The Grace of a Duke (8 page)

“What?” Joshua coaxed, his eyes widening.

“Could Lady Charlotte have done this?” he asked in a hushed whisper. From Joshua’s immediate look of anger, Garrett regretted having said anything. He was surprised then when Joshua schooled his features into concern and then finally shook his head.

“I don’t see how. She was just as surprised – horrified, actually – as I was at finding the evidence,” he answered finally. “And I know where she was when it happened.”

Garrett’s eyebrows nearly joined his hairline. “Indeed?” he replied, his deep concern suddenly replaced with a hint of curiosity.
Or was that amusement?

Joshua rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t like that,” he defended himself quickly. “She was quite frightened by the lightning and thunder and sought comfort with me ...” He stopped in mid-sentence as he watched Garrett’s face redden in either embarrassment or suppressed humor – he could not tell which. And then he suddenly remembered something else.

Damnation!

Joshua realized he hadn’t finished his discussion about the parlor decor with Charlotte. And he hadn’t asked her about taking over running the household. It hadn’t been that long since she took her leave of him after luncheon. She would still be in her bedchamber, he thought. “I need to ask our guest a couple of questions,” he said suddenly. At Garrett’s raised eyebrows and amused expression, Joshua added, “Decorating questions.”

Garrett nodded, suppressing his grin and hoping the duke would see to making Charlotte his wife as soon as possible. “And I’m going to take a look at that blasted oak tree,” he replied. “No pun intended.”

Chapter 8

His Grace in the Lady’s Bath

Joshua took his leave from Garrett and made his way toward the guest suite. Located next to his bedchamber, he absently thought of designating the guest suite as the new duchess suite. The original duchess suite had been ruined in the fire.
My mother’s old room,
he considered as he made his way up the steps. All those years he spent away from home and yet he never missed Grace Wainwright more than he did now. A painful pang gripped his heart as he thought of her, a gentle woman who always had a smile for him. She wore her silver blonde hair piled high atop her head in a mass of curls and braids, and her gowns were always of the latest cut and of good quality fabrics. An elegant lady and the daughter of an earl, Grace had married his father in a union of more convenience than love. His father had grown to love her, though, evident in how the elder John Wainwright could be seen holding her hand whilst enjoying his port after dinner or be caught by his valet coming out of her rooms in the early morning hours having spent the entire night in her bed. He called her ‘Sweeting’, even when among friends. And she called him ‘Jack’, not by his last name as any other wife of a duke would have done.  

Joshua took a deep breath and shook himself out of his reverie. Was there any hope he could have a union much like his parents? He replayed the events of the morning in his head. The easy conversation he shared with Charlotte, the awkward moment when he realized his mask was missing, the realization that she could be of help to the duchy even if he didn’t marry her. She was a beauty, an excellent rider, well-versed in matters of the
ton
, and educated as if she’d been preparing to be a duchess her entire life. Which was true, he realized, remembering she had mentioned being three years of age when their fathers had arranged their marriage. Had he actually been looking for a wife, he could do far worse in the Marriage Mart, he thought. But given the circumstances, he still wasn’t convinced he should even be considering matrimony.

But Charlotte didn’t seem the least bit bothered by his scars. She had probably seen all of them – she had been at hospital for the entire month he was there, apparently overseeing his care. Perhaps she knew of the ropy scars that spanned the side of his ribs down to the top of his hip, of the ghastly, angry red one that covered his entire left shoulder and made it nearly impossible for him to raise his arm over his head, made lifting anything, especially a saddle onto a horse, a struggle. And if she did know, she didn’t seem to regard his infirmity as a detriment to their arranged union. Perhaps ...

He reached the bedchamber door, knocked a couple of times and entered when he heard what sounded like an invitation to enter. A chorus of feminine gasps could be heard as he strode into the bedchamber, his attention immediately drawn to the opening to the bathroom and beyond. A suddenly nervous maid, eyes wide, curtsied from next to the copper tub, in which stood a very naked Charlotte, her back to him and only her lower limbs hidden by bubble-topped water. Embarrassed, his first thought was to excuse himself and leave, but his eyes were fixed on the image of Charlotte’s back, indeed, of her entire backside. The bright red gash, starting at one shoulder blade and then ending just below the other one, was at odds with the perfection of her creamy white skin, her elegant coiffed blonde hair, her long neck that curved into slightly sloped shoulders, the curves that defined her small waist and her perfectly proportioned bottom and the thighs that promised beautiful calves and who knew what else below the water line.
The red streak must just be a length of red ribbon stuck to her skin
, he thought as he moved toward the tub. But as he got closer, he remembered how she had winced when she had remounted her horse earlier. The red gash really was a wound!
And she didn’t cry out,
he thought suddenly. 

