Karen Harbaugh (14 page)

Linnea smiled at him and lifted her foot. It wobbled on the way up, and he lifted an eyebrow at her as if to say “You see?” He lifted it gently until it was over the footstool, then let it down carefully.

“Good.” He sat down and picked up a book that lay next to the brandy bottle. “Do you like Gothics?”

Linnea did not want to admit she had a fondness for them, even some of the ones from Minerva Press. But the light-headedness had increased, and she said, “I do—the better ones, of course.”

The earl’s smile turned to a grin. “So do I, and
not
always the better ones. Here, I think you will like to take this one—” He opened the book and began to read:

“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard—”

Rothwick’s voice was deep and expressive, and he read the passage with ironic seriousness until the last five words, when his tone changed to one of wistfulness.

“You, my lord, are a terrible tease.” She laughed. “Even worse for me than for poor Miss Morland, my father’s name was not Richard, but an undistinguished Lambert. Is this another book by Miss Austen, then? Do let me see it.”

He handed her the book, and Linnea touched the title engraved into the leather binding. “
Northanger Abbey.
How intriguing! With such a promising beginning, I am sure I shall enjoy it.” She stood up, then sat down again abruptly.

Rothwick rose swiftly from his chair. “Are you ill, Linnea?”

She put a hand to her forehead. “It is very strange, my lord. Though my foot has stopped hurting, my knees are at odds with the rest of me.” Linnea stood up again, then wobbled back down to her chair. She giggled. “How very odd!”

Rothwick looked at the glass of brandy he had given her. It was empty. He had not thought he had given her much at all; surely she could not be tipsy! He sighed. First the accident and now this. Everything was turning awry today. Now he would have to help his bride back to her... bed.

He looked at Linnea smiling at him. Her eyelids drooped in a sleepy, almost seductive way. The pink tip of her tongue emerged to lick the last sweet film of brandy from her upper lip. Oh, God. And to help her to her room, he’d either have to carry her or have her lean on him as they walked up. The thought of her soft form against him for an extended period of time... Good Lord. He poured himself a dash of brandy and drank it in one gulp, then regretted it instantly. The drink flooded his body with warmth and gave him certain heat-making thoughts as well. Manfully he dismissed them. He would do the gentlemanly thing—escort her up the stairs and leave her at the threshold of her chamber.

Gently Rothwick put an arm around Linnea and helped her to her feet. She leaned heavily against him, and he could feel a definite lack of stays beneath her dressing gown.

“Oh, dear. I think I shall need your help, Will. My knees are quite wobbly. It must be because I hurt my foot. It is all connected around there, you know. But my foot does not really hurt anymore. How strange. How very, very, very strange.”

“Yes. Well, here, put your arm around me this way,” replied Rothwick. He maneuvered her arm around his waist and put his arm around hers. Linnea wobbled again, and his arm slipped upward. He found his hand grasping something warm, rounded, and firm. He groaned. Hastily he righted her, and both of them walked out the library.

“Most improper,” remarked Linnea. She smiled at him and gave him a heavy-lidded look again.

“We are married, so it is quite all right, I assure you,” replied the earl.

She shook her head. It made her nightcap fall off onto the floor. He made a mental note to pick it up later. Her hair tumbled down and flowed over his hand. It was soft. Very soft.

“You don’t love me, though.” She sounded sad.

He sighed and said patiently, “I could grow very fond of you, in time.” They reached her chamber, and Rothwick opened the door.

“Really? That is very good of you.” Linnea turned in his arms and rested her head on his chest. “There. My head feels much better. I think I could grow fond of you, too.”

“That is very good of you, also.” He rolled his eyes. Good God, how inane. It was getting harder to concentrate on getting Linnea where she belonged, especially with the way she clung to him. He managed to pull her along toward her bed, clenching his teeth against the feel of her body against his.
Control, Rothwick,
he thought.
You can control yourself.

“You think so, too?” Linnea’s nose bumped his chin when she looked up at him, smiling, and the tip of her tongue came out over her lip.

