Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Why would someone do this to you?” Julia murmured softly as she sat in a chair beside the bed where Wolfingham slept.
Amanda had gone to bed long before Julia saw the carriage returning almost three hours after its rushed departure.
The carriage had come to a stop at the front of the house.
Hutchings had rushed outside, holding up a lantern as her father and uncle stepped down before they turned to assist a third man as he moved unsteadily down those same steps.
A fourth man moved in readiness behind him in case he should fall.
As Mr. Masterson had been entirely steady on his feet two hours before, Julia could only surmise that the third man must be Wolfingham, with the lawyer following behind.
They draped one of Wolfingham’s arms over the shoulders of Mr. Masterson and another about those of the butler as the five men slowly made their way into the house.
Julia had lost sight of them for a short time, but she had heard several whispering voices as the men made their way up the stairs and along the hallway to one of the guest bedchambers. Minutes later, several footmen brought up a bath and the buckets of hot water to go into it.
An hour or so later, she heard three people talking out in the hallway.
Her father was inviting Mr. Masterson to use the same guest bedchamber he had the previous night.
Seconds later, a door closed after the younger man went into that room.
The voices of the older two men, Julia’s father and uncle, faded away as they continued to their own bedchambers.
Minutes after the three men had gone to their respective rooms, Julia had opened the door to her own bedchamber, just in time to see the footmen removing the bath along with a pile of dirty clothing. No doubt the clothes belonged to Wolfingham.
Julia had waited another twenty long and torturous minutes after her papa and uncle had gone to their bedchambers before she had deemed it safe enough for her to leave her room and go to where she now knew Wolfingham to be resting after his ordeal.
She had softly knocked and then opened the door to that bedchamber, so as not to alarm Wolfingham. But she had quickly discovered she need not have worried herself on that subject, because Wolfingham was asleep.
The small fire burning in the grate, along with a single candle on the dressing table, far enough away that it could not accidentally be knocked over by a restless sleeper, provided the only illumination in the room.
Walking quietly to the bedside on bare feet, Julia could see that Wolfingham was wearing what looked to be one of her father’s white nightshirts.
He remained asleep, his face very pale, his hair tousled as his head lay on the pillows. But the skin on his left temple had a kaleidoscope of bruising, and there also appeared to be a swelling there the size of a small egg.
Julia thought this must be from the blow he had received that Mr. Masterson believed had rendered Wolfingham unconscious and so making it easier for his abductors to lock him in the luggage box.
There was more bruising on Wolfingham’s chin and cheeks. No doubt acquired during the accident when the carriage had rolled down the embankment.
Julia gave a shiver at the knowledge of how much more serious the accident could have been. Yes, the driver and groom were both now dead, but thankfully, the kidnappers’ intended victim was not.
Nicholas’s long and elegant hands lay atop the bedcovers, allowing Julia to see that they too bore bruises. He also had bandages secured about both his wrists.
Perhaps from where his bindings had been too tight?
Why would someone do this to a man as prestigious as Wolfingham, Julia pondered again. None of these events made sense to her.
Because, no matter what she might have said to the contrary, she really did not think this was the work of a betrayed husband.
For one thing, it would appear that the kidnapping of Mr. Masterson’s sister had been carried out for the sole purpose of those same men gaining access to Wolfingham when Mr. Masterson came here to read her grandmother’s will.
That such lengths had been taken to carry out this plan implied malice aforethought. Several days of forethought, if Susan Masterson had been taken three days ago.
Julia shook her head. “Who or what are you?” she now mused as she stared down at the battered and bruised Wolfingham.
“I am Nicholas Harding, twelfth Earl of Wolfingham,” he answered gruffly.
“And I wish to know what you are doing in my bedchamber, dressed only in your thin nightgown and robe and with your hair loose about your shoulders, in what appears to be the middle of the night.” He gave a pointed glance toward where the curtains had not been pulled across the windows to shut out the darkness beyond.
Julia had startled at the first sound of Nicholas’s voice, so low and husky, in the previously eerie silence.
