In the Arms of an Earl (9 page)

Colonel Blakeney’s room was at the end of the corridor. His moan reached her again. She should call for Colonel Parker, or at least the housekeeper, who could summon a doctor if he had taken ill.

But she didn’t stop at Colonel Parker’s chamber, nor did she run up the back stairs to awaken the housekeeper. Before she considered her actions, she stood before the colonel’s door, her heart pounding in her ears.

Something crashed onto the floor. With a quick glance down the hall to make sure she was alone, she opened his door.

A single lamp illuminated the room with a faint flickering glow. The fire had died in the hearth, and she shivered in the frosty room. Colonel Blakeney lay sprawled across a couch, one leg dangled over the side. His shirt was open, and he’d thrown his arm over his eyes in the absolute image of despair and suffering.

Oblivious to the sensibility of the situation, Jane closed the door and went to him. “Colonel Blakeney?” She touched his shoulder.

His arm dropped from his face, and he stared at her with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. The reek of whiskey reached her nose, and she nearly gagged.

“Jane.” He closed his eyes, his brow deeply furrowed.

Gulping back her fear, she felt his forehead for any signs of fever. Besides being damp and covered by lank strands of hair, his skin was cool. Unsure of what to do for him and questioning her motives for staying, she decided to summon help. As she backed away from the bed, her foot bumped an empty crystal decanter. She picked it up and placed it on a nearby table. She was no stranger to the signs of inebriation. Her time with Doctor Adams had shown her all variety of sad abuse, especially with those who had given up hope.

He probably would not want his old friend to see him thus. Besides, she had some training at the doctor’s side and could probably help him better than anyone else.

Teeth chattering, she added another log to the dying embers. In minutes, a cheerful blaze crackled on the hearth. She dusted off her hands and turned to go back to the colonel, but instead collided with him. She cried out, but clapped her hand to her mouth so as not to awaken the family.

“I thought I’d lost you.” He swayed forward, banging her forehead with his chin in the process. Fighting panic, she slipped her arms around his waist to support him, her nose pressed to his bare chest. He heaved his arms around her shoulders and gave a sobbing laugh. “I can still feel my hand.” His lips brushed her ear as he spoke, igniting tiny fires within her. “My fingers, my thumb. It smarts a bit, my dear.”

She moved around to his side, her face burning with the shock of what she was doing. Sympathy for his plight overcame her, and she cast aside any misgivings to help.

“Come and lie down, sir,” she murmured, taking on the tone she’d heard Doctor Adams use a hundred times with upset patients. “Just over here…a few more steps…”

He stumbled beside her, barely able to place one foot in front of the other. They bumped into the bed, and she lost her balance. In a moment, his heavy body pinned hers.

She shoved at his shoulders to maintain a sense of dignity, though she didn’t think he was in any condition to notice. She might have been pushing against stone. He lay beside her, face down into the pillow. His whiskered jaw rasped hers. His breath was hot and moist on her throat.

A tremor vibrated through her, arousing the passion she’d tried desperately to stifle. It was indecent to lie beneath him, but she couldn’t fight the awakened yearning his closeness instilled.

He let out a sigh and rolled onto his back, his strong embrace pulling her with him so her head landed on his chest. She struggled, but his grip only tightened. So she stayed where she was, waiting for him to fall asleep again. Her cheek rose and fell with each of his labored breaths, his heartbeat loud and steady. Her heart pounded so hard she feared it would bang its way out of her chest. If only she could stifle the confused mixture of sensations riding through her. She’d never been so close to a man before, where the musky scent of his skin invaded her nose. Never had she been pressed against a masculine chest as she was now. His chest hair tickled her cheek, and she lifted her head, but his heavy arm pulled her back down.

Staying in place so as not to alarm him, she tilted back her chin to look at his face. His eyes were closed. His deeper breathing hinted of sound sleep. Seizing her chance, she fought his embrace for a moment. She half-expected him to awaken, but he stayed motionless. Letting out her breath, she scooted to the edge of the bed, but he groped across the sheet and caught her night rail. She hissed a gasp, but he shook his head, very slightly, as if any movement was painful.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, his voice cracked. She gazed down at his fingers, grasped tightly on her night rail. There was something almost childlike in his plea, and her fear abated. She patted his hand.

