The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (17 page)

She folded his shirt
back, away from his body. Her hand ran smoothly over his skin from
shoulder to belly button, as if she couldn’t stop herself from
touching him.

Again!
he begged silently.

She pulled her hand
back quickly, like someone who’d pricked her finger on a thorn.
Damn! Had she sensed his wordless plea and been frightened off by the
force of it?

He concentrated hard to
keep his muscles from tightening up and revealing his awakened state.
Not easy to do. It was a struggle not to pull her tempting curves
down on top of him, against his eager arousal.

Hell, how was he to
hide his ever burgeoning interest? When she turned her head away to
reach for something, he slid his leg higher to create a tent-like
cover for his attentive appendage.

She stiffened and
ceased all motion for a few moments. He couldn’t even hear her
breath.

As for his breathing,
it was hard to continue doing it and still appear to be sleeping. In
... out. In ... out. Slight snore. In... out.

She expelled an audible
sigh of relief.

Good. Then he almost
flinched, when she unceremoniously began unwinding a bandage from
around his upper arm.

What the hell? A
bandage? He’d sustained another injury? How come he hadn’t known
about it?

Not that the heavy haze
of laudanum clouding his brain, and hovering there even now, allowed
him to be aware of anything much about himself or what was around
him. Nor had he’d made an inventory of his body since awakening
from unconsciousness.

He held himself still,
with difficulty. Her soft touch excited and aroused. And he was
discovering that, in spite the laudanum, he was ticklish. He had to
bite his tongue against squirming and shouting with unrestrained
laughter. It reminded him of being in church as a child. The more you
knew you shouldn’t laugh aloud, the harder it was to contain it.
The remnants of the drug in his system dulled his senses a little,
helping him in his efforts, but the urge to give way to hilarity was
hard to control.

He forced his foggy
mind to focus on other thoughts to distract himself.

Dr. Graham hadn’t
mentioned another wound that first night... neither had his wife. And
there was nothing wrong with his memory since he’d wakened without
a name.

Aargh! That was cold!

He held his breath,
sure he’d given himself away. How had she missed him almost jumping
out of his skin?

She made quick work of
applying the icy salve, followed by a new bandage. Her motions were
practiced. This wasn’t the first time she was doing this.

How had he not known?

He was so preoccupied
with his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice when she finished
and began packing up her ministering gear.

Don’t
go!
He wished he felt strong enough to make his case
aloud, but even now the drug residue was weighting his eyelids and
making his limbs feel heavy.

She leaned over to pull
his shirt back together again, then, paused…

He sensed her
uncertainty. Mutely, he pleaded
touch
me, please
.

She did better than
that. She leaned down and placed a fervent kiss right in the middle
of his chest. She let her lips wander to one flat nipple, then to the
other. She seemed startled to see them harden. Her head jerked up to
look into his face.

He barely got his eyes
shut in time. He felt her staring at him and imagined the suspicion
on her face. He’d seen it countless times already. She was not a
very trusting person, his wife.

He concentrated on his
even breathing once again.

She exhaled softly and
began to button up his nightshirt and he had to force himself not to
latch onto her wrist to hold her there. He wanted to talk to her.
Wanted her to comfort him, tell him what his wound was all about and
why she hadn’t told him about it.

He clenched his fists
against doing it. He had to figure out this new wrinkle first. His
suspicious nature again.

They made a good pair!

He faked another small
snuffle and she leaned over to smooth the blanket and softly pat his
arm before making as quick and quiet an exit as her entry.

Despite his drowsiness,
Reed felt like dragging himself up and tearing off the bandage to
inspect his arm. It took but a moment to realize the impracticality
of attempting that. His body felt extraordinarily heavy and he
couldn’t imagine standing, let alone lighting a candle safely.

That damn drug! Even
without his dose tonight he was having a hard time keeping his eyes
open.

He fought its effects,
struggling to stay awake to think about tonight’s events. But his
leaden eyelids were winning the battle and sleep crept up to carry
him away just as he’d pieced together one coherent question —
what was so wrong with his shoulder they were unable to tell him
about it?

* * *

Reed felt inordinately
proud of himself this morning. Though it was just after sunrise, he
was up and had dressed himself. Well, partially. He’d left on his
night shirt but put on the freshly laundered pantaloons he’d found
in his dressing room. A man dare not risk shocking any maids he might
meet by wandering around in only his night shirt!

Where were the rest of
his things?

Time enough for that
later. For now, he was planning to reconnoiter and then to surprise
his spouse by presenting himself downstairs in the morning room for
breakfast.

Yesterday, it had taken
all of his strength to drag himself down to open the door. He’d
been ready to collapse from exhaustion, afterwards.

This morning he felt a
little livelier. Thanks to avoiding the milk last night, no doubt.
Now, he was keen to get out of this room and move, before this spurt
of energy deserted him.

Stepping out of the
room, he looked around eagerly. He must be an active person,
normally. He was impatient to explore, see things. The morning meal
would only be served in a few hours, so he had lots of time.

It was good to move
around after spending days in bed.

He headed off at a
brisk pace.

Hold on! He’d better
not go too fast. He was still feeling a bit lightheaded. He kept a
hand ready to touch the wall for support while he moved, as quietly
as possible, along the hallway. He didn’t want to wake anybody. Not
even the old goat would be awake at this hour and Mrs. P, if awake,
would be in her kitchen and he had no notion of straying there. As
for Joseph, he didn’t arrive for another hour.

Scouting his
surroundings felt like something he had to do. More than just
curiosity or a precaution, it was a necessity.

Hmmm… Another item to
add to the list of things he was learning about himself. He liked to
be know what was around him.

