Karen Harbaugh (17 page)

She clasped her hands together anxiously. This was no time to think of faux pas; Will’s illness demanded attention. How to stop his shivering? She had given him medicine, had tried to keep him warm with not only his bedclothes, but some of hers from her bed as well. Then a dim memory came to her of her mother, long ago. It was when Linnea had been a little girl and dreadfully ill. She, too, had had the shivers, and her mother had taken her into her own bed. She remembered how comforting it was and how it seemed she felt warmer immediately and soon left off shaking.

Linnea looked at Rothwick and blushed. She could hardly carry him into her own bed; it meant that she would have to go into his. She bit her lip. Well, as brazen as it was, she was married to him, after all, and this was for his health, not for... anything else.

Blushing all the while, she took off her robe and slipped between the sheets. She moved toward him so she could put her arms around him. He sighed and reached out to her, gathering her close. He shivered violently against her but was still hot. She was glad of the warmth, however, for her feet had become cold while she’d sat in the chair. She dared nestle close to him and put her hand on his chest. It was firm, but not at all hard. His skin was softer than she had thought it would be. She put her head upon it; it felt quite comfortable. She could hear his heart beating, and it seemed that his breath slowed a little. Indeed, it seemed he did not shiver so much now. He sighed once again. “Linnea”

“I am here, love,” she said. He relaxed once again, and his arm went slack.

Linnea’s eyes drooped. He shivered much less now, just a few tremors now and again. Perhaps... perhaps it would be all right if she just closed her eyes, just for a few moments.

And in a few moments she was soundly asleep.

* * * *

The sunlight peeping through the curtains struck Rothwick’s eyes and woke him. He kept his eyes closed, but the light persisted in turning the insides of his eyelids bright red instead of leaving them pleasantly dark. He turned over and moved closer to the softness next to him. He must have tossed all of his pillows about on his bed last night, he thought drowsily, so that they were at his side instead of properly at the head of the bed. No matter; he would put his head wherever the pillow was. He was too tired and still too racked with aches to rearrange his bed.

Moving his head against the pillow, he pushed at it with his hand so that it would plump up a bit. But instead of giving way softly, the pillow felt quite firm and stayed where it was. Rothwick opened his eyes. There, in front of him, was a lovely, full, rounded bosom. He sighed and closed his eyes again. I am dreaming, he thought. A deprived and suffering man’s dream. He moved his hand up from where he had laid it and felt the definite shape of thigh and curving hip.

He opened his eyes again. Oh, God. The bosom was still there. It was a long time since he had seen such a thing, covered by the sheer fabric of a nightgown. Come to think of it, it was on his wedding night, when nothing had happened. He pushed himself up, even though his head ached at the exertion, and gazed at the owner of the bosom. Linnea. Ye gods.

Her arm was flung up above her head, her face turned away so that he could see her delicate profile. Her hair was charmingly tousled about her shoulders, and one strand curled provocatively around a breast. She might as well have not worn her nightgown; it hid little, for the thin silken cloth clung to her as if it were wet.

Rothwick groaned and fell back onto the bed again. Here was the opportunity, but there was little he could do about it. His head pounded, his limbs ached, and he was exhausted. He was a man of reasonable appetites, and he usually had a good deal of stamina. But though he felt better, he knew he was still ill. Were he to try consummating his marriage now, he would tire long before he could give Linnea any pleasure—or himself, for that matter.

He turned and gazed at her resentfully. It was supremely unjust, and there was no reason for her to be in his bed that he could see. Surely she understood he was not well enough to exert himself?

Perhaps there was something in his bitter, concentrated stare that somehow impinged itself upon Linnea’s sleeping mind, for she turned over slowly and locked eyes with him. A blush suffused her cheeks, and Rothwick noted with a long-suffering sigh that it crept down her neck to her breasts. She grasped the bedclothes and drew them up to her chin.

“G-good morning, my lord,” she whispered.

“Why are you in my bed?” he said abruptly.

“I—I, it is not what you think, truly.”

“Oh, and what am I thinking?”

“That... that I wanted to, to... But I did not, really!”

