Chapter Nineteen
Roxboro remained unconscious all through the night and into the following day. At times, he thrashed about as the fever took hold, his big body trembling. Elegant fingers twitching in agitation. Sweat dotted his brow.
“The fever is from his wounds, Your Grace. But that jerking about is the withdrawal from spirits,” Barstow informed her, while checking Roxboro’s bandages. “My uncle did the same. It lasted…for some time.”
Sophia refused to leave Roxboro’s side. If anyone were to ask why she was so committed to caring for him after the circumstances of their marriage, she would have been hard-pressed to explain. She didn’t know the reason, or rather, she did but decided now was not the time to examine those feelings.
Barstow asked if he should send word to Lord Damon, but Sophia decided against it. “I’ll write to him tomorrow.”
But she didn’t. Nor the next day.
“Open your eyes,” Sophia said to him, smoothing her hand over his forehead, brushing away the coffee-colored strands, now damp and clinging to his skin. Even barely alive, Roxboro was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“I must confess, Roxboro, I don’t have a great many suitors.
None, in fact. I’m sure you find that surprising.
Mara has dozens, though she’s set her cap for Caster.
Who I do not think is truly your friend.
Maybe once. Your uncle is quite manipulative.
But…you appeared and I wanted to know what it was like to feel desired, by…
someone like you.” A self-deprecating laugh broke through.
“When you said to me, on our wedding night, that I behave the way I do merely to shock and be seen, you are correct. I have been invisible most of my life. But the greatest tragedy of this entire affair is…the man in the Perswick gardens wasn’t you.
” Sophia looked away, giving the truth to a man who should have heard it well before wedding her.
“I should have—stopped our marriage, but it seemed so impossible that there was another man in London, or anywhere else, who looked so much like you. Exactly like you. I can’t make sense of it.
But—it couldn’t have been you. There’s no freckle. And I know about…the wine cellar.”
On her very first night at The Pillory, Sophia had a tray brought to her prepared rooms, far too exhausted by the journey and her new life to dine alone downstairs.
She had asked Ann to bring a bottle of wine as Sophia had decided a glass with dinner was appropriate.
A short time later, Ann returned with her tray, but there was no fine French Bordeaux to enjoy with her roasted chicken.
“There isn’t any burgundy at The Pillory,” Ann explained.
“The duke detests wine. There is nothing in the wine cellar except mice. If Lord Damon stays for any length of time or the duke has visitors, he allows wine to be procured. Barstow has placed an order for a crate of Bordeaux which should arrive tomorrow, Your Grace.”
No wine at The Pillory. Nor at the duke’s home in London. And Barstow had told Sophia why.
“You never drink wine. Not ratafia. Nor Madeira or port. Nothing of the kind. Yet the night of the Perswick ball, the Roxboro I spoke to held a glass and drank from it. His lips tasted of wine when he kissed me. And there was a large, purple stain on his coat.” A sound of regret left her.
“I cannot fathom how it is possible, Roxboro. But there is a gentleman who resembles you so strongly, right down to your eyes, that he fooled the other guests at the Perswick ball. Lady Brokeburst. My father. But especially me.”
Sophia pulled up the sheets he’d kicked off in his thrashing, tucking them gently around his waist. She allowed her fingers to trail over the lines of Roxboro’s torso, carefully securing the edge of a bandage that had come loose.
She’d never seen a male unclothed before now.
His body was so different from hers, all muscle and strength.
More so than she’d expected from a libertine.
And so unbelievably beautiful.
“I’m not sure why anyone would want to pose as a sot of a duke,” her words trembled as the worry for him blotted out everything else. “But someone is.”
Sophia rose and stepped back from the bed, meaning to leave only long enough to fetch a pitcher of cool water. Dr. Reading said she must force some between his lips.
“I believe you, Roxboro. And I’m sorry I didn’t before.”
*
Sophia’s eyes snapped open. She’d fallen asleep in the chair beside her husband’s bed, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. A low moan came from the bed where Roxboro twisted and panted, whether from the fever, which most definitely had taken hold, or the withdrawal of spirits, she wasn’t sure.
Jumping up, she immediately placed a hand on his brow.
Burning. Roxboro was burning up.
Dr. Reading had visited just yesterday, leaving behind a mixture of herbs that should be given to Roxboro to help with the fever.
The laudanum would help with the pain of his wounds, though since she wasn’t certain whether Roxboro was addicted to opium or not, she cautioned Barstow on the medicine’s use.
Keep him quiet. Don’t get his wounds wet. Bathe him with cold water to keep him comfortable. Check for putrid skin.
She pulled back the sheet to examine the wound below his shoulder, and the others, across his ribs on his chest. Two looked far better than they had but the others were still an angry red.
Sophia leaned in and sniffed, searching for the terrible odor of rotten flesh, but there was nothing but the aroma of sweat. No sign of infection.
“You don’t get to die yet, Roxboro. I should be given a chance to make things right. Then, if you wish, fall into the Thames. Or trip down the stairs. So be it. But not yet.”
Sophia stood and walked across the room, remembering Dr. Reading’s instructions. Throwing open the door, she startled the maid just outside who nearly fell off her stool.
