Some Like to Shock (Mills & Boon Historical) (Daring Duchesses - Book 2) (24 page)

‘I was only teasing you, Benedict,’ Genevieve chided lightly once she had opened the front door and the brightness of the moon silhouetted them as they stood close together in the doorway.

‘Or possibly challenging me into staying the night …?’

‘Perhaps,’ she conceded softly.

Benedict smiled down at her as his hands gently cupped either side of her face. ‘I assure you, I am only being the gentleman by leaving now; today has already been … emotional enough for you. But ask me to stay with you another night, love, and I am sure my answer will be different.’

Her eyes shone brightly in the moonlight. ‘Oh, I do so hope so!’

He laughed huskily. ‘You are a shameless—’ Benedict broke off his own teasing comment as he heard a familiar sound, which he quickly realised should never be heard in a quiet residential London street at midnight! ‘Get back, Genevieve!’ he had time to instruct
fiercely as he thrust her behind him and just a second later felt the painful ripping of his flesh and knew no more.

Genevieve had no idea what was happening as she heard a sharp crack followed by a soft whistling noise as Benedict stepped forwards and pushed her roughly behind him, before he gave a slight grunt, his back arched and then he began to crumple lifelessly on to the step in front of her.

It was only when she fell down on to her knees beside him and was able to see the stain of red rapidly soaking through his waistcoat that she realised that sharp crack and whistling noise had been the sound of a bullet being fired and then fast approaching its target.

Which was when she began to scream …

‘C
ook has prepared a delicious chicken broth and a milk pudding for your dinner, your Grace.’ Jenkins placed the tray down upon the small table beside the chair where Genevieve sat in quiet contemplation.

She gave the butler a sad and wistful smile. ‘Thank Cook for me, Jenkins, but I am afraid I am not hungry.’

‘It has been days, your Grace … You really should try to eat something.’ The elderly man looked down at her concernedly as she gave another shake of her head.

It had been days, Genevieve acknowledged. Far too many days. And nights. Days and nights when she had sat at Benedict’s bedside, willing him to fight the fever that had beset
him within hours of the doctor removing the bullet from his side, and then another day and another night once that fever had broken, willing him to awaken and look at her again with those beautiful black and fathomless eyes.

She glanced at Benedict now as he lay so still against the pillows, his face pale and gaunt against the white bedsheets; she had instructed he be carried to her own bedchamber the night he had been shot and the servants had come running in answer to her screams, pushing down her own hysteria long enough to issue instructions for one of the servants to go for the doctor and another to bring towels and bandages up to her bedchamber so that she might staunch the bleeding until the doctor arrived.

At which time she had insisted on assisting the doctor herself in removing the bullet that had penetrated Benedict’s left side and helping to apply the bandage to his wound once the doctor had stitched it, grateful that Benedict was unconscious throughout and could not feel the pain or see the copious amount of blood he had lost. The bullet, miraculously, had not succeeded in piercing any of his vital organs.

And all the time she had worked, so silently
and efficiently at the doctor’s side, it had been with the knowledge that someone had shot Benedict and that if the bullet had entered his body several inches higher than it had, they would have succeeded in killing him, whether or not he had been the intended target.

Which Genevieve was not sure he had been …

He had been shot outside her home, on her doorstep, and if he had not pushed her aside, Genevieve would as like as not have been the target rather than Benedict …

In the anxious days and nights that followed Genevieve had wondered if they had not succeeded in killing Benedict, anyway.

She had remained constantly at his side, allowing no one else to tend him and only the doctor and Jenkins allowed into the sickroom as Benedict fought the fever that had taken him into a state of delirium, his mutterings incomprehensible, his body burning hot, his nightshirt and bedlinens needing to be changed often as they became sweat-dampened.

She had sent word to his two closest friends of his condition, of course, but with the added proviso that Benedict could not receive visitors as yet and she would contact them both immediately
the moment that he was conscious. They in turn had sent word of the shooting to Benedict’s godfather, the Earl of Dartmouth, that gentleman having called personally himself yesterday, anxious to see his godson and reassure himself as to his well-being. Genevieve had gently but firmly refused that gentleman entry, too, but again with the added assurance she would send word as soon as Benedict was well enough to receive visitors. Until Benedict had awakened from his fever, and the two of them were able to speak together, to decide who could have fired the gun, Genevieve had no intention of allowing anyone but herself to be anywhere near him.

