Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (5 page)

"I say, Your Grace, that one's giving you a merry chase."

Setting his jaw, he turned his eyes to the young pup who'd spoken. "Pardon me?"

"Uh . . ." The boy's eyes fell to the snow at Hart's feet. "Nothing, sir."

He let his gaze sweep over the group of staring people, noticing the wide-eyed looks they exchanged, the tittering of the ladies. Wonderful. He'd given them a sensational story to tell over luncheon. And he'd been unconscionably rude to Emma. She hadn't shown a smidgen of hurt in her expression, but her face had burned a dull red, betraying the wound he'd inflicted.

And in playing the villain, he'd thrust Lancaster into the role of rescuer. Lancaster—that charming, golden-haired fortune hunter.

Hart hid his anger behind a cool glance of displeasure for the closest group of bucks. When he crossed his arms and glared, the boys took the hint and sidled away, back toward the house, trailing the rest of
the group. The women had disappeared, no doubt eager to spill the details of Lady
Denmore
's undignified
behavior and
Somerhart's
contempt. Hart simply stood in the cold, watching his breath condense into clouds under the bright sun.

By God, he'd felt an ax strike him over the head when he'd stepped into the gardens and spied Lady
Denmore
careering across the pond like some gleeful bedlamite. And when she'd fallen, when her face had melted from determination to pain, he'd felt such a sudden bolt of anger that he'd actually stumbled. Why he felt concern for the irresponsible chit, he couldn't imagine.

Giving his head a hard shake, Hart attempted to throw off his roiling thoughts as he swung about to return to the house—and his plans to leave. But his eye caught on something discordant. . . a strange shock of color. He blinked, narrowing his gaze to the trampled snow just a foot away. Four crimson spots flashed in the white. Even as he watched, the red began to fade, spreading to deep pink in the snow.

Blood. He was sure of it. He searched the ground for more evidence and found two more drops on the path Lady
Denmore
had taken toward the house. The woman had injured herself, likely she'd cut her leg open on that blasted ice. Christ.

Hart stalked to the door and back to the front hall where he spotted Lancaster walking away. Ignoring his spike of irritation, he bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the guest chambers. A peek into one of the open rooms rewarded him with the startled gasp of a young maid.

"Would you be so kind as to direct me to Lady
Denmore's
room?"

"Uh . . ." Her eyes blinked rapidly, fluttering with fear. "Two doors down, sir. To the left."

"Please bring hot water and soap to her chambers."

The girl dropped a wobbling curtsy as Hart spun away to stalk down the hall and knock on the door.

"Come in," she called before his hand had fallen away. Hart pushed open the door. "If you—" The words ended on a sharp draw of air and her hands flew to flick her skirts down, but not before Hart spied the gash that ran from mid shin to her knee.

He looked to her red-stained boot and the crumpled ruin of a silk stocking
puddled
on the floor. "A maid is coming with water and soap."

She ground out, "Why are you here?"

"I saw blood. I wanted to be sure you were all right." Uninvited, Hart closed the door behind him and crossed to kneel by her leg.

She scooted it away from him. "As you can see, I'm fine."

"On the contrary, that looks rather nasty."

"Just a scrape. And your opinion doesn't signify."

He almost laughed at that. He was quite sure no one had ever said those words to him. Excepting his father, of course, but he was long dead. "It looked to be more than a scrape. It may need stitching."

"Unlikely. Please leave."

Hart shifted back a little, startled by the hardness of her words. Her hazel eyes met his in unflinching scorn. "I apologize, Lady
Denmore
, for my earlier words."

"Fine. Now go."

"I was taken aback when I saw you in danger—"

"I can't imagine what you mean, Your Grace. We do not know each other. And I sincerely have no wish to be chalked up as another of your paramours, so please leave my room."

"I see." Hart stood, the movement quickened by a rush of anger. "I'm sorry I bothered then."

"Sorry you bothered to check on my well-being? Only because I don't wish to be in your bed?"

He blinked, caught by her logic. "No, I—" Her smirk dissolved any awkwardness he might have felt. "Good day, Lady
Denmore
." The nod she gave was no more than a jerk of her head.

Hart stared down at her, perched so stiffly on the bed, her back straight as a column of iron. He looked to her hands, one clutching the bedspread, the other her skirt. The knuckles of both were livid white, pushing against the skin. And her jaw ticked forward and back, forward and back, shifting the tiniest fraction of an inch against clenched teeth.

Hart felt the shift in his own jaw and sighed. She may very well find him irritating, but the anger she showed had little to do with him and more to do with pain striking through her body. A tap at the door saved them from further sparring.

Opening the door to find the maid bobbing another curtsy, Hart fished a sovereign from his pocket and slipped it to her as he took the ewer of hot water and stack of towels.

"An inconvenience, I'm sure, but could I bother you for something more? We need clean linen and a salve if you've something good at hand."

"Of course, sir," she bubbled, bobbing again as he closed the door.

Lady
Denmore
glared. "I thought you were going."

He gave her a shrug and knelt at her feet again, like a supplicant to her sharp tongue. Before she could even open her mouth to protest—loudly if the set of her chin was any indication— Hart flipped her skirts up and settled them over her knee. The flat of his hand held them down despite her attempts to dislodge it.

"I believe I made clear that I would not invite you to toss up my skirts."