“You didn’t?” Rothwick felt offended. Damn it, if she was going to insinuate herself into his bed, at least her intentions could be flattering.

“You needn’t look at me that way! I did it for your own good, if you must know!”

“For my own good,” Rothwick said bitterly. “And what good did it do me to have your deuced bosom encroaching upon my visual landscape as soon as I opened my eyes, pray?”

Linnea blushed more red than ever, but this time clearly from anger. “My bosom does not encroach, sirrah! How dare you say something so... so vulgar!”

“Vulgar, am I? Well, let me tell you that bosom of yours has been displaying itself in all its bounteous glory ever since we came to this house!”

“It has not. And I resent you speaking of my—my bosom as if it were something creeping about on legs. I have told you I cannot help what my dresses look like, and since you mentioned it some days ago, I have always been wearing my fichu! Encroaching indeed!”

Rothwick looked at her in frustration. How could he tell her that her fichus were as nothing: diaphanous, wanton creations, made to hint and entice—which was far more seductive than blatant revelation? I will strangle my sister, he thought venomously, for getting these dresses.

“Well, you are not wearing one
now,”
he retorted.

Linnea smiled scornfully. “Oh, my, and I thought you quite the ladies’ man. Surely you know that fichus are not worn with nightgowns.”

“They dam—dashed well should be!” Rothwick grew warm with irritation. He never cursed in front of ladies, but he was coming very close to it.

“You odious—”

Just then a knock sounded and the door opened to admit Potter. He was carrying another set of cloths, which he dropped from apparently nerveless hands when he glanced at his master and mistress. Rothwick noted the valet—mouth agape—took in the rumpled state of their dress and bed; an admiring and respectful light grew in Potter’s eye as he regarded his master. It was clear he thought they had engaged in conjugal matters of some heat. Rothwick groaned inwardly at the thought.

“I—that is, I am happy that—” The valet cleared his throat. “I am glad, my lord, to see you wholly recovered and that you have regained all your strength so quickly.” His eyes widened at his own words, and his face flushed to his receding hairline. “That is to say—”

“Never mind, Potter. Just pick up the cloths, and I will take care of Lord Rothwick,” Linnea said, her haughty voice muffled by the bedclothes that she had pulled up to her eyes. The valet seemed to choke.

“And some breakfast, if you please,” Rothwick said as calmly as he could.

“Of toast and tea for His Lordship, Potter,” Linnea interjected.

“Of kippers, eggs, and sausage, Potter.” Rothwick glared at Linnea, who ignored him.

“Toast and tea, please. I am sure we do not want Lord Rothwick to suffer a relapse.”

“Yes, my lady. No, my lord. I mean to say—” The valet clasped the cloths anxiously to his chest and gazed, confused, at the couple.

“Just
leave!”
roared Lord Rothwick.

Potter sprinted out of the room with all the energy of a young hare pursued hotly by hounds, scattering cloths as he went.

Linnea sat up and put her fists to her hips indignantly. “How could you be so
rude
to the poor man? He was only trying to be of service! But that is what you do to people who try to aid you, is it not?
I
certainly have had little thanks for
my
efforts,
if
indeed you have noticed them at all!” She gave a tense shrug of frustration.

But Rothwick was not attending. She had dropped the bedclothes, and her shrug had dislodged her nightgown from one shoulder, revealing an untrammeled expanse of white, soft-looking skin. He went breathless at the sight and knew it was not from influenza. He tore his gaze away and met Linnea’s eyes. She was blushing but looked at him uncertainly, not moving.

No. He could not, absolutely he could not. With an agonized groan, Rothwick buried his face in his pillow.

“My lord! William! Are you in pain?” Linnea cried anxiously, her voice full of guilt.

“No,” came the muffled reply.

“Is there anything I might do to help you?”

“No. Yes. You may leave me. Please.”

“Perhaps you have a headache?”

At the suggestion, Rothwick’s head began to pound severely. “Yes.”

“Ah! That is it, then. I shall go and ask Potter to bring some willow-bark tea.”

“Please do.” He felt the mattress move and heard the door close. He pulled his head from the pillow. Linnea was gone.