She now saw that his eyes were open and looking at her, but the pupils were so dilated that his eyes appeared black instead of brown. A nerve pulsed in his jaw, his hands now clenched into fists on top of the bedcovers.
Julia eyed him knowingly, aware of exactly what Wolfingham was trying to do by accusing her of wrongdoing.
She had heard the saying that attack was always the best form of defense.
She also knew that her nightgown and robe covered her from her neck to her ankles.
Her hair was indeed loose, but she doubted it was the first time he had seen a lady’s hair in disarray.
Far from it!
Her mouth twisted. “I am in your bedchamber, in the middle of the night, because I am intrigued to know why someone felt the need to attack you so savagely before carrying you away.”
He shrugged before instantly stilling again as the movement obviously caused him pain.
Julia winced in sympathy. “I imagine you are bruised everywhere?”
“Not quite,” he drawled. “I believe my cock to have escaped injury,” he supplied when she raised questioning brows.
Julia instantly felt the heat of color enter her cheeks.
Before she just as quickly narrowed her eyes the moment she easily discerned the expression of triumph on the earl’s handsome face.
“You said that with the intention of discomposing me. Which I am not,” she scorned.
“Your cock aside, how bruised are you?” she persisted haughtily.
He sighed heavily. “Nothing is broken, thank goodness, but yes, I do believe every part of me is bruised or aching. Even my cock, if I am being completely truthful,” he added self-derisively.
Julia ignored what she firmly believed were deliberate attempts on his part to embarrass her. She refused to let him do so. “Why are your wrists bandaged?”
“From where I had to cut away the rope with the small knife I had retrieved from the sheath attached to my ankle.” He grimaced. “My sawing motion occasionally slipped and cut flesh instead of rope.”
“Dear God.” She shuddered. “Mr. Masterson said he believed that the driver and groom of his carriage were both dead.”
His jaw tightened. “They are.”
“Why did this happen?”
“It appears to have done so when one of them was thrown from a moving vehicle and the other crushed beneath the wheel when it rolled over—”
“Not to them. Why was this done to you?” Julia cut in determinedly.
“I am sorry for their death, but that regret is tempered by the fact that they gave every appearance of being bad people. But I want to know why they kidnapped you. And please do not insult my intelligence again by trying to fob me off with another nonsensical reply.”
Wolfingham’s lips curved into a smile. “Perhaps, as you suggested to your father, a cuckolded husband decided to take his revenge on me?”
Color once again burned her cheeks. “My father should not have told you that. I was merely voicing a possible theory.”
His smile faded. “A fair and just one, on the evidence you no doubt have heard and seen with your own eyes these past sixteen months of my behavior when in Society.”
Julia eyed him searchingly. His eyes were no longer as dilated, and he had a little color in his cheeks that was not due to bruising, but his expression appeared to be one of regret rather than guilt.
“What of your behavior when you are not in Society?” she finally prompted.
“What is that like, Wolfingham?” she urged when he gave no answer.
He gave a half-smile. “I believe I should like you to call me Nicholas. At least when we are alone.”
To Julia, his tone sounded almost…wistful. As if it were a request he had wanted to make for some time. “We are rarely alone,” she pointed out.
“We are now.”
“So we are…Nicholas,” the name came out huskily.
“Would you prefer for me to use Julia or Juliet?”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Julia,” she finally answered softly.
* * *
Nicholas knew exactly how important this moment was. Julia, having finally given him permission to call her by the same name her family and friends did, was momentous. He was fully aware of its significance when she had previously been so adamant she would not accept any familiarity from him.
“Julia.” He nodded in acknowledgment of the gift received.
He had come awake earlier almost as soon as Julia touched his hand but had continued to give the appearance of being asleep once he realized who his visitor was. Julia was the last person he had thought would ever be interested in checking on his well-being, especially in the middle of the night.
His reluctance to reveal his wakefulness was due to wanting to know whether Julia’s curiosity was based on a desire to know whether he was dead or seriously hurt. The former would release her from the betrothal she had already made clear she did not want.