A niggle of unease
began to edge into his consciousness. The house seemed uncannily
familiar for someone who’d just arrived in Town and had never been
here until a few days ago. Like an automaton, his steps took him
upstairs to the top floor. He stopped in front of the entrance to
what was obviously a very large room. It had an unusually wide
doorway. The owner must need to move large items in and out of the
room. It was partly ajar but was shielded from the hallway, by a
large, oriental screen.

He poked his head
around it, curious to see what was inside. He sniffed. Oil paint was
the smell that assailed him first. That familiar scent he’d been
aware of since the first time he awoke.

Suddenly, a vivid
picture flickered through his brain. He was standing in front of an
easel, shirtless, dazzling sunlight pouring in large windows,
paintbrush in hand, cheerfully splashing bright paint across a large
canvas.

He closed his eyes to
concentrate on the image but, behind the darkness of closed eyelids,
it dispersed as rapidly as it had appeared.

Damnation! He felt like
he’d come close to a determining moment, where his memory almost
materialized, only to have it vanish again.

Desperate to bring it
back, he again peered into the room behind the screen. The far wall
was lined with windows all along the front of the house, with a
vaulted ceiling topped by a cupola at the crest. For London, it was
surprisingly bright in here, most likely due to the cupola being
taller than most of the homes surrounding it.

A strong wave of
familiarity nearly overwhelmed him. He ducked back out into the
hallway and leaned against the wall, stomach roiling and weak at the
knees.

Something about this
room was disturbing him. Maybe he painted... which explained those
blurred images of him facing an easel, and why the smell of gum turp
struck such an evocative note.

Gum
turp!
That was it!
He’d finally identified the odor. Too bad he hadn’t thought to
bring his memory list with him.

Even the room...

His spouse told him
they had been here for less than three weeks. That he’d only just
arrived the night he fell and hit his head, so why did he know this
room, this smell, so well? Had he some kind of unnatural power? Bah!
Next, he’d be thinking he had a sixth sense!

Muttered curses and
someone slamming something down hard startled him, convincing him to
steal another look.

Talia! He hadn’t
noticed her earlier. She’d been hidden by a large canvas on a huge
easel in front of her. But she didn’t look like any Talia he’d
seen up until now. She wore a loose smock and her hair was tied back
behind her head in a queue that sat high on the crown of her head,
looking a little like a pony’s tail. She was engrossed with
applying her brush to the canvas in a confident manner.

So this was her work!
The reason why she left him alone so often. He wished he could see
what she was painting with such absorption but, naturally, the canvas
faced the light from the windows and, thus, away from the door.

Suddenly, her shoulders
stiffened, her head arched warily.

Devil
take it!
He dipped back behind the screen. He knew she’d
been about to glance toward the doorway. She’d sensed she was being
watched.

Instinct kept him from
letting her know he was there.

Clever idea, the
screen. It allowed her to leave the door open for proper airing from
the powerful odors, without being seen at work by any one passing in
the hallway. The fact that he instinctively understood such a tactic
reinforced his strong sense that he must also be a painter.

Maybe that’s what
brought them together. He’d have thought, though, that if they
shared this passion, she would have hinted at it, if not told him
outright. Or was his knowledge of art studios merely because he was
wed to an artist?

He waited a few moments
to give her time to shake off the feeling of being watched, before
once again putting his head around the screen to watch her ply her
craft. Remaining in the shadows, he studied her, straining to
remember... anything.

She
was being watched.
Common sense told Tally it wasn’t
likely. Foster was, sleeping a bit later after staying up to guard
the house all night. At least, she hoped he was. Besides, he avoided
coming near her paints and cleaners. The smells made him nauseous.
Joseph wouldn’t have arrived yet and Mrs. P was almost certainly
busy preparing the morning meal.

That left Reed, who’d
been given enough laudanum to sleep deeply for another few hours at
least.

It was just her
imagination working overtime, because she’d be mortified if anybody
found her painting … this!

She’d been up working
since first light. Indeed, if daylight weren’t so necessary, she’d
have been at her easel long before then. It might have calmed her
troubled thoughts and occupied her sleepless night.

All night, the only
thing she could think of was the gentleness of his hold, the brush of
his lips that had rapidly turned incendiary, his dizzying touch
between... She felt herself blush crimson at the mere thought. All
this had kept her awake, wondering and worrying about this new avenue
her life was taking.

She had no experience
of men as suitors. The only men she really knew were her twin
brothers, her father, Monsieur and Spencer. She’d never even come
close to being kissed before.

Was this agitation she
was experiencing afterwards, normal? Or was it just this man’s
caresses that caused such havoc to her senses?

Dio
,
she hoped not! He’d entered her life climbing through her bedroom
window! They had no idea who he was.

Yet here she was,
barely dawn, trying to chase away her demons by capturing his
likeness in a painting. She was trying to understand what made him
different from other men. By painting him, she hoped to delve deeper,
to get to the core of him. Then, maybe she’d be able to expunge the
restlessness he triggered in her.

She was unused to her
emotions being so out of control. She had trained herself to remain
composed in all situations, to counter the volatility of her family
that had colored her childhood. It was disturbing to think that one
man’s kisses were upsetting her well-ordered world like this.

How was she ever to
resist, if he truly set out to seduce her?

* * *

As he waited for his
wife to get over the feeling of being watched, Reed tried to call
back the image of him painting but, try as he might, it had
disappeared completely. The effort left him exhausted and weary. He
was about to walk away and go back to his room, discouraged. Then he
thought, perhaps if he talked to her, if she knew what he’d
recalled, she might help.

He stepped forward into
the sunny part of the room and waited for her to realize he was
there. He didn’t want to startle her. She might move inadvertently
and ruin her painting. Was that his painter’s instinct talking or
had she schooled him thus?