In Love With a Wicked Man Read online

  When they had left the room, Kate took the man’s hand again. It was warm and heavy, yet utterly lifeless. Where the devil was Dr. Fitch? She glanced at the mantel clock.

  But little more than half an hour had passed since his fall. It seemed an eternity—and a dangerously long time to remain unconscious. Despite her guilt, Kate let her gaze trail over his nearly bare body again—merely to observe the rise and fall of his chest, she assured herself.

  Kate wasn’t entirely innocent, but never had she seen a man so thoroughly undressed. What woman would not feel a certain fascination at the sight of the honed, hard muscles that layered the man’s arms and chest? And those hipbones. Yes, she could understand Hetty’s absorption, for there was something distinctly virile about them. But what? They were just bones. And yet they seemed to suggest something …

  But Kate was too stupid to know what. Flicking another glance at his closed eyes, she yielded to the temptation to stroke a hand down the hard swell of his biceps; all the way down to the warm, velvet-soft skin at the crook of his elbow.

  His eyes did not move. Tentatively, she eased her palm down his belly, her hand rising and falling with the firm abdominal muscles that rolled from the bottom of his breastbone, and went … well, Kate was not perfectly sure where they went. Underneath the tie of those drawers, certainly …

  For an instant, her curious fingers hovered.

  Then good sense returned on a rush of embarrassment. Kate snatched back her hands. Good Lord. She was not a fool. She knew how men were made. How they … reacted. She’d had a brother. A London Season. Been held, on occasion, inappropriately close. And once—just once …

  Kate drew a deep breath, and forced it from her mind. Then, desperate for something to do besides stare at the beautiful man, she leapt from her chair and seized his valise. Snapping it open, she methodically laid out the contents atop the chest.

  Immediately she began to reconsider the possibility of an army career, for this was a man who moved fast and light. Three sets of fresh linen were rolled tight together with a pair of breeches and waistcoat. A razor, but no strop. Soap in a pierced silver case—the source, she realized, of his tantalizing scent. A comb. Tooth powder and a brush. But nary a scrap, she noted abashedly, in the way of nightclothes.

  Only three things remained in the bottom of the bag. A pair of gold spectacles in a leather case, a copy of Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince, and lastly, in a blue velvet bag, a strand of pearls.

  Kate flipped open the book in faint hope of finding a name on the flyleaf. Nothing. She repacked the case, giving the soap one last sniff, then returned to her vigil. It belatedly occurred to her that what she had not found was money. Surely such a wealthy man would not travel without funds?

  It scarcely mattered; he was her obligation, now that his quick, near suicidal action had saved her from being brained by a flying hoof. She could only pray the man didn’t pay the ultimate price for such selflessness. On an unexpected wave of tenderness, she set her hand to his warm, slightly bristled cheek.

  His eyes flew open—eyes the most startling shade of green.

  Kate gasped, jerking her hand away. But the man caught her wrist—hard. She was trapped, her nose but a few inches from his, their gazes locked.

  “E-Edward?” she whispered.

  His eyes searched her face for what felt like an eternity, then he swallowed hard. “Who are you?” he choked, his voice like a rasp.

  “Kate,” she blurted. “Lady d’Allenay. You’ve been injured. Do you remember?”

  His grip tightened. “Where the devil am I?” he whispered, his gaze darting about the room.

  “At my home,” she said, “in Somerset. You took a fall, sir. Please, can you kindly release me?”

  His head swiveled on the pillow, his gaze going to his fingers, still locked around her wrist. He stared as if wondering to whom they belonged, and for an instant, Kate feared he was blind.

  “Edward,” she said more commandingly. “Let go.”

  Slowly, he did. His eyes were moving across her face now, taking her in. Relief rushed through her. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t expect anyone on our road. I took that fence too fast.”

  He blinked once. “Who are you?”

  “Baroness d’Allenay of Bellecombe,” she said. “And you … well, you are Edward, yes? I’m sorry; I don’t know your surname. Is there someone—your wife, perhaps—for whom I might send?”

