Chapter 2
“Bloody blazes.” James Ryder, Duke of Wellbourne, awoke to bursts of pain as he tried to sit up. Apparently, being a duke did not magically exempt him from the aches and pains of lesser beings.
Not that he ever believed in such nonsense about the privileged peerage.
“Sir, lie still.”
He blinked against the glare of sunlight as a woman with an achingly sweet voice he recognized from earlier put a moistened handkerchief over his eyes, no doubt to calm his restlessness.
He fell back against a soft pile of pillows, relieved to be in the care of his gentle angel. “Florence?”
“Yes,” she said with a merry lilt that warmed the corners of his heart. “I’m surprised you remembered my name.”
He recalled everything about this young woman, even though he had known her for the length of a carriage ride and been out cold for most of it.
“Please lie still. I’m right here and can fetch you whatever you need.”
“And where is ‘right here’?” The last he recalled before the lovely Florence had saved him, he was sprawled on the hard ground along a roadway north of Brighton, oozing his lifeblood.
Having spent much of his adulthood in the military, he had resigned himself to dying on a battlefield or in some other valiant manner and found it galling he had almost died at the hands of some inept brigands while on his way to meet Lord Meade.
Indeed, how galling to have almost lost his life when he was about to bring his Foreign Office assignment to a successful end.
Florence cleared her throat. “Right here happens to be Swann Hall, the home of Lord Rupert Swann. I am his granddaughter.”
“That’s right,” he said with a slight nod, “you mentioned it when you rescued me.”
“More important, do you remember your name, sir?”
Fortunately, he did.
But he also knew it was safest not to disclose he was the Duke of Wellbourne. Apparently, not everyone was pleased with the work he had been doing on the Continent alongside Lord Castlereagh to secure a lasting peace.
Just who was undermining his mission was a mystery about to be revealed when he met with his stepbrother, Lord Meade, the one who had written him the letter.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?”
Gad, her voice was a glorious mix of sweet and sultry, as deliciously smooth as a fine, aged scotch sliding down one’s throat.
“I certainly hope so.” He removed the moistened handkerchief she had earlier placed over his eyes, for he wanted a good look at her. “Captain James Ryder, at your service.”
She cast him an indulgent smile, obviously waiting for him to say more.
Did she know he also happened to be a duke?
He thought perhaps not.
She was not fluttering or cooing around him as she would be if aware of his elevated status.
Perhaps he was making too much of his title.
He studied the angelic face he remembered looking down on him as he lay bleeding and certain he would die, quite entranced by those green eyes the color of dark emeralds staring back at him.
Florence was beautiful in a warm, and adorable way, what with the wild mass of ginger-gold curls that would look lovely tumbled upon a man’s bed sheets, and a sweet, heart-shaped face that spoke of her lively intelligence.
Her ears were soft and small, and her nose was also small but had an impudent point at the end.
Her mouth also had an impudent look to it because the ends had a slight droop that made her look as though she were pouting.
It was a sensual pout.
Not that of a spoiled child.
Her lips themselves were shaped like an archer’s elegant longbow. He had noticed their graceful curve while Florence fussed over him in the carriage.
How could he be faulted for wanting to kiss her, to taste the sweet honey of her mouth?
“I have not forgotten my name,” he said, “nor shall I ever forget yours, or that you are the angel who rescued me.”
She laughed once more as she sank onto the chair beside his bed.
“I cannot take all the credit, Captain Ryder. I had plenty of help in saving you. It was a group effort to haul you into my carriage and then get you upstairs into one of our guest bedchambers. My grandfather is the one who stitched you up.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he is not a surgeon by profession but was medically trained while in the army in his younger days. He is the one who really deserves the credit for saving your life.”
“Then I look forward to thanking him, too.” He went to touch his forehead, but she stopped him by taking hold of his hand.
Hers was soft and little, but purposeful as she set his own back at his side. “No, sir. You mustn’t touch the stitches, they’re still too fresh.”
Which meant he hadn’t been unconscious all that long.
Good.
By the position of the sun shining through the windows of his elegantly appointed bedchamber, he thought it might be late afternoon.
The blue silk drapes had been drawn aside to allow light to flood into the room, something he appreciated because it allowed him to make a clear assessment of his surroundings.
