Chapter Twenty-Two #2
And the beef broth, when it came, turned out to be just that.
Although it also turned out to be presented in an invalid cup that didn’t require him to be sitting up straight to drink, nor any use of a spoon.
Jonathan had the sense not to cavil at this indignity.
He was too hungry and the broth smelled delicious.
Verity put it into his left hand but, he noted, kept a very good eye on him unless he was about to spill it. After the broth, she administered the small dose he was allowed of the laudanum and he found he was tired, despite having slept what must have been most of the last twenty-four hours.
Verity straightened his covers for him and took her seat beside the bed again, her expression peaceful.
Gone was the somewhat argumentative young lady he’d first encountered.
This was a different Verity to the one who’d banned him from her bedroom.
A softer, gentler, and more pliant one, yet, as had been proven, every bit as determined.
Jonathan relaxed back on his pillows, allowing the drug to take effect, but still watching her through drooping eyelids.
Dressed like this, she was even prettier than he’d first thought.
Who’d have guessed she’d been hiding the qualities of a nursemaid?
Hidden depths. Still waters run deep. Several more clichés tumbled through his head.
At last, however, his body began to feel light and relaxed and the pain to recede.
His eyelids became heavier as his whole body drooped. He could no longer keep them open.
Having turned the oil lamp down a bit, Verity watched his eyes close in satisfaction.
A couple of times they flickered open again, but he was fighting a losing battle there.
Laudanum would not just dull the pain but bring him much needed, healing sleep.
His breathing became deeper and the drawn look on his pale face softened as his whole body relaxed.
Hopefully this would be a deep, pain-free sleep. He needed it.
She’d poured herself a glass of water earlier, and now she sipped it as she studied Jonathan’s face in repose.
When she’d seen him for the first time lying in the coach and for a moment thought him not breathing, her heart had performed a lurch of fear that had nearly made her legs buckle at the knee.
Only extreme determination had kept her upright.
At the time, she’d not had the opportunity to wonder at her reaction before she’d realized he was not dead.
Since then, she’d pushed aside her own feelings as she’d helped both Dr. Collins and her staff with Jonathan’s care and comforted the distraught Kitty.
Now, alone in the dark bedroom with the man whom, so short a time ago, she’d decided not to like, she had time to reflect on her own feelings, which were more than puzzling.
She set her jaw. She absolutely didn’t like Jonathan.
She wanted to teach him a lesson. He was spoiled and over entitled, as well as being actually titled, a rich man from a section of society her own father had fled.
He was, in short, everything she’d learned to despise after so many years in revolutionary France, and yet she’d allowed herself to be cajoled into marriage with him.
There was no denying she could have avoided that if she’d wanted to, and yet she hadn’t.
What did that mean? Could he possibly represent the stability she’d so often craved in the last thirteen years?
She frowned, watching him more closely as he slept.
She could tell herself a thousand times that she’d done it to save Papa, but was that strictly true?
Had not a small part of her been attracted to this man who, in many ways, didn’t seem to have passed the stage of being an over-indulged child?
Did she perhaps nurture the idea she could change him?
For the better? Did she think him worthy of that effort?
She scowled at him. He was sleeping soundly now, his impressively muscled chest, most of it now concealed by bandages and blankets, rising gently.
Was that not why she’d decided to teach him a lesson and even considered what it might be like if she succeeded?
Was it not why she’d asked his mother whether his father had given up his hedonistic lifestyle once he’d been married?
Had she been picturing a life for herself with a Jonathan who was no longer a rake?
She began to realize that not only did she not know Jonathan very well, but also that she didn’t know herself at all. Everything she’d thought about herself seemed to be sliding away at an alarming rate.
A sobering thought.
Was she no longer the young woman who’d aided her father to extract considerable sums of money from unsuspecting foreigners all over the continent?
The woman who’d jaunted about Europe masquerading as a young French woman?
Probably not. In fact, it was entirely possible that she’d never been that young woman at all, and that it had all just been a cloak she’d worn over her old clothes to disguise herself.
Her true self, perhaps, was the girl brought up by Grandmama at Somerton in the traditional ways of the landed gentry.
Hadn’t someone once said, “Give me the child until he is seven and I will give you the man?”
Might she, against her better judgment, like Jonathan a bit too much, despite his many obvious failings?
Possibly because of them. A ridiculous thought.
What was there to like about him, even? She would ignore his good looks, battered as they were at this particular moment in time, as to include them would be shallow, and she didn’t consider herself to be a shallow young woman.
Beauty, as Grandmama had said many times, only went skin deep.
She frowned, considering what she knew of him, which wasn’t much and in no way justified having any sort of feelings for him at all. Possibly a few of those shallow ones, but not the sort that lasted.
She clenched a fist and lifted her thumb to count off reasons why she might allow herself to like him.
One: he clearly loved his sister very much.
To the point where he, as just a boy himself, had decreed that she should be brought up in his household.
She’d been motherless and fatherless and her brother, who should perhaps have shunned her, had ordered her to be brought up like a lady, even though her mother had been nothing but a housemaid.
That was surely something in his favor. And on top of that, so maybe this was number two, he’d done this in the face of what must have been stiff opposition from his own mother.
To the extent that she’d taken herself off to the Dower House and stopped living with him.
So, from the age of sixteen himself, he must have been independent.
And then there was the fact that not only did he appear to love Kitty, but she clearly loved him in return with a devotion that was touching.
So that was point three. Kitty had been desperate to do her part in caring for her beloved brother and had sat for a long time before her bedtime at his sickbed, holding his left hand in a most touching fashion and dabbing at the tears which kept springing to her eyes.