  “I’m not married,” he blurted.

  “And your name?”

  He blinked again, and shook his head, his lips thinning. “Edward—?” he said.

  But it was not a statement. A cold chill washed over Kate. Impulsively, she returned her hand to his face. “And … and your surname? Your home?”

  She watched in horror as something like fear spread across his face. “I … I do not know.” For a moment, his throat worked furiously. “Good God!” he rasped. “I do not know!”

  CHAPTER 3

  In Which Dr. Fitch

  Attends the Patient

  Dr. Fitch shut the flap of his satchel with an efficient snap as he trudged into Kate’s private parlor. Waving off the chair Kate offered, he set his bag and a brown bottle down on the tea table.

  “Well, all in all, Mr. Edward is a healthy man in his prime,” proclaimed the elderly doctor. “I have left him resting comfortably, Lady d’Allenay.”

  Nancy, her contrition fading, had begun firing questions, comments, and opinions upon Kate and Mrs. Peppin as soon as the doctor vanished into the invalid’s room. She now turned her interrogation upon Fitch.

  “Is that laudanum, Doctor?” she asked, pointing at the bottle. “Is that perfectly wise, do you think? And when will his memory return? Has he remembered anything? The accident, perhaps?”

  “Miss Wentworth, if you please!” Dr. Fitch threw up a hand. “One question at a time.”

  “Perhaps the laudanum is for me,” said Kate grimly, “so that I can sedate myself.”

  Nancy cut her a dark, yet faintly rueful look. “Well, I only meant that, given the poor man has sustained a head injury—”

  “Do ye be still, Miss Nan,” Mrs. Peppin chided. “I hope I know how to dose a man with laudanum! He’s apt to be sore come morning.”

  “Precisely,” said Fitch. “In addition to a severe concussion, he’s badly bruised and has set an ankle wrong. Further, he’s cracked his left collarbone, and there’s little to be done for it. So yes, though it’s not ideal, Mr. Edward may have laudanum should he develop an unbearable headache or severe pain.”

  “We’ll see to it, and never you worry,” Mrs. Peppin reassured him. “Now, what may the poor gentleman eat?”

  “Anything, but begin with the beef tea and porridge,” the doctor advised. “He must rest, and make no more movement than nature requires. No reading or close work for a fortnight.”

  “No reading?” said Kate, horrified.

  “His brain is concussed,” said Dr. Fitch tightly. “Indeed, he mightn’t even be able to read—alexia, it’s called. Moreover, patients sometimes exhibit odd behaviors, or suffer a degree of disinhibition. My colleague had a patient who imagined himself Prince Albert and got himself arrested climbing over the palace gates. Yes, rest is essential.”

  But Kate had already seen enough to know the man would not be so quiet. “Surely he’ll go mad?”

  “Then you must see he does not,” said the doctor. “Read to him. Converse with him.”

  “Cards?” Nancy suggested. “I could play piquet with him.”

  “Not until two weeks have passed,” said Dr. Fitch, “at the very least. Besides, Miss Wentworth, if you will pardon my saying, you are too restive a person for sick-bedding.” He paused, and snatched up his satchel. “Now, my good ladies, I shall return in two days’ time. But send for me if there’s any change.”

  Kate slicked her hands down the front of her skirt. “And … and his memory, Doctor? We should very much like to contact his family.”


  Dr. Fitch shrugged. “Ordinarily the loss is fleeting,” he said, “but I will not lie to you, Lady d’Allenay. Mr. Edward may be your guest for some weeks.”

  “And if his memory doesn’t return?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Never seen it happen,” he said confidently. “Oh, one reads of such things. But to see it? No. Even our Prince Albert eventually came round.”

  With that, the doctor bowed, and started to the door, Mrs. Peppin following.

  Kate picked up the small pile of nightclothes she’d assembled. “Well,” she said, looking pensively across the hall, “we had better go in and check on our guest.”

  “Not I!” Nancy’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “I am too restive. Besides, you’re the one who nearly killed him.”

