Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as the door closed, Olivia’s demeanor changed, and the fear returned to her eyes.
And I’m responsible for that fear, Charles thought.
Devil’s breeches, he might have lost her today! Perhaps he’d overreacted seeing her at the top of the staircase last night, but today… Today, she had been running toward her death. Running away from him.
It was blind luck that had compelled him to search in the forest. Perhaps it was because it was where he’d sought sanctuary from his father’s loathing and the taunts of others.
Trees and animals did not judge a man—they simply lived.
They never troubled him for being flawed, for being unfit to bear the name Devereaux, unfit to live.
And unfit to marry.
Though they were as different as two people could be, Charles and his little wife were also the same in that they were both misfits, unable to conform to the rules of the world.
Perhaps, in the ashes of the world’s disapproval, they could forge their own world and make their own rules. Together.
Because, despite his attempts to keep her at a distance, she was never far from his thoughts.
While he’d toured the estate, listening to his steward’s tales of woe regarding the state of the farms, their depleted livestock, and the worsening finances, he couldn’t banish from his mind the image of his wife’s stricken expression.
When he’d entered the dining room for supper, ready to make amends, his disappointment when she hadn’t joined him turned into debilitating fear when that young maid tearfully told him that her mistress was nowhere to be found.
Then, when he’d spotted her in the forest, moving toward the ravine, oblivious of the danger…
Only then did the understanding hit him like a battering ram.
He couldn’t live without her.
“M-my lord?”
What sweet relief it had been to hold her in his arms—her delicate body, so sweet and softly rounded, her lips parted in offering of a kiss…
Curse Mrs. bloody Broughman for interrupting! He was now left with a cockstand he could do nothing with.
“Husband!”
He glanced up to see his wife staring at him.
“Are you well?”
He almost laughed at the absurdity. Here she was, injured having narrowly escaped death, asking after his health!
Hurt flickered in her eyes. “Do I amuse you?” she said.
No, you intrigue me.
She stared at his hand movements, then shook her head. He rose and poured a brandy.
“Will I ever understand you?”
Her voice was almost inaudible, and when he turned to face her, her cheeks colored.
He offered her the brandy glass, and his heart fluttered as her fingers brushed against his.
Then he picked up Mrs. Brougham’s tray, placed it at the foot of the sofa, and kneeled beside it.
The tray contained a bowl of water, wisps of steam rising from the surface, strips of linen, small pieces of cloth, and a squat jar of deep-blue glass, stoppered with a cork.
He motioned to Olivia’s hands, and she set the glass aside and held them out. The skin at the heel of her palm glowed red, jagged and broken in places and embedded with specks of dirt.
With his free hand he plucked a cloth from the tray, dipped it into the water, and squeezed it until droplets splashed into the bowl. Then he lifted his gaze to hers.
Forgive me, for I fear it will hurt.
She blinked, slowly, as if she understood, then lowered her gaze to her hand and nodded. An insignificant gesture, but it was an expression of trust for him to treasure.
He pressed the cloth against her palm and, though she stiffened, she showed no sign of pain.
Emboldened, he continued, wiping her palm until all traces of dirt had gone, before repeating the process with her other hand.
Then he placed her hands on her lap, palms upward.
Tiny red droplets swelled on her skin, and he dabbed them with the cloth until the bleeding stopped.
He picked up the jar Mrs. Brougham had said was for her hands. Foolish old woman! Did she think he didn’t know? How many times had she administered that salve to him when, as a boy, he’d sustained scrapes and cuts—some from falling out of trees, others administered at the hands of bullies…
He closed his eyes to suppress the memory of his father’s beatings—the burn of the lash on his back, the screams he’d uttered, pleas for mercy, the last words he’d ever spoken as his mother had tried to defend him…
“Charles!”
His wife’s voice returned him to the present, her wide-eyed expression heavy with concern.
Sweet Lord, she’d spoken his name! Not my lord, or sir, or husband. And his body responded, his manhood twitching in eagerness.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” She hesitated. “You’ve never said how you expect me to address you.”
Devil’s breeches, does she think herself no better than a servant?
He smiled and nodded.
Her eyes widened, as if in surprise. “A-are you trying to tell me that you have no objection to my calling you by your given name?”
He smiled again.
“D-do you like me calling you Charles?”
He nodded, and she rewarded him with a smile of her own.
Sweet heaven, she was a glorious thing when she smiled like that! What might it be like to kiss those lips? Of course, they were his, by right, to claim, but he had no right to take advantage of her. She already thought him a savage beast.
He uncorked the jar, releasing the woody aroma of herbs, then dipped a fingertip into the contents—the smooth, sticky salve—running it along the surface, leaving an indent.
A globule of creamy-white ointment glistened on his fingertip, and he inhaled, reliving the comfort he’d once taken from its soft scent, so many years ago—in another lifetime.
Olivia closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring, then opened them.
“Lavender,” she said, “and, if I’m not mistaken, chamomile and calendula. Are they from the gardens here?”
He nodded. Most likely it was the same jar Mrs. Brougham had used to treat him with as a boy.
“I saw lavender in the gardens today,” Olivia continued.
“Not the others, but there might be some beneath the weeds. Mrs. Brougham says there’s only one gardener here, but a garden of this size would need more.
