Dukes Prefer Blondes (19 page)

He thought quickly. “Do you remember how to say the word?”

“What word?”

“The room with the mirrors and twining snakes and trees.”

She frowned. After a moment she said, “Hepta . . .” She paused and bit her lip, displaying the chipped tooth.

His heart seemed to be in a state of strangulation.

He climbed off her and off the bed, aware he was shaking and hoping she couldn't see.

“Never mind,” he said dismissively. “You're only a girl. I can't expect you to remember.”

The blue eyes flashed. “I do!” she said.

“No, you don't. It's too many syllables for your miniscule female brain. And after all the trouble I took to teach you. Dogs can be taught to heel and fetch, I told myself. Monkeys can be taught to dance while the organ grinder plays. Why cannot a girl be taught to say a word?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Professor.”

“That isn't the word.”

“Heptaplop—­ Drat you!”

“You try to make your infinitesimally small brain function at a proper level,” he said, “I'll brew the tea.”

She tried the word a dozen different ways. She muttered to herself, but she did not sound deranged and did not become agitated.

The tea was nearly brewed when she said, with a laugh, “Heptaplasiesoptron!”

“That is correct.”

“Heptaplasiesoptron. Heptaplasiesoptron. Heptaplasies­­­optron. So there, Professor!”

“That's
Professor
Raven
to you,” he said, in the same haughty tones she'd used on him. “Or
sir
.
Genius
will do, too.”

“What about ‘most provoking man'?”

“And you are not at all provoking, I suppose.”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “But you like it, Sir Genius. From his lofty intellectual heights, the Great God Raven looks down upon me with amusement. Don't pretend you don't. I see your mouth twitch. I see the glint in your beady avian eye. Why can't you laugh like a normal person?”

“I'm not a normal person,” he said. “I'm vastly superior to normal persons.”

He filled the cup and carried it to the bed.

He propped her up with pillows, and this time the movement seemed not to distress her so much. She drank the tea without trouble, and when she lay down again, she was quiet, and eventually drifted into sleep. Her fever seemed to have lessened. The delirium had passed, at least for now.

On the next night, she was tranquil enough, although from time to time her mind seemed to wander and she muttered unintelligibly.

Then, near midnight, she grew restless, and demanded her carriage. She tried to get out of bed. This time, when he took her shoulders and guided her down, she went without trouble. He was smoothing the bedclothes when she tried to push him away.

“Come, my girl, you were better before. You need to rest. You can't leap about.”

She bolted up to a sitting position. “I know how to drive. You can't make me stay. We're going to Portsmouth and Egypt and Arabia.”

This time she was determined to get out of the bed. He struggled with her. When he tried climbing onto her again, she bucked and kicked. Fearing she'd wear herself out, he got off her. He spoke to her but she didn't hear him. He pushed her down as gently as she could, and she went, and lay quietly for a moment, breathing hard. Then she rolled to the edge of the bed, and nearly off before he caught her. This time she fought wildly. “Let me go!” she cried. “Let me go!”

“Clara, please. This is not good for you. Please, Clara, come back.”

He was struggling with her, trying to control her without hurting her, when her fist shot up and she hit him in the eye.

 

Chapter Ten

Though you do not always see the raven, the raven always sees you; and he will steal along, by the side of your route, in the tractless desert for many miles, though when you get a sight of him, he appears always to be leaving you.

—­Charles F. Partington,
The British Cyclopedia
, 1836

L
ady Clara hit hard for a girl.

She must have put all she had into it, because she sank back on the pillows and fell asleep. Worn out, no doubt. Yet her face wasn't as hot as before.

Since she seemed safe for the moment, Radford went out into the corridor and signaled to William.

“Her ladyship has done her best to black my eye,” Radford said. “You will have to wake somebody belowstairs and fetch me a cold beefsteak to keep the swelling down. I need both eyes working properly.”

A facial spasm, so minute only Radford could have caught it, betrayed the servant's amusement.

“Never underestimate the power of a woman's fist,” Radford said. “Too, they don't fight fair. They strike without warning.”

“Yes, sir.” Another spasm.

“I think the worst has passed,” Radford said.

The footman released his rigid control and smiled. “Very good news, sir. I'll get that beefsteak straightaway.”

Radford returned to his vigil. His eye was beginning to hurt, but he smiled, too.

T
he next time Clara woke, Davis was with her. Clara had no idea what time it was. Daytime? Did it matter? Though she was tired, she was a little hungry, for the first time in a very long time. And for the first time, she finished her cup of broth without Davis's nagging or coaxing. She held the cup, too, with Davis steadying it. But the process tired her, and she slept again, for most of the day.

When she next awoke, sometime in the evening, Radford was at his post. Even before she looked, she could hear his pen scratching over a document. She lifted her head and saw him bent over his work, the pen moving steadily.

She came up gingerly onto her elbows to study him. Except for the day they'd rescued Toby, Radford had always been neatly groomed and tailored. She couldn't remember if this had been true lately. She couldn't distinguish one day from another, and she didn't know what had happened and what she'd dreamed.

