The Nude (full-length historical romance) (31 page)

* * * * *

Nigel kissed the soft inside of her thigh, setting off a fresh tremor of pleasure. Elsbeth couldn’t seem to catch her breath, but it didn’t matter. She smiled and squirmed within the soft cocoon of the bed’s counterpane as he made his way up her body, peeling away the heavy bedcovering inch by lovely inch while kissing the top of her thigh, her hip, her stomach . . .

He wasn’t even close to being finished with her yet. And surprisingly, she wasn’t done with him either. She felt as sensual and confident as the woman portrayed in the nude painting Dionysus had created of her.

Perhaps a happy ending was finally within her grasp.

“Nigel,”
she whispered. Her heart thundered under the weight of what she planned to confess. Though she’d fought against her feelings every step of the way. He had refused to let her deny her passions, her need to be loved. And, whether she wanted to or not, she loved him. After all those lies about not being able to love, not being able to love
him
, he needed to know the truth. It was within her grasp to give herself the happiness she knew she deserved. And she was willing to take the risk.

“Nigel, I-I think I’m falling—”

“Good God!” he gasped and pulled sharply away.

Like a wanton she tried to draw him back. She missed his lips on her and the erotic heat his touch sparked throughout her body.

“No.” He pushed her hands away.

Cold and embarrassed to have him staring at her so, nude and exposed—almost like that . . . that cursed portrait—she covered her breasts with her hands and tried to roll from the bed.

“Lie still,” he ordered, his voice no longer honeyed. His wicked grin faded, so too did the hunger from his onyx gaze. “You told me you weren’t injured,” he said. It sounded painfully like an accusation.

“I’m not—I-I wasn’t hurt.” She gathered up one of his dressing gowns that was still lying in a crumpled heap on the bed. Feeling vulnerable, she started to cover herself. She should have never believed she could somehow transform herself into that beautiful, desirable woman in Dionysus’s painting. She should have never tried to reach for something so out of her depth. She was a cold woman—so she’d been told many times over—and she shouldn’t expect anyone to ever love her.

“Lie still,” he ordered.

Terrified, she obeyed.

He pressed a towel to her side. She nearly leapt off the bed from the sharp pain.

Nigel muttered a string of oaths before drawing a long, slow breath. “You are bleeding. Damnation, what happened out there?”

Elsbeth lifted the towel and saw a few smudges of blood encircling the bullet wound in her side and a deep red mark where a stitch had been torn loose. No wonder her side was hurting more fiercely now. Seeing the blood, though only a slight trickle, triggered ugly memories, memories where she felt all too helpless . . . all too vulnerable.
Never again
.

She couldn’t let down her defenses. Not yet. Not even with Nigel. He was still practically a stranger. His actions were often unpredictable. And her own were becoming more and more predictable. His appearance in the middle of the storm like some modern-day St. George had her falling into his arms, and into his bed.

Alarmed, she covered herself with the dressing gown and hugged her legs to her chest. “My lord,” she said, her voice sharp. “I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need you for a nursemaid.”

He reached for her. She scooted across the bed “I-I—” She took a deep breath. “Please, do not touch me.”

She held her breath, wondering what Nigel would do. He looked so very upset. His hands curled into fists at his side. Lord Mercer would have laughed at her, and would have touched her all he wanted. But then again, Lord Mercer wouldn’t have cared that she was bleeding. Nigel did.

He dragged a shaky hand through his hair. “Let me help you. Doctor Pryor—” he started to say when the door flew open and crashed against the wall.

Molly stood in the doorway, her eyes wild. She clutched a pistol with both hands.

“Stand away from my ladyship, you devil,” Molly said, her English spoken carefully.

“Molly, no!” Elsbeth leapt from the bed and charged forward, still hugging the dressing gown to her chest.

Nigel pushed her aside, putting himself directly in front of the barrel of the pistol. “Let’s all stay calm,” he said. His voice sounded surprisingly steady. Much more steady than it had been a moment before. She wasn’t feeling nearly as composed. She felt ready to pounce on Molly and rip the gun from her maid’s hands.

“Molly!” she shouted, trying to get around Nigel. “Molly! Put that pistol down right now! You are only making matters worse!”

“Elsbeth,” Nigel said quietly, “do not shout at her.” With his arms spread, dressed only in his sodden trousers, he took a step toward Molly.

The pistol wavered. “I will no’ be lettin’ any man ’arm my ladyship. You ’ear me? No man will be ’arming ’er again.”

“Trust me, Molly. I have no desire to harm your lady.” He braved another step toward the maid. Elsbeth latched onto his arms, trying to pull him back.

“Please, Molly! Don’t hurt him. I beg you, Molly!”

“’E drugged us, milady. ’E drugged us but good with that dinner ’e sent to us. ’E was wantin’ you docile so ’e could ’arm you. And I ’eard you crying out. I won’t ’ave it. I will be puttin’ a bullet in ’is gullet first.”

“No Molly,” Nigel said as he retreated a step. “There’s no need to be putting a bullet anywhere. Elsbeth is unharmed.”

“She’s been stripped nude as a babe.” Molly stared at the ruined nightrail on the ground. “’Er clothes been ripped away, you brute!”

“Look at your lady,” he said though he didn’t step aside to expose Elsbeth. “Does she look as if she’s been abused?”

“Please, Nigel,” Elsbeth whispered as she tugged on his arm, praying she could get him out of the way. Molly was still staring at the ruined nightrail. A murderous look was twisting on her lips.

