His eyes returned to the woman in the bed. Who was she? How had she gotten into his room? And why was
he
in a room? he wondered with shock. He was supposed to be on the mail, headed for Devon to pay his addresses to Miss Huntsley.
A presentiment of doom was building. He could almost see the sword of Damocles poised above his head. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, prodding her shoulder.
No response.
His gaze sharpened. The visible hand was smooth with artistically long fingers, certainly not that of a servant. Her complexion was clear, but even in sleep he could not reconcile her features with a barmaid. Nor did she fit the mold of a prostitute. Her bag and trunk were worn but of good quality. Paradoxically, the cloak hanging on a peg beside the door was muddy, torn, and smelled strongly of brandy.
He prodded her again. What was she doing in his room? In his bed? How had she been injured and who had bandaged her? Why had he no recollection of any of this? Usually by now he at least managed a hazy outline of his evening.
“Bloody hell! What is going on here?”
His head pounded. He prodded harder, frantic when he could raise no response.
Her left hand rested atop the coverlet. She wore no rings. That precluded a widow or a wife. Terror welled in his throat as he shook her. Still no response. Acute pain knifed through his neck and for the first time, he examined himself.
“My God!”
A bandage wrapped one leg, which was surprisingly sore. Scrapes covered both hands. He peered into a cracked looking glass and gasped in shock. One eye was swollen, and a long graze extended from forehead to cheek. Pain again stabbed from his neck to his right shoulder. Twisting before the glass, he discovered an ugly bruise. The agony was too great to remain in this contorted position for long, but he could not reconcile his injuries with a fight.
“An accident?” he wondered. “Bloody hell!”
But why was he sharing a bed with an unknown and apparently unmarried female? How long had they been here? That elusive snippet returned to tantalize him.
He shuddered. What had occurred in the dark reaches of the night? He loosed an exhaustive and highly imaginative stream of invective, until a groan cut him off in mid-curse.
“Anne?” whispered a voice. “My head aches so. Could you bring me some water?”
He collapsed in despair as the Damoclesian sword fell. Though weak and barely conscious, she was obviously well-bred. What had he done?
“Anne? Are you here?” whispered the voice again.
Thomas rose and poured water into a cracked cup, holding it to her lips. Remembering that he was nearly naked, he slipped beneath the coverlet, taking care not to touch her. Then he waited for her to open her eyes, waited for her to tell him why they were together, and prayed that somehow his deductions were wrong.
* * * *
Caroline swallowed a sip of water from the cup Anne held to her lips. No, not Anne, she acknowledged as memory returned. Her head ached abominably. She reached a shaking hand to the bandage, which had slipped down over her eyes.
There had been an accident. She remembered now. The coach had gone faster and faster until it had finally overturned. She had been on the bottom and must have been knocked senseless. Where was she?
In bed.
Someone was with her, someone who had just settled onto the edge. Was she so badly injured that a nurse had been left to attend her? But how could she hope to pay for such an extravagance? She had only a few shillings, assuming her reticule had not disappeared.
Shakily she pushed the bandage up until she could see. The room was dimly lit, but not with wavering candlelight. A window covered with sparse ivy admitted minimal light from an overcast day. With difficulty she turned to see who rested on the bed.
“You!” she gasped, clamping one hand over her mouth in horror. She lunged away in a reckless attempt to escape, discovered she wore only her shift, grabbed the coverlet, and retreated to the chair under the window.
Thomas jumped as though shot, remembered his own state of undress, and donned the sheet. He backed into the far corner and stared warily at the lady huddled in the coverlet. Wide, terrified eyes stared back.
Her reaction was not encouraging.
What had he done?
“What are you doing in my room?” she demanded icily. “Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted with a grimace. “I could ask the same of you. What are you doing in my room?”
“Are you still foxed?” Her nose led her eyes to the uncovered chamberpot and she sighed in resignation.
Thomas rubbed his sore shoulder. “Let us start at the beginning,” he began slowly. “The last thing I remember is sitting in the taproom at the Laughing Dog. To the best of my knowledge, I have never seen you before. Who are you?”
“You must have been even more foxed than I thought,” Caroline murmured in disgust.
