To Marry an Heiress (20 page)

“Devon, stop worrying about appearances. I doubt anyone around here gives a good goddamn.”

A good goddamn? Was there such a thing as a bad one?

He was on the verge of asking her when she turned, released a small screech, and stumbled to the ground. He was kneeling beside her in an instant. “What’s the matter?”

“My leg is cramping.”

“There, you see? I told you.” He scooped her up into his arms. “You had no business whatsoever working out in the fields.”

She wound one arm around his neck, while with the other hand she attempted to reach her leg.

“Just be still so I can get you to the house,” he ordered briskly, alarmed by the situation, wondering if he should send for a physician. He didn’t want her suffering.

“What about the horses?”

“I doubt they’ll run off. I shall send someone to tend to them.”

He took the steps leading into the manor two at a time. As though realizing he would have his way in this matter, she slumped against him, laying her head against his shoulder. He’d forgotten how nice
she felt when held completely within his arms. Her simple dress, more suited to working in the fields than attending any social function, had no bustle or bows or anything to prevent him from noticing every swell and dip of her slender body as it pressed against his.

As he turned the knob, he shouldered open the heavy door and caught sight of Winston hurrying into the foyer. “Winston, have someone prepare a bath for Lady Huntingdon. Immediately.”

“Yes, milord.”

He carried her up the stairs to the bedchamber next to his. Gently he sat her in a chair before the hearth. He slid his hand beneath the hem of her dress and had no trouble finding the knotted muscle in her calf. He swore softly.

She tried to move her leg, but he held it firmly.

“Devon, I can do that.”

“As can I,” he said sternly, neither in the mood nor possessing the disposition to argue. Not that his tone would have deterred her if she had been of a mind to expostulate.

With a capitulation that he now understood beyond a doubt was totally foreign to her nature, she leaned back in the chair, gripping its arms. How like the blasted woman not to admit she was in a great deal of discomfort.

He kneaded the muscles slowly, gently, until he felt the knot loosening, her leg becoming firm but not hard beneath his fingers. She had such a finely shaped calf. He was tempted to lift her skirt over her knees and press his mouth just below her knee.

What a fool he’d been to speak in anger and disappointment, to deny her his presence in her bed, and in so doing, deny himself the pleasure of her body and the comfort he’d felt from simply holding her on their wedding night.

He lifted his gaze to her face. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted the tiniest bit. Her head was tilted at an odd angle, her breathing shallow.

His countess, after her arduous day in the fields, was asleep.

B
arely able to keep her eyes open, Georgina watched the steam swirl around her as the heat from the bathwater eased its way through her tired muscles.

She’d been too distracted by the discomfort to object when Devon had whisked her into this bedchamber. She thought it might have once belonged to the previous lady of the house.

The room was dominated by the bed with its chintz curtains, looped back and held in place by tasseled cords, hanging from square mahogany posts taller than her husband was. Decorative pillows adorned the bed, seemingly in disarray, and yet she felt certain each one had been placed just so.

The massive double wardrobe had a tall mirror in its center. A dressing table draped in muslin and edged with lace sat in a nook before the window. She could see an assortment of bottles resting on top—
probably perfumes. Little silver trinket boxes. Crystal vases, some holding flowers and some not. Dainty chairs and tiny tables that should have given the room a cluttered feel but instead seemed welcoming. And the abundance of framed paintings on the wall made Georgina wonder why they’d bothered with wallpaper.

After the servants had finished scurrying about, bringing up buckets of hot water for the luxuriously long copper tub, Devon had exited through a side door that she was certain led into his bedchamber. This room wasn’t masculine enough to be his, but it would have provided him with easy access to his wife.

She didn’t want to acknowledge the pang of envy for a dead woman that thought invoked. Nor did she wish to contemplate how desperately she wanted his love.

She wasn’t certain when the realization had dawned on her, but she thought she could trace its roots back to London if she thought about it long enough.

She had enjoyed working beside him today. As she’d toiled in the fields during her youth, she’d always dreamed of one day having a man beside her to pick the cotton. Then the war had erupted, taking the dreams with it, far away. No matter how much she reached for them, she couldn’t touch them.

Young men and boys had left to fight. Few had returned.

The scarcity of men had made the prospect of
marriage bleak. Then the Yankees had started moving in—damned carpetbaggers. She wouldn’t have allowed one of them to court her if he’d been the last man in Texas.

A soft tapping brought her out of her musings and her lethargy. She bade entry, and Martha walked into the room.

“I brought your nightclothes, milady,” the housemaid said as she set a bundle on the bed.

Georgina sat up, splashing water over the side of the tub. “Oh, no. I’ll need a gown for dinner.” She was almost as hungry as she was tired.

“His lordship has said you’re to eat in here.”

Georgina reached for a towel, and Martha hurried over to help her.

“But I want to eat with the children.” Georgina tucked the towel up beneath her arms, wrapped it around her body, and stepped out of the tub.

