His Wicked Embrace (26 page)

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Authors: Adrienne Basso

BOOK: His Wicked Embrace
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Her bottom touched softness, and Isabella realized she sat on the edge of the bed. Damien gently eased her backwards until her head touched the pillow, then lifted her legs onto the mattress. He was so kind, so gentle, she thought dreamily. She waited eagerly for his moist kisses.
He removed her shoes and dropped them on the floor. Isabella winced at the loud noise they made. Damien pulled the pins from her hair and it spilled over the pillows. His knuckles brushed the nape of her neck. She moved her head so she could feel his strong hand against her cheek. How she loved this man!
“Damien?” she whispered.
“Yes, my dear.”
“I am going to be violently ill,” she said in a panic-stricken voice, sitting straight up.
Miraculously, Damien produced a porcelain basin in the nick of time. He thrust it under her chin and held her head firmly as she heaved up her liquid dinner. Her body spasmed as she retched a second, then a third time. When she had emptied the contents of her stomach, he wiped her face with a damp cloth. He pressed a glass of cool water into her hand and told her to drink it. Isabella took one small sip, then collapsed against the pillows.
“Feeling better?” Damien inquired in a sympathetic tone.
Isabella groaned. “I cannot decide which feels worse, my wretched stomach or my injured pride. I am simply mortified, Damien.”
“You drank a bit too much wine on an empty stomach, my dear, that's all. There is nothing to feel embarrassed about. Close your eyes and try to rest. I'll stay until you fall asleep.”
Damien stretched out on the bed next to Isabella. He put his arm around her and drew her against his side. He kissed the top of her head and said softly, “Go to sleep, Isabella.”
She snuggled nearer to his warmth, closed her eyes, and promptly fell unconscious.
Chapter Twenty-one
Isabella woke with throbbing temples and a queasy stomach. Not daring to move her head from the pillow, she cautiously allowed her eyes to travel around the bedchamber. She discovered she was lying in her bed, beneath the covers, completely dressed except for her shoes. An almost agonizing sense of relief entered Isabella's body when she realized she was alone. Her muddled brain sought valiantly to reconstruct the events of last night. Though all the details were unclear, she distinctly remembered certain occurrences with far more clarity than she desired.
The truth about her father. The wine. Damien. Isabella groaned loudly and pulled the pillow over her head. She had made an utter and complete fool of herself last night. And became revoltingly sick in the process. It was nearly unthinkable to imagine Damien's opinion of her behavior. Isabella groaned again when she remembered the time she had chastised him for overindulging in spirits.
A noise in the hallway drew her attention, and Isabella sat up. What time was it? The heavy drapes were drawn shut, and the bedchamber was in near darkness. Swinging her legs off the bed, Isabella gingerly walked to the window. Slowly moving the curtain aside, she peered outside.
“Oh, God!” The sunlight nearly blinded her. Isabella instantly dropped the curtain as a shooting pain tore through her head. She staggered back to the bed with her eyes closed. Fearing she would never regain her feet if she lay down, Isabella remained standing, rubbing her pounding temples vigorously.
She wanted to die. Right here and right now.
The door to her bedchamber slowly opened. Isabella lifted one eyelid a fraction, summoning up the barest interest when Damien strolled nonchalantly into the chamber, carrying a silver tray.
“Good morning, my dear. I thought you might enjoy having breakfast in your room this morning,” he said cheerfully. He placed the tray on the same table where her untouched dinner had languished last night, then lifted the cover off one of the many platters.
Isabella's knees grew weak when she smelled the eggs and broiled kidneys, and she sagged against the bedpost. She took several deep breaths, shuddering with the effort. This was even more embarrassing than last night. “Please take that away, Damien,” she whispered in a woebegone tone. “I vow to never eat another morsel of food.”
Damien laughed, but when she turned her head to glare at him, Isabella saw he was watching her with genuine concern.
“Have some water,” Damien suggested, handing her a filled goblet. “Use the first swig to cleanse your mouth, then drink the rest down.”
She obediently filled her mouth with the water, swirled it about her tongue, then spat it out into the basin he provided. The same basin, she noted with ironic humor, into which she had emptied the contents of her stomach last night.
“Better?”
“No. My tongue still feels three times its usual size.”