Rothwick rolled over and gazed at the canopy above. What a farce this marriage was! He had thought a marriage of convenience would be just that—convenient. Well, this one had become damned inconvenient. Married for almost a week, and nothing had come of it. All they wanted now was some uninvited guests to drop in to make their honeymoon a travesty—not that it wasn’t already.

He sighed. Oh, Linnea’s reputation had been saved,
she
had acquired a better station in life, but
he
certainly did not benefit at all. This was not going according to his plans or what he wanted for his life: marriage, an heir or two, a parting of the ways to enjoy his life as it had been before the wedding vows. That was what a marriage of convenience was, after all! Well, he had done the first, but God only knew if he was ever going to get around to the second.

He thought of the purpose of his marriage: the begetting of heirs. The thought of it made his loins twist with frustration. He had looked forward to it; yes, he admitted that the longer he was around Linnea, the more he desired her.

Rothwick knew a twinge of guilt. She was certainly not as beautiful as his former betrothed, Sophia. But Linnea was no antidote and never irritated him with frivolous idiotic chatter. He knew, suddenly, that it would have been a mistake to have married Sophia. She would have bored him in a few weeks; Linnea, he felt, would never bore him. She was intelligent and lovely and could laugh at herself, which he had never known Sophia to do. Linnea had even caused him to laugh at himself, and he had taken no affront at it. He had never known Sophia to laugh, easily and unconstrained, as Linnea did.

Fatigue washed over him, and he closed his eyes. He was, he thought sleepily, coming to care for her, perhaps. That was not a terrible thing, after all. How much better life would be if they went along amicably. But how did she view him? He surfaced from his near drowse at this question. He had no idea what she thought of him... well, other than she thought him odious and vulgar. That was not very promising, was it? No doubt she showed concern for him because she thought it her wifely duty. He sighed and sank once again into a drowse. Perhaps... perhaps he could remedy that somehow. Perhaps she needed to be courted. He would do that... as soon as he was well....

By the time Potter came up with Rothwick’s tea and toast, the earl was soundly asleep.

* * * *

As soon as Linnea told the butler to procure some willow-bark tea for his master, she went into her sitting room. It seemed empty for some reason. Perhaps it was, she reflected, that for the whole of last night she had been with Rothwick, and now she only had herself for company. She sat at the window seat and looked out the window. The morning was bright, and the sun shone its way through wispy clouds, illuminating the rolling landscape before her. But Linnea did not see it, for she had turned her mind’s eye to thoughts and images of herself and Rothwick walking, conversing, and, yes, sleeping in the same bed.

She did not know quite how it had happened. Oh, not the sleeping in his bed—that was to rid Will of those terrible chills. But she had called him “love” and “my love” the night before, and she knew indeed that he was her love. Linnea reviewed the months past, from the beginning when she thought him rude, arrogant, and impulsive. But later he had shown a different side of himself: he could be kind, generous, and honorable—or as honorable as a rakish sort of man could be. He was also intelligent, had a good sense of humor, and could even be charming. And then, of course, there was his undeniable handsomeness.

Perhaps she would have fallen in love with any man who treated her kindly, but she doubted it. A few gentlemen had come to call at her cousin Boothe’s house and, being grudgingly introduced to her, had treated her with respect and kindness. However, she had experienced no tendre for any of them.

In any case, she was married, and though she did not know how, she had slipped from suspicion and dislike to liking and now to love. They had entered into a marriage of convenience, and Rothwick himself had said that he expected little of her except to be his wife and to bear him heirs. She had agreed to it, for it was that or a life of poverty and disgrace. Yet now she felt differently and wanted more.

Linnea’s gaze was caught by a sparrow flitting across from one tree to another. In one sense she was as free as that bird, for Rothwick had given her carte blanche to do as she wanted, within reason and decorum. In another sense, however, she was not free at all.

For the thought of loving him and not having that love returned made a dull ache go through her heart, as if steel bands had suddenly squeezed tightly around it. She wondered if she could exist a lifetime, living with him, knowing that perhaps he was fond of her at best, that never had he loved her. Linnea shook her head. No... yes... perhaps. She did not really know but dreaded thinking the answer might be “no.”