“The children are coming here to eat. His lordship has instructed us to prepare a picnic on the bed.”

Georgina stilled. “He has?”

“He has,” a deep voice purred.

With a screech, Georgina spun around, slipped on the wet floor, and landed with a hard thud.

“Damnation!” Devon hissed.

Georgina watched in horror as he strode across the room.

“No!” She held up a hand to stave off his assistance, felt the towel fall, grabbed it, scrambled back, slid, landed on her elbow—

“Stop!” she yelled.

He staggered to a halt, and she realized too late that since he was no longer concentrating on getting to her, he could give his complete attention to looking at her.

Which he seemed to be doing with increasing intensity.

Clutching the towel to her chest left the rest of her embarrassingly exposed. She scooted back and reached for another towel. Her movement must have snapped Martha out of her stunned daze; the maid snatched away her sole protection against his intense glare.

“Oh, milady, this one is all wet. Let me help you—”

“No.” Georgina struggled to wrap another towel around her, hanging onto it for dear life. “I’m fine. I can take care of it myself.”

“But milady—”

“Martha, fetch the children,” Devon said in a voice that sounded as though he was strangling. “I’ll see to my wife’s needs.”

“Yes, milord.”

Martha was up on her feet and out of the room before Georgina could draw in another breath.

“You won’t see to my needs. You’ll turn away,” Georgina snapped. The words seemed ridiculous when spoken aloud, especially since he’d seen every inch of her body on their wedding night a lifetime ago, before her father’s weaknesses had revealed her husband’s uncompromising strength.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he raked his gaze over her with a look she might have mistaken for apprecia
tion if she hadn’t known better. Turning away from her, he grabbed the mantel as though he needed something to tether him to the spot.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly.

“Yes, well…” She grabbed another towel, stood and dried herself off. “You did.”

He chuckled low. “So I noticed.” His laughter faded. “I’d forgotten what remarkably long legs you have.”

She stilled. Remarkable? Her legs? Surely he was joking although his voice didn’t sound as though he was. It sounded rough and hoarse. If the white of his knuckles was any indication, he was going to leave an indentation of his fingers in the wood. Carefully avoiding the spots of water, she backed to the bed, not trusting him to keep his face averted.

He no longer wore his workman’s clothes but was dressed for dinner. The ends of his hair curled, obviously still damp. He’d no doubt been bathing in the next room while she’d been washing up in here. Even with a door separating them, the intimacy of that realization caused her body to flush with heat.

She decided to avoid his comment and change the subject. “It was nice of you to arrange for us to eat here. The children will enjoy an indoor picnic.”

She dropped the towel and worked her way into her nightgown. He didn’t look as though he’d moved while the material had hidden her face. She drew on her wrapper and knotted the sash.

Sitting on the bed, she wondered if he’d made love to his first wife here—or had he carried her to
his bed? She’d never set eyes on his bedchamber, not here or in London.

“I’m decent now,” she said, not at all pleased with the breathlessness of her voice.

He faced her, and one corner of his mouth hiked up into a grin. “I thought you appeared decent before.”

Unable to think of a witty retort with her skin prickling with the heat of his gaze, she asked, “Was this your wife’s room?”

His smile retreated. “You’re my wife.”

“I meant”—she waved her hand, hating that he had the ability to fluster her—” your first wife. Margaret. Was this her room?”

“Yes.”

“Did you and the children have picnics here?”

“We never ate with the children. Ever.” He walked to the bed and skimmed his fingers along her wet hair.

She’d completely forgotten about its disarray. She bounced off the bed. “I need to fix my hair.”

“Leave it. Martha can see to it when she returns with the children.”

She scowled at him. “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly capable of brushing my own hair.”

“When will you understand capability has nothing to do with it? You are the lady of the manor—”

“Therefore I should be able to do anything I want, right? And I want to brush my own hair.”

She sat in the chair before the dressing table and studied the silver brush, comb, and mirror set out as though never to be used. She glanced over her shoulder. “Was this hers?”

“Yes.”

With pantherlike grace, he strolled across the room until he stood behind her.

“Maybe I should pack it away for Millicent.” She held his gaze in the mirror. “She might want to use her mother’s brush when she gets older.”

“She barely remembers her.”

“Which will make it all the more special.” She stood, turned, and found herself toe to toe with him. “I need to fetch my brush.”

“I have one you can use, or we’ll send Martha to retrieve yours.” He toyed with several strands of her hair. “Have you possession of your mother’s brush?”

“Yes, but it’s not silver. It’s the one we shared when we were poorer than dirt—”

He dropped his hand. “And here you are, poor once again.”

“Hardly. I’ve slept in a shack where you could look through the roof and see the stars. I’ve been so hungry that my stomach has hit my backbone. I’ve worn clothes that had enough patches to make them look like a quilt. You continually harp on being poor when you’ve got two children who make your life richer simply by being. You’re just too hard-headed to see that.”

