The Last Wicked Scoundrel (7 page)

“So why Graves?” she asked as another dish was set before them.

“An homage to my father, to his work. He was a large man, silent as the grave, which seemed appropriate considering his occupation. Never complained, never had an unkind word. ‘Lot of unpleasant tasks need doing,’ he once told me. ‘So it’s best to just do them so you can move on to the pleasant ones.’”

“How did he die?”

“Don’t know that he did. He simply disappeared one night. After he sold my mother’s remains to a teaching hospital.” As a look of horror crossed her face, he downed his wine, signaled for more. This time he was brought red.

“That’s awful,” she said, brushing away the next plate before it could be placed before her.

“I’ve ruined your appetite. Perhaps we should discuss the weather. It’s going to rain tonight, I predict.”

“I don’t want to discuss the rain. Were you there? Did you see what he did with your mother?”

He took a healthy swallow of the wine, wishing for something a bit stronger. He’d not thought of his youth in years. “I was with him. I found no fault with his decision. We were in need of coins, but more than that, Winnie, those training to become doctors needed to be able to study more than books. My mum was quite unpleasant in life, but in death, I believe, she became an instrument of education that allowed others to save lives.”

“I suppose that’s one way to think of it.”

“It’s the only way to think of it.”

“We are so morbidly fascinated with death. You’ve dealt with it all your life in one manner or another. You don’t fear it?”

He slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Do you fear anything?”

You discovering the truth.
Not that he could admit to that.

“That it’ll rain before I can take you on a turn about the garden.”

She laughed the sweet tinkling sound that reminded him of tiny crystal bells ringing on Christmas morning. “I’m serious.”

“As am I.” Shoving back his chair, he stood, walked over to her, and pulled out her chair. Leaning low, he said in a quiet, seductive voice, “Come on, Winnie. It’s dark out. Lovely things happen in the dark.”

With a twinkle in her eyes, she peered up at him and whispered, “But we’ve yet to have dessert.”

“I have my heart set on tasting something sweeter than anything that can be prepared in the kitchen.”

Rising, she placed her hand on his forearm. “A walk about the garden sounds just the thing.”

Unfortunately as they stepped out onto the covered terrace, they discovered a soft rain falling, so quietly as to create little more than a constant drone rather than a harsh pattering of drops.

“We’re too late,” she said.

“We’re never too late.” He walked to the edge of the terrace, just short of being touched by the falling droplets. “I find the rain soothing.”

He felt her shiver. Stepping behind her, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her in close.

“I feared it when I was a child,” she said quietly. “When the lightning rent the sky in two and thunder boomed so loud that it shook the ground, the servants would rush through the house turning all the mirrors around. It was my mother’s edict. She said when she was a child a bolt of lightning zigzagged through her parents’ house, using the mirrors to propel itself along. Do you think that’s possible?”

“I think anything’s possible.” Lowering his head, he kissed the nape of her neck, where jasmine behind her ear overpowered the scent of rain. He wondered where else she may have applied the fragrance. He kissed the other side. “Are your parents alive now?”

“No, it’s only Whit and I. He thought it was such an adventure when we spent time in your residence.”

“He’s a good lad. We should take him to the park one afternoon.” He trailed his mouth from one shoulder to the other, relishing her sigh.

“He went to the zoological gardens today. He’s drawing me pictures of the animals he saw.” Her voice sounded faint, faraway as though she were floating into oblivion.

“I should like to see them.”

“I’ll show you when he’s finished.”

He nipped at her ear before slowing turning her around. Lifting her hand, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Don’t,” he said gently. “Don’t cover your nose.”

“It’s unsightly.”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing about you is unsightly.”

She released a self-conscious laugh. “Sometimes I forget that you’ve seen all of me.”

“I looked upon you as a physician—which is a cold and impersonal observation. When I look upon you as a man, it will be very much like seeing you for the first time.”