“Molly! Look at me.” He pried Elsbeth’s hands from his biceps. “That’s a good girl, Molly. No one is going to get hurt. Hand me the gun.”

His hand shot out as quick as lightening and latched onto the barrel.

“You bleedin’ bastard!” Molly shouted.

“No!” Elsbeth screamed.

The pistol fired just as Nigel twisted Molly’s hand and pulled her up against his chest.

“So much for not waking the entire household,” he muttered. A spray of plaster peppered their faces, and the spent weapon clattered to the hardwood floor.

Nigel’s master chamber swiftly became overrun with the few remaining guests, all of them gawking. One glance at Elsbeth, still clutching that damned dressing gown to her chest as if her life depended on it, told him she was completely humiliated. Nigel was feeling quite the fool himself. He shoved Elsbeth’s maid into Severin’s arms.

“Lock her away somewhere,” he said, giving Severin a nudge toward the door. “Everyone else, out! I’ll be down in the drawing room in twenty minutes to explain what happened.” He herded the other guests, his uncle included, out the bedroom door.

He pushed the door closed and turned the key in the lock.

Elsbeth stood in the middle of the room, pale and still as Purbeck marble.

“Right.” He approached her as cautiously as he had Molly. “Let’s get you dry and into your own bed. I’ll have Joshua fetch Doctor Pryor. He will take care of your wound.”

He pried the dressing gown from her fingers, quickly slipped it over her shoulders, and tied the belt at her waist.

“What will you do to Molly?” she whispered.

The question made him pause. The gun had fired wildly, putting a hole in the middle of a painting of his great-grandparents standing hand and hand in the middle of a pasture while dressed in finery as though they were ready to visit the king.

Had he been in danger from the maid? Probably. But in the end no one had been hurt. “I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

The question must have taken her aback. She studied him, her eyes filled with wariness. “Are you testing me, my lord? Are you testing my loyalty to you?”

“No.” He sighed. What did he have to do to win her trust? His heart heavy, he scooped her up into his arms. Her hair was still damp. She needed to sit by a fire. “I won’t abide by your falling ill. You need to get warm and to rest. We will talk further on this in the morning.”

But when he lowered her to her feet in her chamber and turned to leave, her grip held firm on his arm. “Please, my lord.”

Her return to her cold, hard formality cut him to the quick. His disappointment must have shown on his face, for she quailed. Her hand slipped from his arm.

“N-Nigel,” she quickly corrected, which pained him even more. He didn’t want to force affection from his wife. How in the hell could he convince her to give her love freely outside of the bed? “Please, you are going down to the drawing room to explain what happened. I wish to be there.” She paused. “My place is at your side.”

He wanted to refuse her. He wouldn’t be able to breathe easy until she was safely tucked up in her bed with a footman standing guard at her door, and the doctor on his way.

A footman standing guard
? Where in blazes was Guthrie? He should have been standing guard at her door all night. He should have protected her from abduction.

Elsbeth’s hand, so perfectly formed, touched his bare arm again. “Please, Nigel. I’m strong and quite stubborn. A pulled stitch doesn’t hurt me in the least. Let me accompany you downstairs.” With betrayals blooming all around them, he couldn’t be assured of her safety unless he personally saw to her protection, which meant he couldn’t leave her alone.

“Do you require assistance dressing?”

“Of course not. I can be ready in a few minutes.”

“Very well. I need to put on some clothes.” He looked down at his ruined trousers. Nearly the entire household had just seen him barely dressed. He smiled wryly, imagining the shocking picture they must have made. “I will return to escort you to the drawing room in a few minutes, then. Together, perhaps we can figure this all out.”

She smiled. Her rosy lips beckoned him as he pictured just how nude Elsbeth was under that ridiculously large dressing gown. “Ri-ight,” he drawled, for a sudden lack of words. He gave her a quick kiss and fled.

* * * * *

Elsbeth pulled a sturdy gown from the wardrobe and slipped it on over her head. The bleeding from the gunshot wound had nearly stopped. But still she despaired that the chemise she wore underneath the gown was going to be ruined. She hated the thought of asking her uncle to purchase anything more for her. And then she remembered . . .

If Nigel refused to release her from this sham of a marriage, she would now have to apply to him, or his man-of-affairs, for money. She wouldn’t even have the small quarterly stipend her uncle paid her. The realization hit her hard. She sank onto the bed and cradled her head. Her hopes for self-sufficiency were gone, again.

A small knock on the door alerted her to Nigel’s return. She took a moment to drag a brush through her hopelessly tangled hair and secured the strands with a ribbon before opening the door. Nigel looked the part of the dashing lord of the manor as he stood at her bedroom door, dressed in a white shirt and buff pantaloons. A red velvet dressing gown was belted at his waist.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” she said before he changed his mind and insisted she stay in bed like a blooming invalid.

“I’m glad one of us is prepared to take on those dragons circling in my drawing room. They’re waiting to sink their teeth into this latest scandal, you must know. I, for one, would much rather run the other way.”

He looked as vulnerable as the day he had stood outside the drawing room and confessed his dread at the thought of entering. She still found it hard to believe. He was well-respected and so wonderfully skilled at winning the affection of others. Lord, look at what his charm had done to her. He shouldn’t need her support in facing the guests to explain what had happened. The fact that he sought it made her heart ache for him all the more.

With her permission, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the drawing room where the rest of the household, in all manner of dress, were busy speculating on what had happened.