We could make inquiries in the village. O-of course, it’s not for me to direct you on how to spend your money, particularly when… ”
Her voice trailed away and the color rose in her cheeks.
Particularly when the dowry was still ten thousand short.
“Forgive me, I—”
“Shh,” he interrupted. Cradling her palm in one hand, he applied the salve, caressing her as delicately as if she were a brittle autumn leaf, running his fingertip slickly over the broken skin. Then he applied salve to the other hand and wiped his hands on a cloth.
“I-I ought to speak to Mrs. Groves about supper,” she said, leaning forward in an attempt to rise. “It must be ruined now.”
He placed a hand on her arm and shook his head, motioning for her to lie back, then gestured to her foot.
“Oh,” she said, her mouth forming a perfect, round “O.” He touched the hem of her gown and her color deepened. Slowly, he drew back the folds of her gown to reveal her feet, then eased her shoes off.
It was easy to tell which ankle she’d injured. Even through her stockings he could see that the left foot was more swollen than the right. A thread of one stocking had snagged, forming a runner that followed a line along her calf, disappearing beneath her skirts.
Charles took a strip of linen from the tray, then lifted his wife’s feet, sat on the sofa, and placed them on his lap.
Her breath caught as he touched her ankle.
Then he lifted his gaze to hers and awaited permission.
Her eyes clouded with confusion, then her blush deepened and she dipped her head, the coy gesture sending a pulse of heat through him.
She nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture, but his hungry soul relished the consent it signified.
Holding his breath, Charles hooked his finger under the hem of her skirts and drew it along her leg, his fingertip following the line of the runner until he reached the top of her stocking, tied with a ribbon the color of honey that matched her eyes.
He fumbled at the knot until the ribbon came loose, then he undid it and slipped the ribbon into his jacket pocket.
He paused and glanced up, to see her watching him, body tense, lips parted, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
For several heartbeats they stared at each other, then she lowered her gaze to the top of her stocking and nodded.
He hooked his fingertip around the stocking, then peeled it off her leg, his fingertips brushing against the soft pink flesh of her thigh.
He gathered the stocking in his hand and began to lift it to his lips.
Then, shame fluttering in his stomach, he dropped it on his lap and inspected her ankle.
The bones seemed sound, but a bruise was already darkening on the swollen flesh.
He placed his hand over her ankle, caressing the skin with the pad of his thumb.
Olivia caught her breath, but when he met her gaze, she smiled in response.
On impulse, he rotated his hand, his gaze still fixed on her, and continued to caress her skin with his knuckles.
Her eyes darkened, then she flicked out her tongue, moist and pink, and ran it across her bottom lip, leaving a sheen, emphasizing its sweet plumpness.
His cock strained in his breeches, hardening with each heartbeat. She shifted her feet, and her toes brushed against his rigid member. A low groan reverberated in his throat.
Sweet Lord, did she know what she was doing to him?
No. Her wide-eyed innocence was no act. He saw no slyness, no feigned desire designed to make him part with a coin. Instead, he saw gratitude, open and frank, with a frisson of pleasure.
Perhaps that was what whores spoke of when they talked of a woman’s pleasure—not merely release, or physical gratification, but something to relish.
Might he also experience pleasure rather than merely a base release?
He lifted her foot and wound the strip of linen around her ankle, binding it firmly and securing the bandage with a knot. Then he lowered her skirts, placed his hand on her bandaged foot, and smiled.
“Thank you…Charles.”
Her softly whispered words threatened to breach his defenses. How could he have ever thought she was anything but a true innocent, as pure and honest as he was tainted? She was an angel, and he was unworthy of her.
He moved to withdraw, but she caught his hand.
“Please,” she said, “don’t leave me again. I-I must say something before I lose courage.”
He raised his eyebrows, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Then she reached for her brandy glass and took a sip.
“M-my brother said that you could annul our marriage if you—if we—did not…”
She hesitated and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again and drained her glass, drawing in a sharp breath as she shuddered with a cough.
Did she fear him so much that she had to fortify herself with liquor?
“D-do you wish for an annulment?” she said, her voice wavering. “Am I so distasteful that you won’t touch me—not even for ten thousand pounds?”
Shaking his head, he caressed her hand, then lifted it to his lips.
“Then, Charles, may I make a request?”
He nodded and kissed her hand.
“W-would you visit my chamber tonight? I didn’t know what to expect before, but I’m ready now.”
Sweet Lord Almighty! What had a beast such as him done to deserve such a sweet creature, offering herself even though she still feared him?
“Please, Charles,” she said, moisture shining in her eyes.
He released her hands and gestured.
Yes.
Her eyes creased with a smile. “I remember what that means,” she said. “Thank you.”
He rose and crossed the floor to the bellpull and rang it. Shortly after, Mrs. Brougham appeared.
Bring my wife’s supper in here so I may tend to her.
The housekeeper nodded, approval shining in her eyes, then patted his arm. “Maybe I don’t need to take the strap to you after all, Master Charles.”
Not the most appropriate response from a subordinate, but Mrs. Brougham’s approval was something he’d craved since boyhood—perhaps because it was hard won, handed out only when he deserved it.
He glanced back toward his wife, settled on the sofa, a soft smile on his lips.
Perhaps, in time, he’d also come to deserve his wife.