She gave the tiniest mewl as though it had not occurred to her before that what he’d implied would most certainly happen. Sometimes he forgot that she was a lady first, a woman second. That she wasn’t accustomed to traveling the path he wanted to travel.

Still, he brought her in close and took her mouth, while the rain cooled and scented the air. Her tongue parried with his, her hands combed through his hair, her sighs mingled with his moans. Sweet, so gloriously sweet. He could have—

“Excuse me, Your Grace.”

She jerked back as though the butler had taken a lash to her. “Yes, Thatcher, what is it?”

“A missive from the queen for Dr. Graves.”

Graves held out his hand, and Thatcher extended the silver salver. He took the letter bearing the royal crest, opened it, and walked over to the doorway where enough light spilled out so he could read the words.

“What is it?” Winnie asked, coming to stand beside him.

“I’m being summoned.” With an apologetic sigh, he said, “I must go.”

“Of course you must.”

He cradled her face. “Thank you for dinner. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a night more.”

“If it’s not too late when you’re finished, perhaps you could come back to enjoy your after-dinner port. I’ll feel like a horrible hostess otherwise.”

He grinned. “We can’t have that. But I have no idea how long it’ll take.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Thatcher, give the doctor a key to the residence before he leaves.”

“Winnie—” Graves began. They would be opening a door they would be unlikely to close.

She nodded, somewhat jerkily. “I want you to have a key. If I’m asleep, you can awaken me and I’ll get the port for you.”

If he were to awaken her, it wouldn’t be for bloody port, not that he was going to confess to that with the butler standing there. Leaning in, he kissed her gently. “I’ll return when I can. I should warn you that it could be days.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Don’t be, he almost told her. No good would come of it.

W
ith the flame in the lamp turned low, Winnie lay in her bed, listening as the rain beat against the pane. It was coming down with more force now, and she thought of William traveling through it, dashing from the carriage to her door, his hair damp when he came to her.

It was after midnight. She’d waited up as long as she could, but she was tired now, so tired. She’d taken great pains to prepare for bed. Her nightdress was satin. It revealed very little. The matching wrap was resting at the foot of the bed, so she could snatch it up quickly when William arrived. Her maid had brushed her hair a hundred times before braiding it. She’d applied a dab of perfume behind her ears, just a small dab, because he seemed to enjoy kissing her neck.

She could hardly fathom that she’d given him a key to the residence, that she was considering allowing him into her bed. But she loved the way he made her feel: precious, treasured. They’d not spoken of love or a future, but it hardly mattered. She just needed something to erase the memories of what happened the last time a man had taken her in this bed. She squeezed her eyes shut. No, not this bed. She’d had that one carted away, had purchased a new one to replace it. Only she had ever slept in it. Not entirely true. Her lips curled up. Whit had joined her a time or two when he had a bad dream. But he was older now, beginning to show a preference for not being coddled by his mother.

Her eyelids began growing heavy. William would return when he could, and she was anticipating it as she’d not anticipated anything in a good long while. He would open the door, slip beneath the sheets, take her into his arms—

The silk slid over her body as his hands caressed her, the silk no barrier to the heat of his touch. He nuzzled her neck. “I returned as soon as I could.”

She didn’t want words, didn’t need them. All she wanted were the marvelous sensations that he seemed able to elicit with so little effort. She was floating on a cloud of pleasure, his hands and mouth taking her to places where she’d never traveled. Heat scorched her, inside and out. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin, but she seemed unable to grasp anything of substance. He was like shadows, weaving around her—

She inhaled his sandalwood scent, but her lungs froze, her nose stung. Not sandalwood. Caraway. Cloying. Suffocating.

His hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t breathe. He was weighing her down, taking her into the depths of hell. She fought, she kicked, she screamed a silent scream that was somehow more terrifying. She was going to die! He was going to—

Winnie awoke with a jolt, breathing heavily, her body trembling. She scrambled back until she was sitting against the headboard. Most of the room was ensconced in wavering shadows that danced around the corners and over the ceiling. The lamp was no longer burning, but there was a fire in the hearth. She didn’t remember there being a fire when she went to sleep.