“I will stay, Frederick,” she whispered, her heart leaping at the sound of his name on her lips.

With a sigh, he released her. She sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do. Perhaps she would wait until he was snoring, and then head back to her chamber. In the morning—dear lord, in the morning—she would act as if nothing had happened. It would not be difficult. She was no flirtatious chit, and he was, despite these events, every inch a gentleman. Being very much in his cups, as Rosalind would say, he would like as not remember a thing.

“Where is my hand?”

His voice rang out, and she jumped. A quick look at his face assured her he was still not in his right mind.

“It’s gone, Frederick,” she replied at last. “You lost it during the war.”

He stayed quiet for so long she wondered if she’d imagined their exchange. He shook his head, his eyes screwed up.

“I’m so sorry about George, Susanna.” His lips trembled. “I wanted to send him home to you, but there was nothing left.”

He turned onto his right side, exposing the empty end of his sleeve. Her vision blurred with a sudden rise of tears. In his delirium, he believed her to be the elusive Susanna Olivier, who had cast him away so cruelly. She didn’t know who George was, but he must have been important that he would mention him. She hesitantly stroked his arm while he shook with silent sobs.

“What they did to the town…to those people. The women…all the women…” He twisted in agony, as if a snake writhed within his belly, destroying him from the inside.

“What town?” She regretted asking because she didn’t want to know. She sensed he was talking about the war, and while she and her sisters had been protected from the gruesome details of the worst battles, she knew atrocities had occurred. Once, while helping Doctor Adams, she’d held a patient’s hand, hiding her horror as he confessed his wartime sins in a broken voice. The doctor had prescribed laudanum and plenty of exercise, but she’d seen the man’s empty eyes and had known medicine would not cure him.

“George was dead before they went in…before the wall tumbled down.” His voice took on a faraway tone, and she wondered if he was with her in the present. “It was a sin before God. They are all damned to hell. I am damned…” His voice disappeared, ending in racking sobs.

“It’s all right.” She lowered herself until she lay beside him. Like a small child, he shifted closer, pressing against her as naturally as if he belonged there. She stiffened, alarmed at the way events had changed so quickly, but he was obviously not himself.

Raising a tentative hand, she touched his hair. The tangled locks clung wetly to her palm, but she didn’t care. Compassion soared through her, and she gave in to the urge to both comfort and touch him. Running her hand over his head, she drew the strands through her fingers, wrapping small curls around them. His scalp was hot, and she chafed it, lifting his hair to cool him. His shaking stilled, and he lay, heavy and sleeping, in her arms.

An hour passed. Or perhaps a few moments. Time ceased to concern her. She willed the night be endless.

She drifted in and out of a light sleep. The night air pressed down around them, but he burned hotter than the fire. Glancing down, she watched the ribbon on her night rail flutter with each outtake of his breath. She was long past the moment where she should have taken her leave. Long past any decency. If Lucinda were to find them thus, or worse, Colonel Parker…

Frederick Blakeney would take no wife. Lucinda had told her so. She would not force him into a compromising situation no matter how badly she wanted to stay with him. Every warning her mother had ever uttered filled her thoughts. A girl could meet an unfortunate end if she chose passion over practical reason. And she’d always prided herself on her practicality.

But she had never felt toward anyone what she felt for the colonel.

She slowly extricated herself from his arms, taking pains not to disturb him. He slept on his side, his mouth partly open, his eyelids, ivory white, closed over his dark eyes. She took advantage of his state and stroked his cheek with hesitant, trembling fingers. Fine dark whiskers scratched her fingertips, like the tongue of a farm cat. Beneath the whiskers was his warm skin, to which she lightly pressed her palm. How different to touch a man with a need other than for taking an arm while crossing a muddy road, or the brush of hands when dancing.

His lips moved in silent speech. Knowing she shouldn’t, but daring so anyway, she scrolled her finger across his full lower lip and caressed the perfect bow of the top. She closed her eyes, enjoying the kiss he unknowingly bestowed upon her.