But it had quickly become clear to him that Julia really was concerned for him.
Nicholas had continued to watch her through slitted lids as she studied his bruised features, before she gently, very gently, caressed the back of one of his hands with her fingertips.
Nicholas had almost given himself away at the first touch of the softness of her fingers against his skin.
It was the first time, he believed, that she had ever touched him voluntarily.
He did not count that kiss in the moonlight, because he had been the one to instigate it.
No, this time, Julia had been the one to reach out and touch him.
“Are you really seriously unharmed?” she now inquired worriedly.
“Mr. Masterson seemed to be of the opinion you had been knocked unconscious before being locked in the baggage box. Perhaps my papa should have called for the physician to take a look at you?” she expressed her concern when she no doubt observed that levering himself higher up the pillows caused him obvious discomfort.
Nicholas shook his head. “I persuaded him that it was not necessary.”
“Why?”
“I will almost certainly have a headache for a few days and will be covered in bruises for even longer,” Nicholas admitted. “But none of my injuries are life-threatening.”
“You cannot know that—”
“Surely you are not concerned for me?” he taunted, knowing by her expression that was exactly what she was feeling.
It was an emotion Nicholas truly welcomed from her, but he knew Julia well enough to know she would regret that concern in the clear light of day.
The hours between three and five o’clock in the morning could, as Nicholas well knew, strip away all protection from a person’s emotions, leaving them raw and exposed. Leaving that person feeling raw and exposed.
Except, Julia’s narrowed and searching gaze on his face did not give the impression she was feeling vulnerable. But perhaps she was a little cold, if the slight shiver she gave was an indication.
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably under her probing gaze, feeling, but ignoring, the immediate protest from his bruised and aching body.
Being knocked unconscious and waking to find himself tied up in an almost airless box really had been the worst experience of his life. One that would no doubt haunt his nights for the foreseeable future.
But he had suffered through things almost as traumatic in the past. Had been shot twice and stabbed once, as the scars on his chest, back, and shoulders would testify. Scars that Julia, if she became his wife, would no doubt ask questions about.
Would he answer those questions honestly, or would he lie to protect the bigger cause?
Nicholas had been mulling over that dilemma for some time now.
He might have been able, if one of the less curious and opinionated young ladies in Society had been destined to become his countess—one who cared for nothing but fashion and acquiring a titled gentleman as her husband—to dismiss his scars as being related to accidents that had occurred whilst he was practicing at shooting or fencing.
But Julia was not a woman of that ilk. She was intelligent, outspoken, with an interest and opinion of politics, society, and marriage, along with many other subjects other ladies in Society did not concern themselves with.
Nicholas knew that Julia was a founder member of a group of six young ladies who called themselves the Spinsters Alliance.
He also knew that those young ladies had vowed never to marry unless they knew themselves to be truly loved and that they loved the gentleman in return.
That she felt these things and had acted upon them spoke highly of her depth of character.
Nicholas doubted Julia even realized how beautiful she looked right now, with her glorious golden hair loose about her shoulders.
Or that she was aware the firelight and the single candle lit across the room allowed him to see the outline of the rounded swell of her naked breasts through the thin material of her nightclothes.
He could also discern her engorged nipples pressing against the silky material.
Bruised he might be—even his cock!—but Nicholas’s body still roused at the sight of all Julia’s beauty and softness.
He had no doubt that their marriage, if Julia would allow it, could be one of deep desire and passion. The sort of marriage Nicholas had always longed for. In the same way he had ached for Julia to be his wife for so very long.
She was the only woman to ever make him feel this way. The only woman he had ever wanted, or ever considered, taking for his wife.
Nicholas now made a decision in the knowledge that Julia should never be expected to accept anything less than the truth, the whole truth, from him.
He could only hope his decision was the right one.
But as he saw Julia was trying to repress yet another shiver, Nicholas knew there was something of far greater urgency in need of his attention.