“That will pass. Come, at least sit and drink some coffee.” Damien graciously held out a chair.
“I will sit down on one condition,” Isabella said. “You must replace the cover on the food platter. Better still, you will remove all traces of food from the room.”
Damien obligingly picked up several platters and deposited them outside the room. As Isabella moved toward the chair with unsteady legs, she saw that he had left a rack of toast on the tray, but since it had no odor, her stomach did not object. She did object, however, when Damien threw open the drapes and flooded the room with light.
“Please, Damien, show a little mercy,” she begged, squinting hard to avoid the irritating sunlight.
“Sorry.”
A mischievous gleam crept into his silvery eyes as he closed the drapes, parting them only a fraction to allow a small amount of light into the chamber. Isabella felt too miserable to care much. Using both hands to steady her cup, she managed to take a tiny sip of coffee. She felt the warm, bitter liquid slide down her throat and fall into her sore stomach, then waited anxiously, her eyes pinned to the basin, for the coffee to come back up. When it didn't, she bravely took a second swallow.
“Of course, the real cure for a hangover is what Jenkins refers to as the hair of the dog,” Damien said. “A large dose of good brandy.”
Isabella dropped the small piece of toast she had been trying to force into her mouth. “I bow to your superior knowledge of the subject, Damien. However, I can assure you I would prefer consuming actual dog hair to swallowing another drop of liquor.”
Damien laughed sympathetically. “Try to eat some toast. It will settle your stomach and help ease the pounding in your head.”
“I don't believe that is possible,” Isabella muttered, but she followed his advice.
Damien settled himself comfortably in the chair opposite her and poured a cup of coffee. While he picked up a piece of toast, Isabella stole a quick peek at him. He was dressed very casually in a loose-fitting white cambric shirt, dark brown breeches, and freshly shined riding boots. His jaw was newly shaved and his hair slightly damp, probably from a morning bath. He looked and smelled divine.
Sitting across from him, Isabella felt like a total mess. Her slept-in gown was hopelessly rumpled and her unbounded hair disheveled and tangled. Worse than her appearance, however, were her fanciful imaginings about last night. She had a vague recollection of drinking a few glasses of wine, Damien appearing in her chamber, and a thoroughly disgraceful incident with a wash basin, but was that everything? Did anything else occur that she should be aware of?
Isabella lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Last night was hardly a subject she was eager to introduce into the conversation, but curiosity won out over common sense.
“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” Isabella muttered. “I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what happened.”
“You got drunk,” Damien said bluntly. “On my best claret. Then you retched it up in a basin. When you were done, I put you to bed.”
Isabella winced at the image. It was a harsh comment, but the unexpected warmth she saw in the earl's eyes softened the blow. “That is all that occurred?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Isabella whispered. “I made an utter fool of myself.”
“Nonsense,” Damien replied philosophically. “I've been drunker. And sicker. Just ask Jenkins.”
Isabella smiled. Damien's matter-of-fact attitude went far in restoring her serenity. “We are quite a pair, my lord.”
“I am finally beginning to realize that, my dear.”
Damien's voice was husky. He stared steadily at Isabella for several long moments with a look she thought was almost hostile in its intensity.
“The children seem well,” Damien said, suddenly breaking the mood. “I spent the majority of last evening teaching Catherine to play backgammon. I fear that with only a bit more practice she will succeed in beating me.”
Isabella was rattled by the abrupt change of subject and struggled to follow along. “Catherine is a bright child. I'm glad you have found something that so captivates her attention. Backgammon makes a refreshing change from artillery battles.”
“She is still fighting Napoleon?”
“On occasion.” Isabella wrinkled her nose and swallowed more of her coffee. “Catherine's interests usually turn to other matters when she spends time with you.”
“I am trying,” Damien said solemnly.
“I know.” Isabella set down her cup. “You love your children, Damien—that is the most important fact. And you are very good with them—kind, patient, loving. They even enjoy your teasing. All they really need from you is more of your time.”
The earl's face grew serious; then he grinned. “I guess you are feeling more yourself, since you have the strength to lecture me,” he said. “How is your headache?”
Isabella managed a slight laugh. “No longer excruciating, merely raging.”