He arched a brow. “I do wish you wouldn’t sugarcoat the situation.”

The twinkle in his eyes made her realize he was teasing. “I need to get my brush.”

She started to edge past him, but his hand on her arm stopped her.

“You may use mine.” He leaned close enough that
she could smell his sandalwood scent and see the dark rings around the blue of his eyes. “Since you’re too hard-headed to follow my conventional wisdom and allow the servant to fetch it.”

Gina sat at the head of the bed with her knees spread wide and her feet somehow tucked up beneath her. Indian-style, she’d called it when the children had wanted to emulate her. A most unladylike and undignified pose.

But lounging at the foot of the bed, Devon had never been more entranced.

His children sat on either side of her, regaling her with the events of their day. She hung on every word as though each was spun from gold. She had to be at least as exhausted as he was, if not more, after working in the fields all day, but she gave no hint of it to the children.

She’d brushed her hair to a glorious mahogany sheen that captured the firelight cast by the candle flames. He longed to plow his hands through it, to cup the back of her head and guide her mouth to his—

“Is she, Father?” Millicent asked.

With a mental shake, Devon turned his attention to his daughter. “I’m sorry, Kitten. What did you say?”

“I wanted to know if Gina was going to live in our part of the house now.”

Devon’s gaze slammed into Gina’s. He had brought her here without thinking. She’d scared the devil out of him when she’d collapsed. He’d almost
taken her into his room to tend to her but realized at the last moment that the wife’s bedchamber was where she belonged.

Where she belonged.

She was his wife, however much he might wish it otherwise.

“I thought we should close off the east wing until we are in a position to have more servants. It will save the staff countless hours of work. If you’re agreeable, that is,” he said, unwilling to admit the truth: that he simply wanted her closer.

“Say yes, Gina,” Noel urged. “Then you wouldn’t have so far to run when it rains.”

Devon sat up straighter. Why the devil was his wife running when it rained? “I beg your pardon? What are you on about?”

His children’s eyes grew as large and as round as saucers, and his wife looked as guilty as sin. He cleared his throat, and both children jumped.

He narrowed his eyes. “All right. What’s all this, then? Come on. Speak up. Noel?”

Noel eased off the bed, stood tall, and placed his hands behind his back. “She’s afraid of the storms, so she runs here when they come.”

He jerked his attention to Gina. “You’re afraid of storms?”

“Not her, Father,” Noel said impatiently. “Millie.”

“Who the deuce is Millie?”

His daughter raised herself up on her knees and planted her hands on her waist. “I am, Father.”

“Millie? What’s wrong with Millicent?”

“Millicent is a hard name. Who thought it up?”

He glanced at Gina. Her eyes were dancing, and he had a feeling she wore a smile behind the napkin she’d pressed to her mouth.

“I did,” he confessed.

“Whatever possessed you, Father?”

This question from Noel, who was looking at him as though he was pondering the merits of having his father placed in a lunatic asylum.

“I was striving to honor the wife of the first earl of Huntingdon. Her name was Millicent.”

“Was she pretty?” Millicent asked.

He darted a glance at his wife and grinned. “Her beauty was…legendary.”

Gina lowered her napkin. Indeed she was smiling, and he felt as though he’d passed some sort of test.

Millicent released a tiny squeal and waddled across the bed on her knees. “Tell us her legend, Father.”

She burrowed against his side so his arm came around her of its own accord. She tilted her head back and looked at him beseechingly. “Please?”

“Perhaps later. Tell me why you’re afraid of storms,” he coaxed.

“Because they’re loud and Noel said they took Mummy away.”

His gut clenched into a hardened knot. He’d forgotten it had been storming the night Margaret had died. He slid his gaze to Noel. His son looked petrified.

Gina tugged Noel onto the bed and slipped her
arm around him. “Storms frighten me as well, so Noel keeps us company in Millie’s bed,” she explained.

She was salvaging his son’s pride. The boy was apparently as terrified of storms as his sister. What had he told Noel when his mother died? That she was gone?

While Millicent had remained in the nursery, Noel had stood stoically at his side during the funeral. Devon had thought Noel understood about death. Or perhaps he’d simply hoped the child did because he didn’t know how to explain it.

“The storm didn’t take her, did it, my lord?” Gina prodded softly.

Her question snapped him back to the present. He drew Millicent more snugly against his side. “No, the storm had nothing to do with her passing.”

“What’s a passing?” Millicent asked.

“It’s when a person…” Died seemed such a harsh word. And then he would have to explain death. His children might come to fear not only storms, but sleep as well. How did one explain?

“Goes to heaven?” Gina offered.

“Yes, quite right.” He gazed into his daughter’s trusting blue eyes. “It’s when a person passes from this world into heaven.” He looked at Noel. “The storm didn’t take her. She went away because she was very ill.”