  “Ah, back in form, I see,” said Kate dryly. “What will you be doing, I wonder, whilst I tend my patient?”

  “Writing to Uncle Upshaw,” she said, flouncing from the room, “to tell him I wish to get married at once.”

  “Ah!” Kate followed her out. “At once, is it?”

  “It seems the prudent course,” said Nancy, making a dramatic pirouette in the middle of the passageway. “This frightful accident has reminded me that life is precious, Kate, and I don’t want to waste it.”

  On a sigh, Kate knocked softly on the door. Inside, she was a little dismayed to see that her guest now lay beneath the bedcovers, the sheets pulled to his chin. She felt, strangely, more awkward than ever. He moved as if he wished to stand, as any gentleman would have done. Then, realizing the awkwardness of the situation, he froze.

  “No, you mustn’t move,” she declared, holding up a staying hand. “Here. I’ve brought you some things. A nightshirt and a robe. Oh, and slippers—which may or may not fit.”

  “Thank you,” he said simply. “And please thank whomever—your husband, perhaps?—who so kindly loaned—”

  “They are Fendershot’s,” said Kate, shaking out the nightshirt. “Our butler. I’m not married.”

  “Oh.” He looked at her solemnly. “I’m very sorry. Lady … d’Allenay, was it?”

  “Yes—oh, but no—” Realizing his conclusion, she shook her head again. “I am not widowed. I have never been married.”

  He looked a little askance at her. “I inherited the title,” she explained, “from my grandfather some years ago.”

  “Ah,” he said, looking almost as awkward as she. “That is … unusual, is it not?”

  “Not common,” she acknowledged. “Here, may I help you into this nightshirt? The castle is drafty, I fear.”

  His eyes widened. “I may have taken a blow to the head, my lady, but even I realize the impropriety of being dressed by an unwed lady.”

  “I undressed you,” she replied.

  “And now I can re-dress myself,” he said a little fractiously.

  “No doubt,” she said evenly, “but you may not move about in doing so. Now, stop standing on such ceremony. I’m going to drag this over your head, Edward, and you will—”

  “How do you know my name is Edward?” he interposed.

  “It was engraved on your watch.”

  “What watch?”

  “A magnificent gold pocket watch.” On a shaft of sympathy, Kate went to the chest and retrieved it.

  He took it, and snapped the cover open. “From Aunt Isabel,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting hers. “Aunt Isabel,” he said again, and if repeating the words might summon forth a recollection. “Good God. Who is she?”

  Kate laughed. “A rich and doting aunt, from the look of it,” she said, snapping out the nightshirt. “That watch is eighteen-karat gold, from London’s best maker.”

  He scowled a little, his brow furrowing. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, laying the watch aside.

  “I know it isn’t,” said Kate more tenderly. “You must feel so frightfully frustrated—and so frightfully cold—or will do, at any rate. So I’m going to pull this over your head, and over your shoulders. Then, when I turn my back, you will wiggle it down—without moving, if you please.”

  “And how the devil am I to do that?”

  She popped it over his head, careful of the fresh stitches, then regarded him with a little smile. “I knew it would not take long before you asserted yourself,” she said evenly. “Now, there. Wiggle into it—gently!”

  She turned and listened to his efforts, noting with some concern a little grunt of pain.

  “Shall I call a footman to help?” she ventured.

  “No,” he barked. “I mean—thank you, no. And what is that supposed to mean, anyway? Assert myself? Go on, turn round if you wish.”

  “I do wish,” she said, turning to survey his work. “And it’s just that I know the type of man you are.”

  “Ah!” He looked askance at her again. “And what type is that, exactly?”

  “The take charge type,” she returned. “The I’ll get out of bed when I bloody well please type.”

  “I must say, my lady, you’re mighty free with your language.” But he was grinning a little. “And you seem remarkably well-informed, considering I don’t even know my own name.”

  “Yes, you do. It is Edward.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I might have stolen that watch?” he suggested. “Or bought it from some pawnbroker?”