This wasn't dreaming, though. She saw clearly enough that he was not fully dressed. He'd hung his coat over the back of the chair, and worked in waistcoat and shirt, his long, black-­clad legs stretched out under the dainty desk.

At present, only the single lamp on the desk and the firelight illuminated the room. Even so, she could see the way light and shadow outlined the contours of his shoulders and upper arms under the fine linen sleeves. He'd loosened his neckcloth, revealing his throat, which wasn't usually on view. Beard stubble shadowed his jaw. Unruly black curls sprang from his head, telling her he'd raked his fingers through his hair more than once.

Something in his intent expression and in the way the candle cast shadows over the angles and planes of his strong features made her heart squeeze.

She must have uttered a sound without realizing, because he looked up from his work and toward her.

“I'd hoped I'd have a peaceful night,” he said. “No luck there.”

She was silly, perhaps, but it tickled her when he said things like that. It was rather like her brothers' joking insults—­those male signs of affection—­though when Raven spoke, it didn't feel brotherly at all.

She swallowed a sigh. She wished she weren't sick and helpless. She wished she had an idea how to seduce a man. But if she hadn't been sick and helpless, he wouldn't be here. In any case, she knew very well she was far from looking her seductive best, scantily clad though she was.

He wiped his pen and set it down. He closed the inkwell and set the paper aside, on top of another document. He rose and came to the bed. Despite the murky light, when he stood over her, she discerned something amiss with his left eye. Was that bruising?

“Did you walk into a door?” she said.

“No, my lady.” He bent toward her. His eye was discolored, beyond a doubt. No trick of the light. He brought his arm behind her shoulders, lifted her head, and smoothly slid a pillow behind her, then another.

“I may not be as observant as you, but even I can see your eye is injured,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “It collided with your fist.”

She stared at the bruised eye, while her sluggish mind worked to no useful end. “I hit you? You must have deserved it.”

“No, I was minding my own business—­or, rather, your ladyship's business. I was trying to keep you from hurling yourself onto the floor or out of the window in your determination to get to Arabia or Portsmouth.”

She looked about the room, trying to remember. The room did not enlighten her.

“You were delirious,” he said.

“Oh.” She'd rather not imagine what else she might have done or said. He occupied her thoughts excessively—­the ones she could remember—­and the odds were good she'd been indiscreet. “I dreamed I smelled raw beefsteak. Not a dream, then.”

After a silence, during which she grew increasingly uncomfortable, he said, “Where did you learn fisticuffs?”

“Harry. Who else? It amused him. But that was ages ago, when I was little. I can't believe I did that. I'm sick! I can't sit up without help.”

“I didn't get it at Gentleman Jack's Boxing Saloon, I promise you,” he said. “You did it from a reclining position, when I thought you'd calmed, you deceitful creature. It was definitely you, so don't try to wriggle out of it. I've witnesses to attest to my not having left this house since the day I arrived. Furthermore, the footman guarding the door will testify to my eye being in perfect order when I arrived in your room last evening, and my not leaving said room until I went to the door to request raw beefsteak. No jury in the land would find you not guilty—­unless, that is, you batted your big blue eyes at them.”

Clara put her chin up. “If I did hit you, I'm sure you had it coming.”

“I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself, you ungrateful female.”

“Stop whining,” she said. “Come closer, and I'll kiss it and make it better.”

His eyes widened, but so briefly she'd never have noticed had she not been watching him so intently.

He wasn't the only one who was startled. Maybe she was still delirious? Her face felt hot, and not for a minute did she believe fever was to blame.

In a heartbeat he recovered his usual cool manner, and took a step back from the bed. “I thought you were done being delirious,” he said.

“It must be the laudanum,” she said.

“You haven't had any on my watch.”

“Then I must be in my senses. Come closer.”

“No kissing,” he said.

Right. Why would he want to be kissed by a diseased female whose breath would probably stop a charging rhinoceros in its tracks?

“Very well,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “I only wanted to admire my handiwork.”

After a time of studying the bedpost, he said, “It isn't that I object to being kissed. Even by you. I am a man, as I've pointed out before.”

“I noticed that about you,” she said. The strong neck and powerful shoulders and broad chest . . . the way his torso tapered to his waist. Since he wore no coat she had a clearer than usual view of that region . . . and of his narrow hips . . . and long, long legs.

She must be getting better. Or very much worse. Maybe her illness had damaged her brain.

“However.” A pause, before his gaze returned to her. “You're still ill and not entirely in your right mind,” he said. “My manners might be ramshackle, but even I do not take advantage of helpless females.”

“I'm not helpless,” she said. “I gave you a stinker.”

His mouth twitched. “I take the blow as a sign of improving health.”

“Maybe it was for the best,” she said. “I've been wanting to hit you for quite some time. Now I've got it out of my system.”