She raked him with an objective stare. Not much older than herself, he looked as though he would clean up rather nicely. Well-cut black hair curled riotously around his face. Despite the bruises, the two-days’ stubble of dark beard, and his generally dissipated appearance, he had an aristocratic face of the more handsome variety, highlighted by a wide, sensual mouth and brilliant green eyes under indecently long lashes.
But his expression declared him a spoiled society buck accustomed to getting his own way and ready to ride roughshod over anyone who crossed him. Did he really have no memory of recent events? How odd.
Her face snapped back into a frown. “I am Miss Caroline Cummings, third daughter of the Sheldridge Corners vicar. I am on my way to Cornwall to take up a post as governess. We met – if you can call it that – as I was boarding the mail coach. You knocked me down, draped yourself all over me, emptied your stomach, and then passed out in my lap. Being unable to shift you, I had to endure your weight until my legs lost all sensation. Then the driver abandoned his wits and tumbled us down an embankment. As if that were not enough, you have now invaded my room. Please leave this instant!” She delivered this recital with barely suppressed indignation that raised her voice until each word pounded into his head with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer.
“This situation is worse than you know, Miss Cummings,” ground out Thomas, staring despairingly at the dowdy miss in front of the window. Her only redeeming virtue was height. He usually towered over women.
But the few wisps of hair sticking out from under her bandage seemed dull brown, as were her eyes. The rest of her features were plain, with freckles dotting her nose. Nevertheless, he would have to make the best of things. A vicar’s daughter. Devil take it, she was gentry. If this imbroglio became known, it could ruin Eleanor’s Season. He took a deep breath.
“I am the Honourable Thomas Edward Alfred Mannering. I admit to being on the go last evening – at least I assume it was last evening – and have no recollection of boarding the mail. I can only apologize and hope that my illness did not disturb you too greatly.”
“Well,” she conceded, “you did make it to the window – over my poor body.”
He groaned at the picture her words painted.
“Again,” she returned to her original complaint, “what are you doing in my room?”
“I could ask you the same question. I fear that someone placed us here together,” he explained. “I awakened to find myself sharing a bed with you.”
She reddened, then her face paled. “What–”
He shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea,” he admitted, “but I was three sheets to the wind rather than senseless, so anything could have happened.”
She was visibly shaking.
“We will have to marry, you know,” he added resignedly. “Neither your reputation nor my honor as a gentleman would survive otherwise.” Which was the worse sin? Ignoring honor’s demand. Or disgracing his family by wedding beneath him. Unfortunately, honor delivered the more impassioned plea. But how could he survive being shackled to vicarage prudity?
Oh, God, Alicia! How could fate have turned so badly against us?
Caroline stared as if he had gone mad. Surely this is a dream. Soon I will awaken, safe in the room I share with Anne. We will laugh at such a fanciful nightmare and finish packing my trunk for Cornwall.
But Mr. Mannering was still there, partially wrapped in a dingy and slipping sheet, and try as she might, she could not wake up. Must she really spend her life with this perpetually foxed stranger who blithely admitted that, when in his cups, he would of course ravish any female foolish enough to cross his path? He belonged in Bedlam.
“But who would ever know?” she protested desperately.
“These things have a way of getting out,” he said. “There is no telling how many people are aware we spent the night together. Think it over. I will try to discover where we are and what has happened. Mayhap I can learn how we find ourselves in this fix. Not that it will improve our situation any.”
She merely nodded and turned to stare at the ivy-covered window.
Once he departed, she numbly proceeded with her own
toilette
. There must be some way to escape this coil! But she could remember nothing beyond the accident. Not the faintest glimmering. Someone had carried her to an inn, removed her clothing (her cheeks reddened), dressed her wounds, put her to bed. That same someone must have done the same things to Mr. Mannering.
Her blush spread clear to her toes.
But who would have assumed that they were wed? She slumped dizzily onto the bed. At least nothing had been stolen. Her few coins still lay in the reticule she found tucked among her clothes. Except her virtue, mocked that inner voice she hated.