Surely Kitty would not love someone who was at heart bad?
She was not a foolish girl. At least, no more foolish than other girls her age.
So, the question remained. What else was good about him?
She didn’t know. There must be other things, but she’d seen so little of them she couldn’t think of them. Then she remembered her drive with him. Four: he loved his horses. He treated them as though they had feelings. A rare accomplishment. Anyone who treated his horses well couldn’t be that bad.
But that made only four good points. Not many.
But now, in fairness, she had to consider what was bad about him.
Yes, he’d offended her, but had he been, perhaps, just the tiniest bit justified in doubting her like that?
After all, Papa had, without compunction and to save himself from ruin, given her away to pay a gambling debt.
And, as she’d been willing to do that once, no wonder Jonathan had thought she might have done it before.
Hot color rose up her cheeks. Was it not more Papa’s fault than his?
Was not Papa at the root of all her troubles?
Had her ire towards Jonathan been a little misdirected?
His left hand was resting on his stomach.
She slid out her own hand and covered it.
He felt warm but not too hot. Perhaps the fever was passing.
He had strong hands with long, elegant fingers.
A few manly dark hairs covered the backs of them.
She liked the feel of his skin under her touch.
What might it feel like if he were to touch her with those fingers?
In love. They were married, after all. This should not be a shameful speculation, but it brought fresh heat to her cheeks.
How glad she was he was asleep and couldn’t see her embarrassment.
The prospective failure of her scheme to teach him a lesson didn’t seem to matter.
His eyelids flickered momentarily. Was he dreaming?
She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, feeling the strong bones beneath the skin. She’d never held a man’s hand before. Not like this. Not with the surprising feelings that were cascading through her head.
But was she feeling like this just because he was lying here wounded and vulnerable before her?
Made more attractive by his lack of threat.
Right now, there was about him more of the boy she’d seen in that portrait than the dissipate man who’d reeked of last night’s drinking excesses.
He looked younger, gentler, and kinder with his angry expression washed from his face.
And, of course, he no longer looked as though he could see through her clothing to her nakedness.
A bit of a relief, all told, even though he was asleep.
She recovered her hand and leaned back in her chair.
Perhaps she would try and snatch a few hours sleep.
The thought she could go back to her own bed never crossed her mind.
She wanted to be there when he woke up in case he needed anything.
Both Mrs. Burke, the housekeeper and kind Mr. Lucas had offered to take a turn sitting with their master, but Verity had insisted she should be the one to do so. She was his wife, after all.
She picked up the pillow Mrs. Burke had brought her from where it had fallen to the floor and settled it behind her head. She would just close her eyes for a while and be there if he woke. She’d hear him when he stirred, she felt sure.
She did indeed hear him.
A shout rent the still air of the bedroom. “No! Leave her be! Get your hands off her!”
Verity came awake with a start that set her heart hammering in fear. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. The bedroom was almost dark and outside summer rain was pattering against the windows.
“No, no, no! Father, no!” Jonathan’s voice rose louder. “Get away from her! She’s mine!”
Despite his injuries, he was thrashing in the bed, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. He seemed to have no concern for his broken arm. She had to stop him before he did it damage.
Leaping to her feet, she seized him by his powerful shoulders. “Wake up! You’re having a bad dream. Wake up, Jonnie, wake up.” Her voice rose in panic.
His tossing almost threw her off but she hung on, terrified he’d do himself some damage. There was nothing for it, she’d have to slap his face to wake him.
She hit him hard. She possessed what her father liked to call “a mean right hook” and had floored one or two over arduous gentlemen with it on occasion, and some who were less than gentlemen.
She modified the blow a little as she slapped the undamaged right side of his face with a firm back hander. A good thing she didn’t wear any rings.
His head snapped to one side and he went suddenly limp under her grip. After a few moments, his breathing began to settle to a less alarming panting, and he turned his head to look up at her out of eyes like inky pools. She must just be a blur in the gloom to him.
But he recognized her with no trouble. “Verity?” He sounded hoarse and unsure of himself.
“Yes. It’s me. You were having a nightmare, I think. I’m sorry I had to hit you.” She hadn’t released his shoulders which had now slumped back onto the bed. Hopefully she hadn’t damaged the bullet wound.
His left hand came up and gripped her elbow. “Thank you.”
She relaxed her hold on him. “It was nothing. Do you often have bad dreams?”
He was silent for a long moment before he nodded. “Sometimes.”
What did a man like him have to trouble his dreams?
She smiled in reassurance, wanting to tell him he was safe with her, but managed to stop herself.
Instead she said, “I’m here now.” She would have said that to comfort a child.
To Kitty, perhaps. And now she was saying it to her husband.
That he needed comfort was obvious. His left hand had slipped down her arm and now she took it in hers and held it.
The most natural thing in the world to do.
He sighed. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
She sat on the side of his bed. “I don’t mind.”
He frowned, a little ruefully. “I don’t like anyone to know about my bad dreams. They’re not usually this severe. I’ve never had to have someone slap me to wake me from them. Maybe the fever or the laudanum made them worse this time.”
She smiled. “You have no need to worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know.”
A silence ensued, but a curiously companionable one. At last, he broke it. “Will you lie here with me, by my side, until I sleep again?”
Surprised, Verity wasn’t sure how to answer this. But they were married. Instinct told her that if she thought about it for too long she’d say no, and that he needed her to be close. So, before she could change her mind, she hitched herself further onto the bed and lay down beside him, facing him.
She saw him smile in the dim lamp light. “Thank you. I’ll sleep better now.” And he closed his eyes.
But she didn’t. She lay awake for a long while watching him sleep and wondering what that nightmare of his had been about.