“From what others have told me, the condition is not so easily cured,” he said.

“How many other women have hit you?” she said. A hot feeling went through her, which she knew was jealousy, not fever.

“A slap here and there,” he said. “Mainly, they throw things at me.”

She did not want anybody but Lady Clara Fairfax throwing things at him.

“That's a good idea,” she said. “That way, I'm less likely to hurt my hand.”

He moved closer again. “Does your hand hurt?”

It did, actually, a bit. She hadn't paid attention specifically there, pain being a general constant lately. She slid it her hand under the bedclothes. “Certainly not. I only meant that next time, I would be well when I did it, and would hit harder. But no, you're right. Missiles would be wiser.”

“Let me see your hand,” he said.

She didn't move.

“Do not make me behave in a masterful manner,” he said.

If she had been less ill and less self-­conscious about what she looked and smelled like, she would have happily let him be masterful.

As it was, she withdrew her hand from its hiding place and presented it.

He took it and examined it, finger by finger. “Does this hurt?”

“No.” What she felt was the opposite of hurting. She was piercingly aware of his touch.

“This?”

He went on examining and she went on melting inside. He checked every bone and muscle. He examined her palm, her wrist, and so on. His hand was so warm and strong. She could smell him, too. He didn't smell sick. He smelled like himself, like a man, and a recently bathed man, too.

She needed every iota of her ladyship training as well as her vanity not to pull him down and make him touch her everywhere the way he touched her hand.

“Your knuckles are slightly bruised,” he said as he put her hand down on the coverlet, so gently, as though it were a small Ming vase. “I'll order some ice. I should have ordered it with the beefsteak last night.”

“I didn't notice it last night,” she said. “Probably in the way your bruises didn't show at once.”

“You didn't seem injured,” he said. “You went straight to sleep, so peacefully.”

“And you didn't want to disturb me, and risk getting punched in the other eye.”

“I shouldn't have risked your waking up with throbbing fingers. You've enough to cope with.” He paused. “As to that . . .”

The way he trailed off made her anxious.

“I'm better,” she said. “I know I'm better. I feel more like myself. Not completely, I admit. Still—­”

“Spots,” he said.

“What?” She touched her face. “I've come out in spots?” It only wanted that.

“Not there,” he said. He gestured at his chest and below. “They usually appear on the torso. Red. Small. ” He held his thumb and forefinger barely apart.

Oh, prettier and prettier. Red spots. Foul breath. She hoped Davis had bathed her in the last twenty-­four hours. Clara had a grisly idea what her hair must look like. Thank goodness for the nightcap.

“I'll ask Davis to check,” he said. “They usually go away in a few days, but you'd be wise not to scratch them and risk infection.”

“Ice,” she said. “You were going to send for ice. For my knuckles.” Maybe she could put it on her spots as well, and freeze them away.

She'd always believed she wasn't a vain woman. Clearly, she'd been wrong. At this moment, she'd give a treasured possession—­even her cabriolet—­to be well again and properly dressed.

“Ice, yes,” he said, and seemed to come back from a great distance. “And you seem well enough to try some broth or gruel.”

“I'd rather try something more substantial,” she said. “What did you do with the beefsteak?”

T
he spots appeared on Wednesday. Nonetheless, Lady Clara's appetite continued improving slowly but steadily. Likewise her spirits.

On Friday, the colleague Dr. Marler had promised to send turned up at last. He pronounced her ladyship on the mend and scoffed at the idea of typhus. Had that been her trouble, he said, she would never be doing so well at this point. He left written instructions for her convalescent care. Radford threw them on the fire.

By Saturday, the spots had disappeared.

She was getting better.

By Tuesday it would be three weeks since she'd fallen ill, and she was recovering as speedily as Radford could wish. Already she was spending a part of the day out of bed, in a chair. Her strength was returning. She needed less and less help, with anything.

Very soon she'd need no help at all, and he'd have no excuse for staying.

As it was, what he had for an excuse had grown woefully thin.

Radford had some hard thinking to do, and it ended in a hard decision.

O
n Monday, Clara sat in a chair by the bedroom window, reading
Foxe's Morning Spectacle
while Davis went about her usual tasks.

When the maid came out of the dressing room with an armful of linen, Clara said, “Measles?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

Clara read: “ ‘Lady C____ F____, eldest daughter of the Marquess of W____, remains in London with a near relative of his lordship. Lady C____ has been suffering extremely from an attack of measles, which has lasted unusually long but from which she is now recovering.' ” She looked up from the paper. “Did I not have measles when I was a child?”

“Yes, my lady, but that is what Lady Exton has told ­people who called. It's kept visitors away. She said it would keep the family from hurrying back to London, because nobody remembers who had them and who didn't.”

True enough. All the childhood ailments had run through the nursery at one time or another, but not everybody had caught every one of them. Since it was the nursemaids who looked after the young patients, and since nursemaids tended not to stay for long—­the Fairfax children being little savages—­no one could be sure who'd had what.