.”

“He can be,” Abby murmured.

“Best we get to bed then, and get what sleep as we can. You finished here?”

Abby roused herself. “Yes.” With one last look at Adrian, she crossed to the door. “It must be quite late.”

“Gone eleven,” Agnes said.

At twelve o’clock Abby returned to the room. She’d got into her bed but hadn’t been able to settle, much less sleep. How could she sleep when Adrian might…

Be dying.

“Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she closed the door softly behind her. “There’s no history of weak lungs in his family. None of the Hawsleys died of a chill that I ever heard of.”

The reassurance did not help. She built up the fire, then crossed to the bed. The room was warm now, but would cool during the night. She closed the side bed-curtains but left those at the foot, directly opposite the now roaring fire, open; she hoped heat would wash in, then remain, trapped by the curtains and the canopy.

She paused by the side of the bed, inside the curtain. Steeling herself, she lifted the quilt and slipped one hand in, close to his body. No warmth met her questing fingers. When she touched his chest, his skin was still cold.

“Damn!” Abby checked the bricks, but beneath their flannel wrappings they were still too hot to touch. No point trying to heat them more.

She stood and looked down at Adrian’s large body
sprawled on his stomach under the quilt. He was too cold—far too cold. It couldn’t be a good sign.

“What more can I do?”

He was coming home. She couldn’t let him die on the way.

She didn’t let herself think. She rearranged the hot bricks, stripped off her robe, flung it to the foot of the bed, then lifted the quilt and climbed in beside him. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown—safe enough, surely. He would be used to silk—he’d probably think she was a lumpy pillow.

Turning on her side, her back to him, she curled and snuggled back, pressing against his side.

“Hmm.”

She froze.

Behind her, Adrian shifted, then his body curled around hers. His hand found her hip, then traced lazily upward, over her waist, up to her breasts, then confidently slipped between, long fingers curling about one soft mound.