An Ideal Duchess (4 page)

             
“I couldn’t impose!” She exclaimed. “I merely stopped by to make sure your friend was alright.”

             
Bron swallowed a smirk at Bim’s startled expression and gestured at his bandaged arm and head. “On the mend, I think. And I insist you stay for tea.”

             
“If you’re both sure I won’t be imposing…” She glanced at them both before returning her gaze to his face.

             
“Not at all,” said Bron, leveraging himself into a seated position.

             
“Shouldn’t you remain in bed?” She looked worriedly at Bim. “He should, shouldn’t he?”

             
“I’m fine,” Bron frowned. “I’m just—”

             
She scooted up the bed until she was close enough to push him back down on the pillows. She was even more beautiful this close, her mouth soft and inviting and the dewy hue of her skin reminded him of a pot of fresh Devonshire cream. In addition, she smelled damned fine, like a freshly cut arrangement of fat, pink roses and spicy oranges. Christ, he swore, almost rolling his eyes—he sounded like Bim in one of his poetic moods. Thankfully, she seemed to realize her effect on him and how her hands lingered on his shoulders, and she stood abruptly, two spots of color warming her cheeks.

             
“We ought to have tea up here,” She said hastily.

             
“Excellent idea,” Bim said and raised his eyebrows at Bron as he departed.

             
An awkward silence settled over the room.

             
“How is—” She started.

             
“I didn’t catch—”

             
Bron smiled lopsidedly. “My apologies; please continue what you were saying.”

             
She lowered her eyes briefly to the floorboards. “I was inquiring after your arm, and your head.”

             
“Still attached, thank God,” He snorted. “I’m told I must stay abed for a number of weeks, but that is simply impossible.”

             
“You ought to!” She looked appalled. “You looked half dead when I first saw you on the ground—and what was that dreadful contraption twisted around your body?”

             
“An experiment,” He said cautiously, both wary of and embarrassed by the exposure of his deepest desires.

             
“An experiment with death is more like it.” She balled her fists on her hips. “You really ought to be more careful.”

             
Bron looked askance at her outrage. “Why are you so upset? You can’t care a jot about someone you’ve only just met.”

             
Her hands fell loosely to her sides and she opened her mouth, then closed it, and frowned at him. “Far be it for me to stand in the way of your obviously reckless regard for your own life.”

             
Bron narrowed his eyes at her, a memory tugging persistent at his gray matter. The memory of himself, moments before hurtling into a tree, came hurtling back at him and he sat up, damn his head.

             
“You shot me down!”

             
“I readily admit that one of our guns must have caused your accident, but there is no reason to blame me personally.”

             
“You’re right,” Bron said equably, determining it was best to divert her attention away from his aeroplane experiments.

             
“I am?”

             
He smiled briefly at her, realizing that the slight throbbing pain in his head wasn’t strong enough to keep him bound to this blasted bed—neither was the dizziness—and he made to rise from the bed again.

             
“You shouldn’t—” She had rushed over to touch him once more, only recoiling when she seemed to remember how familiar this was.

             
He extended his right hand to her and shrugged. “You might as well help me up. I shan’t stay up here, particularly since Bim is taking too long to order a pot of tea.”

             
Her grip was firm and strong, fingers warm even through the thin kidskin of her gloves, and he held his fractured arm against him, bracing himself for the impact of her body against his as he slid his arm around her shoulder. She came up to his chin and fit neatly into the crook of his arm, and Bron couldn’t resist bending his nose to her golden crown, softly inhaling her spicy-sweet scent before realizing how entirely inappropriate this was. As they slowly made their way around the bed and towards the door, he focused his mind on more mundane subjects such as tea, or that this would be no different from assistance given by a nurse or a sister or…
Viola
. Yes, Viola, he thought!  Good old Vi, he reassured himself.

             
As they made their way down the flight of stairs leading to the Great Hall, there came a clap of thunder followed by the flickering of Challoner House’s electric lighting and then sudden darkness. Bron paused in mid-step, his right hand instinctively tightening around her shoulder to halt her from continuing. He carefully completed his step, emitting a breath of relief that he hadn’t misjudged the mark and arrived downstairs courtesy of the air. Dr. Satterthwaite would no doubt have turned into a tower of fury at Bron’s disregard for his present injuries.

             
“Don’t move,” He ordered softly, releasing his hold on her shoulders and feeling gingerly for the wall with his right hand, pressed his hand against it then slid his fingers downward until they brushed against the balustrade.

             
“Bloody hell!” He heard Bim growl as something clattered on the ground. “I knew I should have tossed this rubbish when I had the chance. Is that you, Bron?”

             
“Yes, you ass,” He slowly ascended the last steps, having regained his bearing. “Why didn’t you bring any candles?”

             
“Don’t have any. Besides,” Bron flinched at the beam of light that shone abruptly in his eye. “I have this.”

             
This turned out to be an electric torch, which illuminated circular sections of the room as Bim flicked it across the Great Hall.