* * * *
Half an hour later, Thomas returned with a breakfast tray, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Dowdy didn’t begin to describe her dress. Never fashionable, it was at least ten years old, having originally belonged to someone both shorter and stouter than Miss Cummings. Innumerable washings had softened the fabric until it hung like a muddy, brown tent. The bandage bleached her face even paler. And her right hand was nearly as scraped as his own.
“The innkeeper’s wife fixed this for us. It is dusk, by the way. We are at the Blue Boar, some forty miles west of Sheldridge Corners.” He placed the tray on the table, drew it nearer the bed, then seated himself on the chair.
“What did you learn?” She poured coffee, cringing as he picked up his ale.
“I spoke to a thin young man who was another passenger.” He raised his brows.
She nodded.
“He claims that the driver was well into his cups – at least according to the guard. The fellow’s betrothed had just jilted him for a soldier and he has repeatedly been criticized for failing to average the nine miles per hour mandated for mail coaches. Slowness is one thing the company will never tolerate. But all tales are hearsay. The guard departed, along with the King’s mail, some hours ago. No one really knows why the coachman forced that sudden burst of speed. The accident broke his neck.”
Caroline shuddered.
“I owe you a vast number of apologies, it seems,” he continued ruefully. “According to report, my attentions were far worse than you implied. So familiar did I act that Miss Spencer was convinced that we are married. She so informed our rescuers and as neither of us was able to contradict her, they placed us in a room together.”
“Is she the spinsterish lady?”
“Right.”
“That would explain why she glowered at me while delivering her diatribe against the low company allowed onto the mail these days.”
He cringed. “Again, my heartfelt apologies. But we must settle our future. Your father is a vicar. Have you other relatives.”
“Papa was the fourth son of the late Lord Cummings, so there are numerous aunts and uncles on that side. But no money. He had to make his own way and preferred the church to the army or the government. He met my mother while working as a curate in Lincolnshire. She was the seventh Earl of Waite’s second daughter, but was disinherited for marrying so far beneath her, so I know little of that family. You might learn from her example. I have no dowry at all.”
So her breeding was actually quite good, he reflected in surprise. Which made his own behavior even worse. At least the connection would not reflect badly on his family.
“That matters not. I see no possibility of explaining away the past eighteen hours, Miss Cummings. I have hopelessly compromised you. There can be no solution but marriage.”
“Who will ever find out? No one knows my name. I spoke to none on the coach. I can simply continue my journey.”
“Word will get out,” he insisted. Honor aside, the more he considered Miss Cummings, the better he liked the idea. While no beauty, she was an improvement on the horse-faced Miss Huntsley. A governess surely had more sense than that brainless widgeon. And she would probably not complain about conditions at Crawley, never having known luxuries. Clearly she had few sensibilities. Most ladies of his acquaintance would produce week-long hysterics after what she had been through. It seemed that fate was offering at least a partial reprieve. All he had to do was convince her of the inevitability of their union.
He flashed the most understanding of his stock of charming smiles. “The accident has delayed your arrival, and your injuries will be impossible to hide. Once it is known you were on the coach whose driver died, someone is bound to connect you with Mr. Mannering’s mysterious wife. They know me, you see, having checked my card case. Who would overlook such a scandal involving their governess, Miss Cummings?”
She recoiled. “But you cannot wish to marry me, Mr. Mannering. You know nothing about me. Nor I of you, for that matter.”
“True, though that can be easily remedied.” He inhaled deeply. “I will not deceive you, Miss Cummings. I am no bargain. To give you the words with no bark on them, I have spent the bulk of the past year in continuous dissipation, surfacing only recently to find myself deep in the River Tick. That is the worst of it, however. I am the second son of the Earl of Marchgate and have a small estate of my own, though it is in considerable disrepair. My father has decreed that in exchange for bailing me out, I must stay on said estate and see to its restoration. The only capital I can obtain is an inheritance from my grandfather that comes to me upon my marriage. But my recent misbehavior has not helped my reputation any. Father claims that Lord Huntsley would welcome my addresses to his youngest daughter. I had not yet given him my answer, deciding in my cups two evenings ago to first travel to Devon and see whether she is really as disgustingly inept as I remember. Frankly, your advent is a blessing. Already I know and like you better than Miss Huntsley.”