She gave the butler another apologetic smile. ‘Please return the tray to the kitchen with my apologies to Cook, Jenkins.’ In truth, the smell of the chicken broth was starting to make her feel nauseous.

‘Cook will not be pleased, your Grace, and you really should keep up your strength if you are to continue to nurse his lordship so diligently.’

‘I—’

‘Eat the damned broth and pudding, Genevieve, and stop giving Jenkins a hard time,’ Benedict instructed weakly.

‘Benedict!’ she gave a startled but relieved cry as she stood up to bend over him solicitously, tears filling her eyes as he looked up at her with shadowed but completely lucid black eyes. ‘Oh, my dear!’ She clasped one of his hands tightly to her breasts as those tears began to fall hotly down her cheeks.

Benedict felt as weak as a newborn kitten as he gazed up at Genevieve, but not so much so that he could not see that her face seemed much thinner than he remembered and there were dark shadows beneath her cornflower-blue eyes. ‘What has happened here …?’

‘You were shot six evenings ago,’ she supplied huskily.

Damn it, yes, Benedict remembered now. Remembered hearing the distinct and unmistakable click of a gun being fired in the still of the night. The whistle of the bullet as it sped quickly towards them. His instinctive protection of Genevieve as he’d stepped forwards to push her behind him. And then the searing hot pain as the bullet ripped into his flesh. The same flesh which still throbbed painfully in his side …

He licked the dryness of his lips. ‘Do you have some water I might drink?’

‘Of course.’ Genevieve seemed relieved to
be able to do something for him as she released his hand in order to turn her attention to pouring some water from the pitcher into a glass.

He lay in Genevieve’s own bed, Benedict recognised with a frown. He had obviously spent the past six nights and days in Genevieve’s bedchamber, in her bed, which begged the question of where had she slept? From the looks of her—the pallor of her face, those dark shadows beneath her eyes, the untidiness of her hair and the crumpled blue-silk gown she still wore—she had not slept, or eaten, or so much as changed her clothes for those past six days and nights. Which went a long way to explaining Jenkins’s familiarity in his concern over his mistress’s own health.

‘Thank you.’ Benedict lay back weakly against the pillows once he had taken several sips of the cool and refreshing water. ‘Do you think Cook has another bowl of that broth and pudding to spare?’ He glanced hopefully at Jenkins as the butler hovered anxiously at Genevieve’s back.

‘The doctor instructed that you were only to drink water if—when you awakened,’ Genevieve cautioned worriedly.

‘If’ he awakened, Benedict noted with a
grimace. There had been some danger that he might not, then? ‘Luckily the doctor is not here to see whether or not his instructions are being carried out—I need to eat something, Genevieve,’ he spoke firmly as she would have interrupted him. ‘Before I fade away from lack of nourishment,’ he added disgustedly, aware that his own body had lost as much weight in the last six days as Genevieve’s appeared to have done. ‘We can sit and eat together.’

‘A capital idea, your Grace.’ The butler nodded his approval.

Genevieve gave a rueful shake of her head. ‘You are awake two minutes and already you have my household staff eating out of the palm of your hand!’

Benedict grinned unrepentantly. ‘I believe Jenkins merely sees the benefit of my suggestion.’

‘I do indeed, my lord.’

‘Very well,’ she conceded irritably at the insistence of the two men. ‘I shall see to giving you this cooling bowl of broth whilst Jenkins returns to the kitchen for another.’

‘I think not,’ Benedict drawled derisively. ‘I see through your ruse, Genevieve; I shall be given this bowl of broth and then you will refuse to eat the second one.’ He glanced at
the butler. ‘I am sure I can wait to eat until Jenkins returns in a minute or two?’

‘I shall be but one minute, my lord,’ the butler promised.

‘And, Jenkins …’ Genevieve halted him as he reached the door. ‘Could you send word to the doctor, the Duke of Stratton, and the Earls of Sherborne and Dartmouth, as to his lordship’s recovery?’