The room was chilled and damp. The windows were open, the draperies pulled aside, and the curtains of lighter fabric blowing in the breeze as rain pattered against the floor. Had William returned and opened them? Then where was he?

And why was the caraway scent stronger now? She was trembling, her silk nightdress clinging to her dampened skin. She had to get hold of herself. Some warm milk, some warm milk would help.

She reached for the lamp to relight it and froze.

There, resting on the corner of the bedside table were two rings—ducal rings—that had belonged to her husband. She’d left them in a safe at the ancestral estate, to be given to Whit when he was older and his fingers large enough to accommodate them.

So how the devil had they ended up there?

W
ith the rain pelting his hat and coat, Graves stood outside Winnie’s residence. It was half past four in the morning. She was no doubt asleep by now. If he unlocked that door, walked into her residence, into her bedchamber, everything would change. There would be no going back.

As much as he wanted her, he didn’t want her under these circumstances. He hadn’t expected his actions toward her to result in her welcoming him so quickly and swiftly. While his feelings for her might be honest, his reasons for pursuing her at the moment were not.

He should turn about and go home. But he was the only one with the ability to stay near enough to her to protect them all. Staying close to her would certainly prove no hardship—at least not until she was no longer content with only the small part he would offer.

Do no harm.
That was the mantra of his profession, but in her case he had failed to heed it, which was why he was now standing in the blasted rain arguing with himself. He didn’t have to wake her. He could just sit in a chair and watch her.

That seemed the way to go. To torment himself further by being near enough to touch her, but refraining. That would definitely qualify him for sainthood.

He marched up the steps, slipped the key into the lock, let himself in, and locked the door behind him. Within the foyer, all was silent, hushed. A lamp had been left to burn on a table. He had far too many nights where lamps were left to burn for him as he sat vigil, striving to ward off death, but it snuck by him when it was good and ready. Alone in his residence, he mourned the loss of every patient while he analyzed every step of the treatment, striving to understand why sometimes things worked and sometimes they didn’t. There was always more to learn, so much more to learn.

If he didn’t go up those grand sweeping stairs, if they were correct about the danger, if something happened to her, he would analyze this night until the what-ifs drove him mad.

Leaving his damp hat and coat on a rack in the foyer, he grabbed the lamp and started up the stairs. He fought to tamp down the anticipation building with each step. He was only going to watch her sleep, nothing more. But he could certainly take pleasure in that.

Three years before, he’d been awoken in the dead of night to come here. Outside her door, he came to a stop as the images assailed him: her battered face, her badly beaten body. He’d never seen anyone covered in so many bruises, and he’d dealt with survivors of a train wreck. He flattened his palm against the door. Unlike Claybourne and Jack, he’d never had a penchant for violence, but that night, he thought if her husband had stepped into the room, he might have very well killed him. That a man could willingly inflict so much harm on another human being, on a woman, on his wife—Graves was neither innocent nor naive but sometimes he did not understand the minds of men.

Quietly he opened the door. A weak fire struggling to remain relevant chased shadows around the room. His heart lurched at the sight of the rumpled, but empty bed. Quickly he stepped farther into the room. Rain was coming in through the open windows, pooling on the floor. Then he spotted her huddled in a corner, shivering uncontrollably. He rushed across the room and crouched before her. “Winnie, sweetheart?”

She lifted a dazed gaze to his.

Cautiously he cradled her face in his palm. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Jerkily she shook her head and lifted a shaking hand, pointing with one finger. “I don’t . . . know . . . how they got here.”

Twisting around, he studied the bed where she indicated. “What precisely?”

“On the table.”

Unfolding his body, he strode over to the bedside table. His gut clenched as he picked up the two rings. He knew them well. He’d placed them on a pauper’s fingers. Inwardly, he cursed harshly, but outwardly he gave no sign of his alarm or trepidation. He halfway hoped the blighter was still in the residence. If they crossed paths, Graves would be digging a grave before the night was out.