It was his undoing. His sigh was long, and as that breath left him, so did any resolve he had formed to respect Linnea’s injury and leave her alone. His lips came down on hers. They were soft and sweet. Her arms crept up around his neck, pulling him closer, and he opened her mouth with a gentle pressure. At last he could feel that tantalizing tongue against his, experimental and tentative, sliding sensuously within. He pulled at the strings of her dressing gown. Surely the rest of her must be as sweet.

Through her sleepy haze, Linnea’s rational mind raised an alarm, which she ignored. The dressing gown fell from her shoulders, and the cool air of her chamber drove her to the closest source of warmth—Rothwick. How pleasant. How pleasant and warm. And comfortable. She felt herself lifted and carried. How considerate of him to think of her poor foot and carry her to her bed like this, she thought. And he gave her a proper good-night kiss this time. Much better than a forehead one, much, much better. Although, Linnea reflected vaguely as she felt his lips mark a wonderfully warm trail from her ear to the base of her neck, perhaps it was not really as
proper
as one on the forehead. But oh, how pleasant. How very, very pleasant. She would like to do it again. They were married, after all. He said so. Abruptly she pulled him down to her.

Rothwick, who had drawn away from her to concentrate on getting out of his own clothes, suddenly found Linnea’s lips on his again and her tongue mimicking what his had done to hers before. By God, this was incredible. He never thought this woman he’d married would be so responsive. He tore off the last inhibiting folds of his clothing, impatiently shaking a stubbornly adhesive sleeve of his robe from his hand, while Linnea, equally persistent, continued to explore his mouth with her own. He could feel her soft form pressing against him beneath the sheer lawn gown she wore. It was torture, for he knew it was the only thing that delayed the eventual meeting of their flesh. She moved and shifted under him, the thin cotton making soft susurrous friction between them.

Linnea felt hot, as if in a fever, and suddenly more dizzy than ever. It was William’s fault; his kisses were making her too warm. She stretched languorously, sleepily, unconsciously causing her body to lift and rise against him.

Rothwick stared at her. Unbelievable. He knew Linnea must be a virgin, as her first hesitant kisses had told him. But now, her eyes half closed, she showed no missishness, no shyness, but stretched her arms above her head in a gesture so sensual that it took his breath away. God save him, but he had to have her.

He bent his head to take her lips once more, and then his mouth traveled down her neck and into the valley between her breasts. He heard her murmur softly and sigh. Encouraged, he continued the exploration of her skin with his lips. Another, deeper sigh followed, and then—

A snore.

Startled, Rothwick ceased his caresses and peered at her through the dark. The single candle at the side of the bed only dimly illuminated her face, but enough to show him what he feared: Linnea was asleep.

With a groan he collapsed facedown into the pillow beside her. Had he a pistol, he’d shoot himself and mercifully put himself out of his misery. No one deserved to suffer the agonies of frustration he had encountered this day of all days. His wedding night. Ye gods. And worse, he had broken his resolution not to touch her. He’d forgotten her injury and had gone after her like a rutting boar. Good God, he could not even trust his own motives. He hoped, very much hoped, that Linnea would not remember anything of this. The earl was—as much as his pride would let him—very close to despising himself.

Rothwick sighed. Sitting up, he looked at Linnea beside him, still stretched out in that unconsciously sensual pose. He could feel himself growing warm again gazing at her, and he muttered a curse under his breath. Gently he rose and pulled the bedclothes over her, tucking them around her chin. He gave one last, wistful look before going through the connecting door to his room.

He could not sleep. Visions of Linnea in the next room, the way the pink tip of her tongue had hesitantly smoothed her lips, the way she had pressed herself against him, made him toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable way to sleep. Finally he flung himself out of bed, roughly pulling on his much abused dressing gown, and stomped out of his chamber.

* * * *

Little Jack, the stable-boy, rubbed his eyes sleepily. It was dark still, but a loud creaking sound persisted in the stable-yard. Frightened, he paused, listening intently. It sounded like the water-pump.

Cautiously he peered out a window into the moonlit yard. Cor, it couldn’t be! He crept to the door and opened it. His eyes widened. Gawd, nobody was goin’ ter believe this, not in a hunnerd years, he thought. He shook his head. That was quality-make for you. You never knew what they’d take into their brain-boxes and fly with.