“Leave us,” he instructed, his voice louder than he intended, his attention on Charlotte’s maid, Parma, immediately next to the tub. The maid dared a glance at Charlotte before lowering her eyes. Parma curtsied before hurrying around the duke and out of the room.

Another maid, one he recognized from his own staff, also exited the bath as Charlotte’s body suddenly went rigid. She was about to sit down into the tub, and now found herself wondering, of all things, about protocol.

What does one do when a duke enters a lady’s rooms and she is nude and standing in knee-deep water?

Should she face him and then curtsy? Cover herself first and then curtsy? But cover herself with ... what?

One part of her brain reminded her that her dressing gown was draped over a vanity chair well out of her reach. Another part of her brain suddenly realized just what Joshua must be seeing, and all thoughts of proper protocol flew out of her head.

Joshua reached for a towel from a pile on the vanity, intending to wrap her in it, but as he stepped even closer to the tub, he saw just how deep the cut in her back was, how raw the edges appeared, and how a few drops of fresh blood seeped from several wider areas along the gash. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice so husky he didn’t recognize it as his own. When Charlotte didn’t answer right away, he moved to stand by her side, noting that she had at least covered her breasts with her crossed arms. He allowed the towel to unfurl, and he held it up in front of her while keeping his eyes trained on the side of her face. The baser side of himself wanted desperately to see all of her.

Charlotte’s attention was on something far away, but a tear made a path down her cheek before she was aware of the towel. She gripped the edges and held it against the front of her body, her head shaking from side to side, her lower lip trembling before a tooth finally caught it.

“Who did this to you?” Joshua repeated in a quiet voice as he reached out and placed an open palm over the shoulder nearest him, intending to take a closer look at the wound.

Visibly flinching, Charlotte gasped. “My fa ... my father,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. His hand was so hot against her shoulder, she thought it might leave a mark, as if he was branding her.

A stillness settled over Joshua Wainwright, where time seemed to stand still and where he could imagine the events to come in a kind of slow motion that preceded rage and reaction. “You, there,” he called out as he turned and saw a maid staring from the bedchamber. The woman’s eyes widened and she appeared quite frightened at being discovered watching the two in the bathroom. “Have Gates send for the doctor straight away,” he ordered, his voice so commanding that the maid immediately bobbed and left his sight. He returned his gaze to Charlotte, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “When?” he whispered hoarsely.

Charlotte finally turned her face a bit in his direction, but her eyes remained downcast. “Five days ago,” she replied, another tear streaming down her face.

Joshua furrowed his brows, thinking of the pain she must have endured why traveling in a coach from London with a wound so deep that it was still bleeding. Had her father sliced a knife across her back? “What ...?”

“A horse whip,” Charlotte answered before he could complete the question. She heard his sudden intake of breath, could see a kind of rage building in him that threatened to explode at any moment.

“Your
father
horse whipped you?” he whispered, disbelief evident, or perhaps a desire to believe it must have been someone else who would dare do such a thing to a woman.

“He thought me willful,” Charlotte started to explain, her eyes raising to meet his, her body trembling much like it had the night before.

“Willful?” he repeated, at first in disbelief. He considered her behavior with him in the study the day before and realized that, yes, she could be willful. But enough to warrant a whipping? She was the daughter of an earl! “Whatever did you do ..?”

“He wanted me to agree to marry an earl instead of fulfilling my obligation to this duchy,” she whispered, her lower lip quivering and her teeth nearly chattering. “But I said I would refuse any other agreement. There is already a betrothal in place, one that he arranged with your father, and I did not wish to renounce it.” Her head shook from side to side as she made her statement, her knees weakening beneath her.

Joshua realized she was about to collapse and caught her body around the waist, lowering her gently into the water while trying to allow her some modicum of modesty. When she was seated, her knees slightly bent and her hands firmly on the edge of the tub, he let go of her and knelt next to the tub. He left his wet forearms draped on the side of the tub as he regarded her profile for several seconds and considered her words. “He offered you a way out of having to marry me?” he finally countered, wondering why she hadn’t taken the offer. She knew he was badly disfigured, knew the extent of his visible wounds. Why would she insist on fulfilling some betrothal obligation made when she was three years old?

“I did not wish to be relieved of the obligation, Your Grace,” she stated, her chin angled in such a way as to suggest she was stubborn on the topic. She didn’t dare tell him the true reason for the wound – that her father didn’t want his perfect daughter to end up with a scarred man. In his drunken rage, he had reasoned that she needed to be left with a scar as bad in some respects as those on the man she intended to marry.

A scar that she would carry for life.

