Chapter Twenty-Two
Teddy stood in the center of the guest chamber before the easel he’d had Danvers commandeer for him several days ago from one of Georgina’s cupboards. He surveyed the sketch, satisfaction lancing through him at the outcome, and deemed it complete. Perhaps his best yet.
He rubbed his eyes, gritty and bleary from staring at his sketch pad, and made for the basin where he scoured the charcoal from his fingers. Only then did he notice how his shoulders ached from maintaining what amounted to one position for what had to be hours now.
Unrolling his shirtsleeves, he glanced around the chamber, at the numerous sketches he’d scattered atop the bed and chest of drawers, then gazed with regret at the forgotten tea service abandoned on the small inlaid table.
What time was it?
Rounding the bed, he sidled past the easel and made for the doors to the balcony which he’d shut thanks to the ocean breeze’s tendency to riffle the pages of his pad and loose sketches.
He pulled one of the doors ajar, and breathed in the fresh night air that rushed over him and rustled the card stock behind him.
A plethora of stars shone in the skies above, and not a glimmer of sunlight.
He’d missed supper, obviously, and hadn’t sent word to Georgina that he wouldn’t be down for dinner.
Likely, she’d be miffed. In truth, he hadn’t planned to miss, he’d simply been caught up—in memory after memory, and transferring said memories to paper, in case he forgot again.
Not that they’d been fully fleshed-out memories. More like images and impressions that began flooding his consciousness that afternoon following his lovemaking session with Georgina.
He thought of her now, as she’d looked last when he’d glimpsed her slouched atop the blue sofa, hair mussed, bodice gaping from his handiwork to reveal her stays and the magnificent bounty of creamy cleavage spilling over the top.
He’d left her there, quite determined not to allow her to become the chink his father had warned him about.
“Sorry, old man,” he muttered, his voice rusty after hours of disuse, “it looks like I’m destined to disappoint.”
Assuming the earl knew Georgina, he likely also knew Teddy could never hope avoid her becoming a weakness. Likely, his greatest weakness.
And yet, he’d left her to join the army, and then had stayed gone long after he’d supposedly intended to return. Why?
He started to shut the door, motivated by a vague notion of going in search of sustenance and his wife, and not necessarily in that order, when a muffled noise coming from the direction of his wife’s bedchamber caught his attention—and not in a pleasant way.
He stepped out to the balcony, the cold stone tiles icy against his bare feet, and crossed to her doors.
No light came from within the master bedchamber.
It was doubtful she was inside, as the hour was early for her to turn in.
She was more likely in her receiving room, reading, or amusing herself in some other way. Still.
He grasped the cold metal door lever. It turned easily in his hand. With a feeling of foreboding, he pulled the door outward, fighting against the steady breeze, then slipped inside.
He closed the door with care to prevent it slamming, plunging himself into not only darkness, but a deafening silence after just a few moments outside, surrounded by the gusting air and roar of the ocean.
No candles burned, no oil lamps glowed, and the coals had been allowed to go dim. The air smelled of Georgina and the delicate rose petal infusion that ever clung to her skin and hair, but she was clearly not present.
He nearly let himself back out when a rustling sound, fabric brushing fabric as someone shifted atop the large bed, reached his ears. Then came a distinct sniffle and shuddering exhale.
Alarm spiked through him, urging his feet to move. Was Georgina ill? Why had no one informed him?
“Teddy?”
“Yes, darling. Are you all right?” He reached the foot of the bed on the side nearest the doors and gripped the cold wooden post. Squinting, he could just make out his wife lying atop the bedcovers on the other side.
“Yes,” came her muffled reply. “Go away.”
The decidedly un-Georgina-like answer took him aback. He had no intention of obeying the directive, of course.
“I can’t see a bloody thing,” he muttered. “Kindly direct me to a matchbook.”
“No,” she said. “Leave me.”
Like hell. Stretching out his hands, he made for the marble mantel where, if he recalled correctly, a candelabra sat, along with a box of sulfur-tipped matches.
After a moment, he managed to light the candles. Their dancing golden flames threw long shadows across the room and illuminated the woman lying face down, dressed in what appeared to be a frothy dinner gown.
He went to her, easing a hip onto the bed, and smoothed one hand over the small of her back.