For there was his lordship, in the dead of a cold, dark night, clad only in his dressing gown, dumping freezing water over his head.

* * * *

When Betty drew back the curtains, she knew her mistress was awake by the way she groaned. Betty was a good girl, and this was her first chance at being an abigail to a real lady—what’s more, a countess—so she was alert to any opportunity to do her lady a service. So when my lady groaned—and a terrible sad groan it was, too—Betty did her best to tiptoe quietly about and do her duties as best she could and not intrude on her ladyship’s notice. But then Lady Rothwick groaned again, and it near wrung the girl’s heart to hear it. She was a country lass, and her mum always said she was the best-natured of her children. And... well, to hear her ladyship moan so, it was more than a body could bear.

“My lady?” whispered Betty. “Is there aught I can do for you? You sound mortal bad, ma’am.”

Two hands appeared above the bedcovers and slowly slid them down until my lady’s eyes showed. They were reddened, and if the exposed part of her face was any evidence, her ladyship was as pale as the sheets she lay on.

“I have the headache,” Lady Rothwick said hoarsely. She cleared her throat. “Please... close the curtains.”

“Of course, my lady. And I shall get some cool cloths for your poor head, too.” Betty hurried to the windows. My, but her ladyship looked dreadful. She’d heard that his lordship had visited his lady last night, and from the looks of it, it hadn’t done my lady any good at all. The maid shuddered. Thomas the footman had been giving her the eye, and after seeing what my lady must have gone through on her wedding night, well, it was enough to put one off, it was!

Linnea pulled the covers down to her chin. She did not know whether to be glad her head was hurting so or not; certainly, in comparison, her foot hurt not at all. She watched her abigail’s movements about the room. “Betty, would you happen to know of a good remedy for the headache? I’m afraid I am not used to Dr. Grenwich’s medicines.”

“Well, I remember my grandmum giving us willow bark tea whenever we—me and my brothers and sisters, my lady—felt poorly, and it perked us up right and tight. Nasty tasting, though.”

Linnea thought this over. Her stomach was not feeling much better than her head, but having one of her pains gone had much to recommend it. “I think I would like some, if you have any.”

Betty bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am. I shall fetch it straight away. Oh, and I can sweeten it with honey, if you’d like.”

Linnea summoned a weak smile. “Please.” She sank down carefully into her pillows again and closed her eyes. She castigated herself for not thinking properly last night: she should have remembered to take only a quarter dose of medicine. She rarely could tolerate much medicine of any sort and usually only took a quarter dose. She groaned. It had been many years since she’d needed any medicine. How was she to remember?

A quarter of an hour later Betty came back in with the tea. Heartily refusing an offer of breakfast in bed, Linnea smiled her thanks and took a sip. The tea was, indeed, sharp and biting, but Betty had laced it liberally with honey, and it was not as bad as most remedies.

Two hours later Linnea felt much better. Perhaps she would even have a little something to eat. She summoned Betty again and selected a modest morning gown—which, after putting it on, was not as modest as she had thought. Linnea let out an exasperated sigh. Lydia again! The dress was a round gown with a pink bodice and frilly white skirt and covered her from chin to toes. However, the pink muslin bodice was only just a shade darker than her skin and fit her like it, too. Further, the silken fabric that extended from almost the crest of her bosom and foamed in lace-edged gathers about her chin was so sheer as not to be there at all. It clung to her when she moved, and her sleeves were of the same material, banded at elbows and wrists with pink muslin. Linnea gazed, aghast, in the mirror. She looked for all the world like some pagan goddess arising out of foam. Good Lord, what could Lydia have been thinking of?

She knew
exactly
what Lydia had been thinking of. Hazy images of Rothwick and the night before formed before her mind’s eye, and Linnea felt her face grow hot. More edifying images floated through her mind, and she cringed. Had she really acted that way? What must Rothwick think of her? She pressed her hands over her eyes and groaned. She did not remember all of what passed, but it was enough to know he had been in her bed and she had acted with disgraceful wantonness.