And judging from Joshua’s reaction and the earlier reaction of the house maid who had helped her undress for her bath, the wound was worse than she thought – one that would probably be visible on her back for many years to come. She reached up and wiped tears from her face, determined to stop crying.

“Be that as it may, you do realize that the betrothal was made on behalf of my older brother, who has ...
died?
” he reasoned, wondering if such an arrangement transferred much like the lands and title had to him.

Charlotte nodded. “I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace. So sorry for what happened to your entire family,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath, overcoming a sob. Straightening her torso while still holding the towel against the front of her body, she stated, “As I understand the betrothal, I am to marry the Earl of Grinstead, and if he has ascended, then the Duke of Chichester, upon my twenty-first birthday.” She wondered for at least the third time if the fire that had destroyed half the house had also destroyed the written agreement between her father and the former duke.

Joshua regarded Charlotte for several minutes, contemplating whether he should change his mind and extricate himself from the betrothal, and then wondering how he could extricate himself out of the awkward situation he found himself in at the moment – in a lady’s bath kneeling on the floor next to the tub in which an injured, nude lady was supposed to be bathing.

He was saved from having to make an immediate move when the village doctor appeared in the bathroom doorway, a black leather bag in one hand and his other at his waist as he bowed. “Your Grace. Please forgive the delay. I came as soon as I could secure a saddled horse,” the rather tall man said, his eyes darting between the duke and the woman in the tub whose back was to him.

Charlotte stiffened at the sound of the voice, recognizing it from her time in Kirdford the days after the fire. Its owner was the stubborn village doctor who insisted he could see to Joshua’s wounds even as she arranged to move the badly burned Joshua to London. On the third day following the fire, the man had relented and allowed his patient to be taken away in a hammock secured in the back of the finest wagon she could hire. Charlotte was sure it was only because the doctor, who had used up every drop of morphine he had in treating Joshua, had decided Joshua would not make it through the night.

His death would then be on her.

But Joshua
did
make it through that awful day and night, his body suffering fever and chills and all manner of torturous pain. Once at hospital in London, the doctor she arranged to provide his care said it was due to the medical attention he’d been provided those first two days that ultimately saved Joshua Wainwright’s life. The old village doctor had known what he was doing. As she sat at Joshua’s bedside on the fifth day, she wrote a note to Dr. Regan, thanking him for his work and asking that he forgive her stubbornness in insisting that Joshua be treated in London.

If the doctor sent a reply, she did not receive it.

Joshua got to his feet in a fluid movement that belied the tightness in the left side of his body. “Thank you for coming, Doctor Regan,” he said with a nod. My ...”
Betrothed
, he started to say, “... Guest, Lady Charlotte, has a rather nasty wound that I believe may require some stitches,” he said, getting right to the point as he indicated the red slash across her back. The wound was quite visible over the top of the water as Charlotte leaned forward in the tub, mortified that not just one man, but now two, were seeing her uncovered back.

The doctor cocked a shaggy eyebrow as he took a look from where he stood and then, with an encouraging nod from Joshua, stepped forward and looked down on Charlotte’s back. “Lady Charlotte,” he said by way of greeting.

Charlotte turned her head slightly and nodded. “Doctor Regan. It’s so good of you to come,” she replied lightly, hoping the man didn’t hold a grudge against her.

Dr. Regan placed his bag on the floor, opened it, and withdrew a magnifying glass. He positioned it a few inches over the gash and began surveying the damage, making an occasional ‘tsk’ sound. He shook his head. “How long ago did this ... occur?” he finally asked, putting away his glass. Although he did not seem overly curious, Joshua could tell from the way the doctor’s eyes looked from the wound to him suggested he was imagining some awful scenario.

“Five days ago,” Charlotte answered, swallowing hard in order to stifle a sob. “I thought it no worse than a scratch and that it would heal on its own,” she explained, wanting the doctor to know it happened long before she got to the duchy. “I got too close to a groom who was working with one of our horses, you see,” she explained, her voice so convincing she could almost believe the story herself.

“Oh, dear,” Dr. Regan replied, a bit of horror in his voice. “Well, it might have healed had you been able to stay still for several days,” he said with a hint of admonishment. “But I do believe I can close up the wound. Stitches are in order, I should warn you.”

Charlotte nodded her head, wondering if the duke intended to remain in the room while the doctor performed the work. Would the procedure be so painful that she would cry out with each stitch? Or would they be no more painful than the pin pricks she felt when doing needlework?

“If you could, my lady, it would be best if you were out of the tub and sitting down on that chair over there,” he said as he pointed to the low-backed seat in front of the vanity. “I will, of course, need a chair in which I can be seated behind and a bit higher than Lady Charlotte,” he added, his eyes darting to the duke.