“Find Barstow and Stone,” she said to the girl. “I need a tub with the coolest water you can find. Hurry.”
*
“Lower him in. Slowly.” Sophia checked the depth of the water, making sure it would go no further than his hips. The bandages above his ribs could not get wet.
Roxboro was completely naked save for the bandages and the small clothes covering his…male anatomy. She’d turned her back while Stone adjusted matters to give his employer some privacy. And while she didn’t think her husband necessarily cared who saw his…cock…given his arrogance, Sophia did.
She declined to look herself.
It was hard enough to not ogle such a handsomely made, but unconscious man. Thick thighs, heavy with muscle. The sculpted torso dusted with dark hair. Long, elegant arms and legs. Hard to believe they tangled up so often to make him trip.
Sophia lowered her eyes, biting back a sob.
I don’t want him to die.
“Your Grace,” Barstow said quietly. “Stone and I can bathe the duke. You should rest. Eat and sleep.”
“I eat. I sleep,” Sophia returned, raising her chin. “Let’s get on with this.”
Roxboro’s eyes, glowing green and laced with flecks of silver, snapped open in surprise as the cold water touched his heated skin.
“No,” he snarled at Sophia. “It hurts. What is the meaning of this?” he choked out.
“Shh. You have a fever, Roxboro. We need to bring it down. You’ve been injured.” She gently ran a cloth over him while Barstow held him down. He was so hot. Like touching a stove.
“That trollop tried to slash my throat,” he mumbled, the rest unintelligible. A series of grunts and whimpers followed as Sophia bathed his heated skin. “Tell Oakhurst I am not ever coming to this establishment again.”
“I will,” Sophia said in a soothing tone.
“Oh,” his eyes on her were unfocused as they took her in. “You aren’t the trollop, are you?” He settled. Stopped twitching. “Maybe you’ll join me in the tub?”
“Barstow,” she said. “Please remain outside the door until I call. You as well, Stone.”
The butler opened his mouth to protest but changed his mind and nodded instead.
Stone merely bowed.
“Thank you,” Sophia murmured. “When I’m finished, I’ll have you return him to the bed.”
Roxboro was delirious. Not in his right mind. And while she was sure that Barstow and the rest of the staff were used to the duke and his antics, Sophia didn’t want any of them to see him like this.
“Yes, Your Grace. Should I send for Lord Damon?” Barstow’s eyes met hers.
“No, I’ll write to him tomorrow.” She wasn’t sure what, exactly, kept her from sending for Damon Viceroy when Roxboro very well could be dying—
I won’t let that happen.
—but something inside Sophia told her not to summon Lord Damon, and that something was rather insistent. She absolutely detested the man. Roxboro could be angry with her later.
“Better?” she asked, pressing the cloth to his uninjured side.
His head lolled against the rim of the tub.
“I don’t know why Oakhurst insisted on bringing me here.
I already tupped Lady Hastings at Binson’s.
And taking me to that opium den, which I wasn’t in the mood to enjoy at all, though it was lovely to see Lady Maxwell.
She kept asking when I had time to change my coat.
Said there was a wine stain. Can you imagine me, with a wine stain? ”
“No,” Sophia replied softly. “You don’t drink wine.”
Because of the wine cellar.
“Hate the stuff. Tastes of sour grapes and…the cold.” His brow furrowed and he shivered. “Why is this bath so bloody cold? Can I have a scotch?”
“Not right now, Roxboro.”
“You’re a sassy wench. But I like you.” He grinned at Sophia, closing his eyes. Taking one of her hands, he placed it firmly between his thighs. “As much as I’m enjoying the bath, there are other matters which need attending to.”
Sophia went completely still.
Thanks to Ann, she had a decent description of male anatomy. Mama had been much less forthcoming with her talk of “lengths,” leaving it to Sophia’s imagination. All of which is to say, she had a vague impression of what lay beneath Roxboro’s smallclothes.
“I’m—” Sophia attempted to move her hand, but Roxboro held fast. His…cock was hard, like a bit of stone beneath the fragile cotton of his small clothes. And as heated as the rest of him. A gasp left her as it swelled beneath her touch.
“Come now. I enjoy a good bath, especially the ending.” His eyes opened to narrow slits, the gray green bathing her in wickedness.
Arousal, because this must be what the sudden throb taking up residence between her thighs must be, struck Sophia.
Oh. Dear.
Roxboro was delirious with fever, thinking her some trollop at a brothel. He was ill. Could possibly die. Still entirely carnal in nature but that was no excuse for Sophia’s…reaction. She tamped down every one of those delicious sensations.
“This isn’t the time for such matters.” When she pulled her hand away this time, Roxboro didn’t try to stop her. “You aren’t well at present.”
“I’m not?” He shivered violently. “I want a scotch.”
“Later, Your Grace.” His skin had cooled, but his cock still twitched. She continued to bathe him until he no longer felt hot to the touch, studiously keeping her gaze averted from…matters.
“Barstow,” she raised her voice so the butler, just outside the door, could hear her. “I require your assistance. And possibly Stone’s.”