‘Immediately, your Grace.’ Jenkins hurried from the bedchamber.

Genevieve sat down heavily in the chair beside the bed once she and Benedict were alone, her face deathly pale as her hand once again moved to grip his tightly. ‘I believed I—we might have lost you!’

Benedict smiled bleakly. ‘Obviously I am made of much sterner stuff than was thought.’

‘You have been so very ill, Benedict.’ Her eyes were huge and dark with the memories of that illness. ‘You developed an infection, which led to a fever, and—’ She gave a helpless shake of her head. ‘The doctor has called every morning and evening, but even he was not sure until yesterday whether or not you would survive.’

‘What happened yesterday?’ Much as he wished it were otherwise, Benedict felt at a
distinct disadvantage in his weakened state—even his normally sharp thought processes were not completely under his command.

‘The fever finally broke.’ She sighed her relief. ‘Although still you did not awaken …’ Genevieve frowned her consternation.

‘And you have nursed me all this time yourself?’

‘Of course.’ She nodded firmly. ‘Until we know what—or should I say who?—did this, then I dare not entrust your welfare to anyone else.’

Which was the reason she looked so exhausted, Benedict realised with a frown, and why she was still wearing the blue gown in which she had dined with him six evenings ago. ‘William Forster, do you think?’

Genevieve had thought of little else but who could have done this to Benedict during the long hours she had remained at his side, bathing his face and body with cold cloths when he became too hot, lying beside him on the bed to add her warmth to his whenever he was racked with the cold shivers that followed. Over and over again she had gone over that question in her own mind.

William did seem to be the obvious culprit, of course. The shot in the dark, from a faceless
assailant, would fit in perfectly with what she knew to be his cowardly nature.

And yet somehow, for some inexplicable reason, Genevieve still found difficulty in believing him to be the one responsible for having shot Benedict.

There was something, some fact which Genevieve could not grasp, but which she knew was significant, which had nagged and gnawed at the edges of her mind for all of these days and nights. Until Genevieve had become so befuddled by exhaustion and lack of sleep that she had not been able to think at all, but had instead concentrated what little energy she had on caring for Benedict’s needs.

She felt too weary still to give the question the attention it deserved. ‘Perhaps,’ she finally dismissed doubtfully. ‘As you no doubt realise, I have informed your friends Devil and Dante of your condition, and they in turn have contacted your godfather, Lord Cargill. Perhaps now that you are awake, and they may visit you, one of them may be able to make the necessary enquiries?’

‘No doubt,’ Benedict answered distractedly. ‘I—ah, Jenkins.’ He turned to the butler as he returned with a second laden tray, which he now placed on the bedside table beside the
jug of water. ‘When you return downstairs, could you possibly see to water being heated and then brought up so that her Grace might bathe once she has eaten her fill?’

Genevieve was suddenly self-consciously aware of the picture she must present to Benedict; her hair was falling in untidy wisps about her shoulders where it had escaped its pins, her gown not only crumpled, but also stained with Benedict’s blood. She had not so much as glanced in a mirror these past six days, but no doubt her face was white with strain and lack of sleep, and also gaunt from lack of food she had refused to eat.

She put up a self-conscious hand to her bedraggled hair. ‘Yes, please do that, Jenkins.’ She waited until the butler had left before turning to Benedict. ‘I must look a mess.’

‘To me you have never looked more beautiful,’ Benedict assured her gruffly.

Genevieve instantly frowned. ‘Has your fever returned?’ She moved to place a hand against his brow, but found it only mildly warm.

‘Not a bit of it.’ Benedict smiled ruefully as he realised that Genevieve thought his compliment was due to his once again being delirious with the fever, and wishing he had the
strength to get up from the bed and take Genevieve into his arms as he reassured her of how beautiful she was to him. An ethereal and beautiful angel.

He remembered nothing of the past six days and nights, but it was obvious from Genevieve’s appearance, and the butler’s concern for her, that she had not left his side during all of that time. Nursing him. Bathing him. Caring for him.

That knowledge did very little for his self-esteem, of course, but it showed Genevieve’s mettle. If Benedict had needed to be shown. Which he did not.