  Again, she laughed, and this time she sat down by the bed to regard him more seriously. “No, you’re a gentleman—from London, I’m fairly certain—who has ventured into the West Country for a reason,” she said, and this time she took his hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “We must merely wait for that reason to surface. While waiting, however, the doctor advises you not strain your mind. Just rest, Edward. You are welcome here.”

  His eyes glinted with humor. “A crackbrained watch thief, welcomed with open arms by a woman who ought to be married but isn’t,” he said. “This is a curious predicament in which we find ourselves, Lady d’Allenay.”

  She let his hand go, and propped her elbow on one of the night tables, attempting to strike a casual pose. “Kate,” she said quietly. “Until we know your full name, you must call me Kate, for I can call you nothing but Edward.”

  “Kate,” he said, his expression suddenly serious. “For Katherine?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Now, I’m going to ring for some beef tea. Tell me, does your head hurt?”

  He smiled vaguely. “A bit,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “I see it in your eyes,” she said. “Dr. Fitch left laudanum. Will you take a little?”

  “God, no! The wretched stuff makes me ill,” he said. “Wait—how do I know that?”

  His gaze met hers again, and this time she saw the alarm rise.

  “You knew you weren’t married,” she said.

  His gaze turned inward, and she could see him fighting down the fear. “I do know that,” he said, swallowing hard. “I do know laudanum turns my stomach. And I do know that I should like—above all things, it seems—some beef tea! Lord, my manhood may never recover!”

  “Oh, I’m fairly confident your manhood never forsook you,” she said on a laugh. Then, feeling faintly awkward, she leapt up to ring the bell. “Perhaps you oughtn’t try to think so much.”

  “Try not to think?” he said irritably. “How can I not think? I’m trying like the devil to remember something—anything—about myself.”

  She returned to the chair, and regarded him gravely. “I rather doubt memory is something one can force,” she murmured, pensively setting her chin on her fist. “Not even someone as formidable as you.”

  “Formidable?” He snorted. “I’m terrified.”

  “And yet you maintain your—I don’t know—your gravitas, perhaps? Or composure?” she said evenly. “You seem very much in command of yourself.”

  “Frozen with fear,” he muttered.

  She laughed, and leapt up at Hetty’s knock. After ordering his tray, she returned to her chair. “I will make a deal with you,” she said. “If you will try not to thi
nk, I will remain here and we will just chat until you’re drowsy.”

  “Chat?”

  “In the way of people just getting to know one another,” she said. “As if we just met … on a train, say. On a long journey. Perhaps some memory will inadvertently stir.”

  He gazed about the room, which was admittedly large, and dramatically furnished in an almost medieval style. “You are Baroness d’Allenay of Bellecombe,” he said, “and can doubtless afford a private, first-class carriage.”

  “Oh, you would be surprised at what I cannot afford,” she said.

  “In any case, you would not be traveling with the likes of me,” he replied.

  She looked at him, puzzled. “What does that mean? The likes of you?”

  His brow furrowed again. “I do not know,” he finally said. “But for all you know, Lady d’Allenay, I am a very bad man. And here you are, alone with me.”

  “Nonsense,” she said tartly. “I am in my home, surrounded by people who, I do assure you, have my best interests at heart—and yours, too. Moreover, you are a gentleman. I see it in your attire. Your voice. Your demeanor. Never take me for a fool, Edward.”

  But it seemed suddenly odd to call him by his Christian name. And he was still regarding her with grave intensity. “There are a great many gentlemen, my lady,” he finally said, “who are very wicked indeed. In fact, I would venture to say the odds run a little higher of that being the case than they would within the general population.”

  “You sound quite certain of that,” she said. “Are you a student of human nature?”

  “I believe I must be,” he answered in a cool, certain voice. “I may be half naked and two-thirds terrified, but my talents, such as they are, seem not to have left me. And by the way, Lady d’Allenay, most people are fools.”

  “I find I cannot disagree with you, but you do sound a little like a radical,” she said. “Do you mean now to read me a lecture on universal male suffrage? If so, you quite waste your breath. I support it entirely—or would do, if they’d let me take my seat.”