He had been shot sometime in the early afternoon, which meant he could not have been unconscious more than an hour or two.
Not that it mattered, for he was receiving excellent care and felt he was now on the road to recovery.
Still, he did not like losing control of a situation or ever being at anyone’s mercy, not even at the tender mercy of this beautiful young lady.
When she leaned forward slightly, he caught the captivating scent of her, or perhaps he was merely hungry, for breathing her in was like breathing in a deliciously warm hot cross bun with a hint of cinnamon.
Lips of honey.
Cinnamon scent to her skin.
Yes, he was definitely hungry for food as well as for her.
“I recall one of those bounders struck me with the butt of his rifle,” he said, returning to the matter of the scoundrels who had set upon him.
She nodded. “Gave you a solid crack to your skull that required six stitches.”
“Only six?” He cast her a sloppy grin. “Could have been worse, I suppose. Fortunately, I have a hard head.”
“My grandfather thinks I am quite hardheaded, too.” She returned his smile, but it was all too brief as she moved on to recount the rest of what had happened to him.
“But another one of those villains came dreadfully close to doing you in. Fortunately, his aim was wide of the mark, and he missed your vital organs. You are also fortunate the shot went clean through, ripping through your skin just below your ribs. That wound required twenty stitches to repair.”
He grunted, for he was feeling a sharp pain there, too.
“We gave you laudanum earlier and can give you more now, should you need it.”
“No, Florence. I won’t be needing it ever.”
She frowned at him. “How do you know? You will certainly feel more soreness now that you are awake.”
“I probably will, but I’m still not taking anything that might dull my senses. I need to keep my wits about me.”
“Sir, you are safe here. No one is going to hurt you while you recover at Swann Hall. And do not think to get out of bed,” she chided when he attempted to do just that.
A blinding pain immediately tore through him, and he fell back with a groan. “Botheration, that hurt.”
“You stubborn man, did I not just tell you to lie still? You were badly injured and lost a lot of blood. Not even a prime specimen such as yourself can hop out of bed like a grasshopper on a jaunt through a spring meadow.”
He grinned. “You think I am a prime specimen?”
She rolled her eyes. “I am sure every woman in England feels the same, Captain Ryder. But I am certain you know it. You do not strike me as particularly bashful.”
“What makes you think I am not bashful?”
She emitted a trill of laughter. “Because you are obviously comfortable wearing not a stitch of clothing. Do you not realize you are naked?” She whispered the word as though she were speaking of something sinful. “Why do you think I stopped you from pulling your covers aside?”
He looked down at himself, noting his bare arms and chest.
He peeked under the covers, as well.
“Oh, good grief,” she muttered, turning away with a light blush to her cheeks.
He smiled, liking that she was modest and not suggestively gawking at him as most women would do. He understood the fairer sex found him attractive. “What did you do with my clothes, Florence?”
“Sent to the laundress in the hope of removing the bloodstains. She is a wonder and seems able to get stains out of everything. I’ll do my best to mend the damage to your shirt and jacket once she has them cleaned.
And just to be clear, I did not undress you.
In fact, I was banished from the room while my grandfather and the footmen attended to you. ”
“But you are here now, and I am still without clothes.”
“You are fully covered,” she insisted.
“That begs the point. Why has your grandfather allowed you to remain by my side without a chaperone?” He understood the impropriety of a genteel, young lady in his bedchamber and wondered if he was being purposely placed in a compromising situation.
Had she seen the letter addressed to the Duke of Wellbourne?
Did she realize he was the duke and not merely his emissary?
Florence did not appear to have a conniving nature, but perhaps her grandfather was not so genial. Was this not something he needed to be more watchful of while in their care?
Ladies often flirted with him and welcomed him into their beds. However, he was always careful to choose his conquests for their lack of innocence, their shoddy morals, and their already married status.
Yes, married ladies were safest, and he liked it just fine that way.
No complications.
Florence regarded him oddly, and pointed in the direction of several large, cushioned chairs beside the hearth.
“But I am not alone with you, Captain Ryder. I have never been left alone with you. My grandfather is here with us, although he seems to have fallen asleep in the chair. The poor dear stayed up all night by your bedside to watch for signs of infection.”