             
“I don’t suppose you have another one?” Their guest’s—what was her name?—voice wafted over Bron’s shoulder.

             
“I do,”

             
Bim’s torchlight danced back to her, and Bron saw him pass another unlit electric torch to her. She turned it on, and he flinched from yet another light beamed into his face.

             
“I’m sorry,” She said, though her tone lacked the proper apology.

             
“It’s uncanny how dark it is for only half past five,” Bron glanced around the hall as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. “Might I have my own electric torch?”

             
“I’ve only the two, old chap,” Bim’s light danced with his shrug.

             
He turned at her laughter to see her shining a light over the items cluttering the wall—oil paintings of Challoner ancestors, large heraldic shields, antlers of several types of deer shot by Bim’s grandfather, and an assortment of swords, guns, and pistols from various ages

             
“Did you notice some of the portraits have holes in them?”

             
Bron walked carefully to her side, skirting around the heavy furniture that had a tendency to loom in his path just before he crashed into them. He looked up at the portrait directly above them and his mouth twitched when he spied the puncture through the curls on either side of old gentleman’s bagged wig.

             
“An unfortunate accident with a pellet gun,” He lifted his shoulders with casual indifference.

             
“That one was shot straight through the nose!” The girl laughed, pointing to the painting a few paces away, where a pompous looking fellow in a black tricorn hat stood in front of garden.                             “Whomever did this must have been very bored or very naughty.”

             
“Would both suffice?” He cocked a brow towards Bim, whose torch light danced across the wall as he joined them.

             
“Ah, Great-Great Grandfather Challoner—he was a wicked one. According to family lore, he regularly practiced the old custom of
droit de seigneur
, and there are a passel of dark haired, dark eyed descendants of these Challoner bastards around these parts.”

             
“He doesn’t look very wicked; rather like a benign grandfather,” She said.

             
“Appearances, as always, can be deceiving,” Bim placed the torchlight beneath his face, the shadows and flickers of light lending a decidedly wicked cast over his saturnine features. “Isn’t that so, old chap?”

             
Bron rolled his eyes when Bim shone the light over his face and pushed the torch away. As he did so, there was another clap of thunder, and the girl started, clutching at his arm. He was grateful it was his uninjured side, for he automatically tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He released her just as quickly, the imprint of her body’s feminine curves seared into his skin, and he almost wished he could hold her again. He grimaced at himself; he did not even know her name. Fortunately, for his sanity, she shifted away, the beam of light continuing to travel along the wall.

             
“Oh my,” She gasped.

             
Bim shone his flashlight at her. “What is it?”

             
“Someone, hold this chair for me,” She ordered, indicating the ancient-looking, high-backed chair placed sideways against the wall.

             
Her electric torch in hand, shining over a spot on the wall, and before either of them could do as she directed, she hoisted her skirt above her trim ankles and stepped up onto the seat, stretching up to her toes to reach the small painting hooked above a heraldic shield. The chair wobbled a little, and Bron swore, quickly grabbing the carved back with his free hand as she sank back to her heels and then stepped down to the floor.

             
“You little fool; you could have broken your neck.” He forcibly turned the chair so that its back was against the wall.

             
“What’s that you have?” Bim shone his torch over the object in her hand.

             
“I knew I recognized the work of Autissier,” She said, ignoring his rebuke and wiping at the painting with her handkerchief. “It’s terribly dirty, but should fetch a decent price on the market.”

             
“Is money all you ruddy Americans think about?” Bron growled, recognizing her foolhardiness as his source of irritation.

             
She looked at him, obviously surprised by the vehemence of his tone. Her mouth curved to form a scornful smile.

             
“Sometimes, I think about all of the nice things I can buy with money—clothes, books, automobiles, houses, even dukes.”

He flinched.

              “There should be one nearby, isn’t there?” She continued snidely. “I hear he’s very poor, and since I’m very rich, we should rub along well, shouldn’t we?”

             
Bim whistled in the ensuing silence. “She went for the jugular, my dear duke.”

             
“What?” She swung her torch light at Bim and then into his face. “You don’t mean to tell me
he
is a duke?”

             
“I’m afraid, so Miss Vandewater.” Bim placed the torch light beneath his face again and smirked.

             
“Oh,” She lowered her torch light from his face. “
Ohh
.”

             
“There is no need to change your attitude towards me,” Bron said stiffly. “You’ve already made your opinion quite well known.”

*           *          *

              Amanda was thankful for the darkness that covered the awkward silence in the aftermath of her incredibly rude blunder. She set the miniature on the small round table and cleared her throat.

             
“I ought to get home before my parents begin to worry about my whereabouts.”

             
“Are you so anxious to escape us?” Mr. Challoner swung his torchlight in her direction.

             
She laughed. “We hardly know one another, and I’ve begun to realize it isn’t quite proper of me to be here alone with two strange gentlemen.”

             
“I advise you wait out the storm,” The Duke of Malvern said flatly. “How did you come here?”

             
“My father’s motor,” She flushed at the thought. “He doesn’t know I’ve taken it.”