The clock chimed four on the hour. The chambermaids would soon be at work.

She swung her legs over the bed and prepared to stand but was dragged back down. With a little cry, she thought at first he’d awoken, but realized he was lying on her wrapper. Slipping free of the sleeves, she arranged the bedclothes around it. A discreet laundress might discard it. She would only have to make up an excuse to Lucinda in the morning as to why she did not have a wrapper.

A heated blush filled her cheeks. Her instincts urged her to leave immediately. Already, she imagined the clanking of hearth tongs in the parlor below. The shame of being discovered was stronger than her need to remain beside him.

With a last, reluctant look at the colonel, Jane tiptoed out of his chamber. She reached Lucinda’s room and crawled wearily into bed just as Lucinda stretched and yawned noisily.

“Hello, Jane,” she said, her voice slurred with sleep. “I dreamt you’d run away.”

Jane drew the coverlet up to her chin. Something tickled her cheek, and she swiped it with her hand, surprised her face was damp with tears.

“I did,” she whispered.

Chapter Nine

Colonel Parker noted Jane’s tired face in the morning and ordered her to take a tiny nip of brandy in her tea. She wanted to ask if Colonel Blakeney was expected, as his chair was empty, but Jeremy seemed to take a peculiar interest in her. So as not to arouse anyone’s suspicions, she ate breakfast, though she had little appetite.

The colonel’s scent still lingered in her hair: pomade and sweat, and his own musk. She’d dabbed a little rosewater on her neck, but every time she moved, his scent floated up to her nose, intoxicating her with the memory of the night before.

Lucinda spoke about visiting the milliner but Jane could barely concentrate. The colonel’s voice echoed in her ears. Her body tingled with the remembered pressure of his arms. The weight of his head on her breast. Jeremy spoke to her, and she looked up blankly, unable to follow the conversation. His eyes narrowed, but just as he was about to speak, the colonel entered the room. Jane dropped her napkin to the floor in a feeble attempt at hiding her face, which burned as with a fever.

“There you are, old boy,” Colonel Parker said jovially. “Slept in, did you?”

Jane sipped her tea and nodded occasionally at a point Lucinda was making about the season’s newest bonnets. The conversation gave her an excuse to avoid the colonel, even when he murmured a quiet greeting to Lucinda and herself. She didn’t know how she’d ever be able to face him again.

“I had a less than pleasant night,” Colonel Blakeney remarked, glancing shamefacedly at the assembled group, “as my old injury was bothering me. But somehow, I awoke refreshed.” He grinned at his friend. “Tell me, Robert—does an angel of mercy haunt this house? I think I met her last night. Did me a world of good.”

She stiffened with anxiety while Lucinda began describing her own dream.

“…And you were gone, Jane, but when I woke up, you were there again. Funny, is it not?” Lucinda popped a bite of sausage into her mouth.

Jeremy sputtered his tea, and his father slapped him on the back. Jane pretended to be torn between honey and butter for her toast, which shook ever so slightly in her hand.

“Dreams are strange,” she agreed.

“There was a ghost here, when my grandmother was a girl,” Colonel Parker said. “I do not recall her being an angel of mercy, but yes, I would say she might make you a visit.” He nodded at Lucinda. “Did your Mamma speak of ghosts to you when you were a child?”

Lucinda excitedly turned to her father to discuss the possibilities their home was haunted, and Jane finally looked at Colonel Blakeney, hoping he had not gleaned any insight from the strange conversation. Their gazes locked and held. His eyes widened slightly for a moment, and a smile touched his lips. He lifted the nearest jam pot and offered it to her.

“Raspberry jam, Miss Brooke?”

She took it without a word.

Breakfast dragged on while Jane lingered over her crusts and cold tea, waiting for Colonel Blakeney to announce his plans. Perhaps they could read again, or Lucinda could paint them. Anything, as long as she could be in his company. Oblivious to her impatience, he seemed content where he was, seemingly not as tired-looking as he appeared the day before. Jeremy had already gone outside for a ride. The weather had turned in the night, and it was a cold, breezy day.