“A vast improvement.” Damien idly picked up a silver spoon and ran it between his fingers. “Shall we discuss what happened yesterday?”
Isabella nervously clenched her hands together. Her thoughts and feelings were a complex bundle of contradictions. She felt apprehensive, embarrassed, and totally unprepared.
“I feel lost, Damien. I am still the same person I was yesterday morning, yet I feel different. Everything has changed. The faceless family of my imagination is now real. It has a name. A name you disdain.”
He looked keenly at her. “Knowing the identity of your true father hasn't made you a different person, Isabella. At least, not in my eyes. You can allow this knowledge to alter your life as much or as little as you desire. Remember, you are in control of your own destiny, my dear.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “What did Thomas—uh, Lord Poole say when you told him?”
“I said nothing to Poole.”
Isabella grimaced with understanding. 'I suppose you expect me to do the same.“
Damien shook his head. “The decision is entirely yours, Isabella. I shall not interfere.”
Isabella's violet eyes widened involuntarily. Damien was not a man who allowed events to control him;
he
controlled events. “Lord Poole will want me to leave The Grange. He has been hinting rather broadly at the notion these past few days. Once he learns the truth, he will be most insistent.”
“I expected as much. Will you go?”
An aching lump in Isabella's throat made it difficult to breathe. The thought of leaving Damien brought forth physical pain. He made no mention of marriage, and that hurt. When she had discovered early last night that she was not carrying a child, Isabella's immediate reaction had been relief, but that was quickly followed by a puzzling burst of disappointment.
She knew it would be better to allow the budding affection between Damien and herself to grow without the added complication of an unplanned child, but now they were discussing the possibility of her leaving The Grange entirely. Isabella shivered. She had grown fond of this disordered, eccentric household. She held Catherine and Ian in genuine affection and their father close to her heart.
“I would leave here with great reluctance,” Isabella said quietly.
“Don't look so downcast, Isabella. If Poole has his way, he will be the new owner in a few short months. You could return then.”
Isabella flushed. She had been obsessing so much about her own dilemma, she had quite forgotten Lord Poole's ownership of the Whatley Grange mortgages. “Perhaps I can persuade Thomas to work out a more equitable settlement. I am certain that given sufficient time, you will be able to reclaim the mortgage.”
“No.” Damien stiffened. “Under no circumstances are you to bring this matter up with Poole. Is that understood, Isabella?”
“I only want to help, Damien.” Isabella lowered her head. She knew her offer had pricked the earl's pride, but the situation was sufficiently grave to dispense with ego.
“I know your motivation is pure, my dear. 'Tis Poole's I distrust.” Damien rose to his feet. “I promised Catherine and Ian I'd take them riding this morning. Then I will leave them in Jenkins's care while I wade through the mountain of papers on my desk. I think you deserve the day off.”
Isabella smiled wanly. “I would welcome a quiet afternoon. Thank you.”
Damien took her hand in his, brought it to his lips, and softly caressed her upstretched fingers. His expressive gray eyes held hers in a sensual spell as he deliberately moved her fingers across his chest and over his heart before dropping her hand. It was an intimate, tantalizing gesture that left Isabella still feeling its effects long after the earl had left her alone.
 
 
Isabella's fingers quivered slightly as she struggled to fasten the small buttons on the back of her gown. She had consumed a second pot of coffee and an entire slice of plain toast, and she had soaked in a hot bath until the water lost its warmth. She was already ten minutes late to a rendezvous she had requested with Lord Poole, and her taut nerves were beginning to fray. By the time she managed to finish dressing and pin up her hair, Isabella freely admitted she was suffering from a full-blown case of cold feet.
She was genuinely puzzled at her hesitation. Thomas had shown her endless kindness and consideration this past week, offering her a sympathetic ear, entertaining conversation, and continuous pleasant company. He had spent many hours with Catherine and Ian, playing their favorite games and amusing them with humorous stories. Yet it was his constant unflappable good humor that struck Isabella oddly. No one was that nice all the time.
Her unaccountable sense of unease was probably a subconscious result of Damien's intense dislike of Lord Poole, Isabella decided. She suspected Thomas would be overjoyed when she told him they had discovered a link between her mother and his father, but a small hint of doubt was enough cause for her to worry.

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