She turned her head to face away from him as small tremors vibrated through her.
Dread washed through him. What had he done now? Was this because he’d missed supper? Surely not. “Here, now,” he said, “What’s this, pet? What’s wrong?”
In answer, she shifted away from him, toward the bed’s center, effectively shirking his touch, before curling into a ball.
“I’m awful. The worst s-sort of human. Thinking I know what’s best, what you need to r-recover.
When all the wh-while, if I’d only listened to you…
” Her words died as a heart-wrenching sob escaped her.
Not knowing what else to do, he stretched out on the bed behind her and cocooned her body with his, wrapping one arm over her to draw her into him. “Sweetheart, stop this. I’m fine.”
She shook her head in vehement denial. “I know—about the medicine. How you haven’t had a drop since coming here—even though I made you promise me,” she finished on a pitiful squeak.
He had no business feeling guilty. Yet, guilty, he felt. “I see. How did you—never mind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you. It’s only—” He broke off as a shudder went through her.
“I can’t stand this,” he murmured, and flopped onto his back to stare up at the gauzy curtain above. “Nothing is worth this. I’ll take it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her jerk to face him.
Heaving himself up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll go down, now, find Danvers and—”
“No,” she cried in sudden alarm, one hand snaking out to snatch at his shirtsleeve. “You can’t. You mustn’t.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. Poor darling. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and the tip of her nose was pink.
He shifted onto his hip, swinging his legs up, and dropped onto one elbow, body angled toward her. Then he ran his knuckles over her salt-crusted cheek. “Darling, you understand I’m just a mortal man, don’t you? You’ll have to break this down for me because I’m woefully confused at the moment.”
Her silvery eyes welled with tears and she covered her face with her hands.
“No. No more tears. I’ll make this right. Tell me what I need to do.”
She shook her head. “Do? There’s nothing you can do. Nothing will erase what I’ve done in the name of helping you.” She lowered her hands enough to peek over her fingers at him before rocking herself into a sitting position and issuing a loud sniffle.
Teddy reached into his pocket and, thank heavens, found a clean hanky, which he thrust into one of her hands.
She took it, blew her nose, then looked at him, her expression one of abject misery.
“When I collected you from Bell Haven, I vowed to do anything I could to help you recover, which meant convincing you via any means possible to take the medicine the doctor explained you needed.
“A premise which only was reinforced as you seemed to improve by leaps and bounds, day by day—”
“I have—thanks to you.”
She drew a shuddering breath and ducked her head.
“No, not thanks to me. Thanks to your own resourcefulness, and thanks to Mr. Danvers. If not for him, colluding with you, you might even be worse off now. You might even have d-died.” Her last word came out a high pitched keen, and she folded in on herself.
Enough.
He grabbed her, pulling her close, then rose and scooped her into his arms.
Instinctively, she twined her arms around his neck. “Teddy, what are you doing?” she demanded, as he lumbered toward the balcony.
“You’ll see, sweetheart. Dry your eyes, and trust me.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, her tears ceasing as curiosity accomplished in an instant what he had not been able to do through coaxing alone.
He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and opened the balcony door, then crossed to the guest chamber.
Standing outside the closed doors, he set her on her feet, cupped her cheeks between his palms, and gazed down at her, drinking in the sight of her bathed in the silvery moonlight. He had not intended to show her—at least not like this. But, needs must.
He reached for the door handle, swung the door out, and gestured for her to enter.
Almost shyly, she stepped over the threshold into the warm, brightly lit chamber.
Teddy followed, watching her dark head swivel, mussed curls bobbing, as she took in the immense number of pencil and coal renditions strewn about.
“What…are these?” she asked on a whisper of awe, moving on hesitant feet to inspect the drawings atop his bed.
“I think my memories are coming back. So you see, you have, you are, helping me to recover. Had you not risked your own reputation to come for me, the hopelessly damaged heir to the earldom of Ainsworth, Lord knows what would have become of me.”
She gave a scoffing laugh. “My reputation? What do I care for that?”
“There is the small matter of your career,” he pointed out, as she reached for a particularly unforgiving sketch of his father.
He held his breath and regarded her, anxious to see what sort of reaction she might have to the likeness.
Her expression went slack, lips parting. Then, she lowered the sketch and turned her gaze on him. “Teddy, what is this?”