Hart looked down, away from the slits of her eyes, and grimaced at the bloody mess she'd made of her leg. A fine leg—slender and long.

"I will do that," she growled when he dipped a cloth into the hot water. "Ouch!"

"Sorry. This'll sting a bit."

"A bit!"

Her breath hissed sharply through her teeth when he dabbed at the blood again, drawing another wince from Hart. He nearly gave in to her demand to leave her alone when he saw the bright glint of tears in her eyes, nearly shoved the towel into her hand and fled the room, but he was no coward. Still, he was relieved when she closed those glittering eyes and eased herself back to lie on the bed.

Hart tried not to see the twist of her fists in her skirts as he did his best to manage the twin feats of cleaning the wound and not hurting her. Impossible.

"This will scar, I'm afraid."

She gave a huff that he took to be laughter. "Best to deposit me directly on the shelf then. I'm ruined."

Sassy chit. "You're right. No one will want you like this. You might consider locking yourself away in a tower." He'd cleaned the easiest parts first, and now found himself left with only the rawest area of the scrape. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, steady rhythm. Best to distract her from the next bit. "I seem to find myself surrounded lately by ruined women. I wonder why that is."

"Surely that's not one of the great mysteries of the world." She tensed when the hot towel touched her, but his sacrifice was well rewarded when she pressed on. "You're a rake."

"I disagree." When he dabbed at a particularly nasty spot, she gasped and twisted the yellow velvet of the bedcover. "Sorry."

"How . . . how can you disagree? You're a rogue. A connoisseur of women. And I understand you spent the better part of your youth perfecting your sense of taste."

"Taste, hmm?"

Her head popped up, eyes wide with shock at what she'd said. "I didn't mean . . . I only meant that you spent a good many years sampling . . .
Ow
! Good God, isn't it clean yet? It's not as if I fell into a pig trough." Her face disappeared again, though he could still make out the occasional growled curse.

He finished, finally, and sat back to stare at the fresh blood oozing from her shin. He hadn't been kidding about the scar, though she hadn't seemed to care either way. Strange girl.

"The maid's bringing bandages," he said and heard the bedcover shush as she nodded. "It should be just a moment."

The pain of the wound must have worsened. She didn't bother to pursue her assault on his character, she only lay still and stiff on the bed. A strange awkwardness crept over his skin as he sat and stared at the bare leg of a woman who wanted nothing from him. Her pink toes curled into the carpet, drawing his eye, and he noticed that her leg shook a little, from pain or cold. He smoothed a hand down her instep and curled his fingers around her toes. The icy cold against his skin shocked him.

Not bothering to wonder what she'd think of it, Hart raised her foot and unbuttoned his waistcoat to settle it against his stomach. He pressed his palm close to warm those shell pink toes. When they curled into the linen of his shirt, awareness prickled down his belly, and her small sigh affected him like a moan.

"Are you . . . ?" He cleared the unexpected huskiness from his throat. "Are you being chased by creditors, Lady
Denmore
?"

"Not that I know of. Is someone hanging outside my window?" Her toes curled again. Hart stroked his palm over the top of her foot and up her ankle, chasing goose flesh ahead of his touch. There hadn't been goose flesh before.

He shook his head. "You seem in reckless need of a few pounds. I thought perhaps your late husband left you wanting."

Another wave of chills. "I can't imagine what you mean."

"Really?"

"Not to mention that it's still none of your concern."

Hart smiled, intrigued by her refusal to concede anything to his title and wealth. Her body, however, was conceding something to his touch. He eased his thumb beneath the curve of her arch and worked small circles into her foot. Those pink toes curled obligingly and her knee bent a little, prompting Hart's brain to craft a series of fascinating images. The little widow bending her knee farther, tilting it to the side, so that he could see the soft white flesh of her inner thigh. Then she'd slide her foot across his belly until she could hook her ankle around his waist and tug him closer. His hips would fit perfectly in the cradle of those thighs, the skin so white, never once touched by the sun.

Hart sighed. He had a libertine's soul but the mind of a man yoked with responsibility and pride. If only he were twenty again, and unconcerned with the world and its fascination with his life. And though he had thought Lady
Denmore
subtle, she was not the least bit subtle. The very opposite of circumspect. She'd already goaded Hart into embarrassing them both.

He gave her foot one last lingering rub, then lowered it to the floor. "I will go check on that maid."

"Thank you," she said, sounding as if she choked on it. She rubbed the sole of her foot against the deep-piled rug before he turned away to yank open the door.

The maid was flying down the hall, hanks of blond hair escaping her cap. "Sorry, milord! I'm sorry. There was a—"

"Wonderful." He plucked the bandages and the little brown crock from her hands. "My thanks."

"Yes, sir," she gasped, and curtsied over and over until Hart closed the door.

He found Lady
Denmore
pushed up on her elbows, watching with a smirk. "I do believe you're the queen in disguise. My, my. Such deference."

"You have no respect for your betters, Lady
Denmore
."

She laughed. Really laughed. That same husky sound he'd heard the night before. "So true," she chuckled. "None at all."

Women never laughed at him. Never. Hart found himself suddenly smiling. "You remind me of my sister."

Her amusement died in a fluttering blink of her eyes. "I'm not surprised."

"What do you mean?" He knelt before her again, and lifted the skirt she'd dropped over her leg. Dark stains of blood marred her petticoats. "You can't have met Alexandra."