Читать книгу The Regency Bestsellers Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 33

A week spent in Hertfordshire was guaranteed to quash even the mildest erotic desires or romantic longings. At least, Chase had counted on it working that way for him. Clearly the local residents managed to persevere in marrying and procreating, but they weren’t lodged at the Belvoir estate. They didn’t spend their days trying to coax details of sheep manure and crop rotation from a skeptical land agent who’d managed the farmland for longer than Chase had been alive. They didn’t spend their nights rattling about in a cavernous, half-empty mansion, followed by the eyes of disappointed ancestors hanging in their portrait frames.

And they didn’t spend a tense hour sitting at the bedside of an aged, brokenhearted man who’d lost his powers of speech and movement but had retained the ability to fix Chase with a watery blue glare that shouted without words: This is your fault.

The neglected pasture, the empty silence, his uncle’s bedridden state and lack of an heir.

This is your fault.

So no. He shouldn’t have thought of Alexandra or the girls at all.

Damn it, his plan had failed miserably. All cursed week long, he’d fought the temptation to go back. It was like Reynaud House anchored one end of a rope, and he’d spent the week tugging at the other end, flexing every last muscle he had in resistance. All he’d earned for his trouble were aches.

Each evening, he fell asleep wishing Alex was nestled beside him.

Each morning, he woke wondering what Millicent had died of today.

During his ride back to London, it grew worse. A raincloud split directly above him, rinsing the sheep dung and dust off his back, and leaving him cold, shivering, and desperate to be home.

And by home, his heart meant with them.

Upon his arrival, Alexandra rushed to him with arms outstretched in welcome. God. He nearly dropped to his knees. The journey had rendered him weary, muddy—shed of all his dutiful intent. If she embraced him, he wasn’t sure where he’d find the strength to resist.

He braced himself, hand on the staircase banister.

Instead of catching him in a hug, however, she circled him, thrusting her hands deep into his pockets with bossy movements. Her hands were full of small, round mysteries, and she stuffed them into every possible place, jabbing him in the ribs and chest.

“Sweetmeats for the girls,” she explained, seeing his baffled expression. “So you don’t return empty-handed.”

He could only stare at her.

“You could have warned me you were leaving,” she chided. “You should have at least warned them. Soothing their feelings wasn’t easy. But I told them they must expect your absence from time to time. You’re a duke’s heir, an important man with duties and so forth.” Once she’d deposited her candies on his person, she stood back and smoothed his lapels. “I taught them a song while you were gone. It’s a sea chantey, but I took out the crudest parts. They’re eager to sing it for you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, then.”

“No. Not tomorrow, either. Nor the day after that. I’m not going to applaud their songs, or stuff my pockets with candy and gifts.”

“It’s only a song and some sweetmeats.”

“You know very well it’s more than that.”

Irrational anger built a blaze in his chest. He’d exiled himself for a week to break these ties, only to return and find she’d been undermining him all the while. How dare she lead Rosamund and Daisy to believe they could be a family? If he must hurt them, better it be now than later. The last thing he needed was Alexandra building up their hopes.

Or his hopes, for that matter.

He caught her by the arms. “I have never made Rosamund or Daisy promises. Not one. Now you’ve made them in my stead, setting them up for disappointment. If those girls get their hearts broken—no, when those girls get their hearts broken—it will be your fault, Alexandra. Not mine.”

He expected her to wince. Shrink from him, wounded by his words.

Instead, she tilted her head and surveyed him with curious eyes. “Are you feeling well?”

“I’m fine. And I meant every word I just said.”

“You don’t look well. Your face is rather pale. Are you fatigued from the journey?”

“If I’m exhausted, the journey has little to do with it. I’m bone weary of having this conversation over and over again.”

She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. “You’re feverish.”

“I am not feverish, for God’s sake.”

Chase supposed his face was flushed with heat. And maybe her face had gone wavy at the edges. Perhaps his iron grip on the banister felt essential if he wished to remain standing. But all those things were entirely due to anger, not illness.

“Chase,” she said tenderly, looping her arm through his. “I think you should go upstairs and lie down. I’ll bring you some tea.”

“Stop fussing over me.” He shook off her arm and tromped up the stairs, at a great cost of effort. Someone seemed to have painted this staircase with treacle while he was away. “Haven’t you been paying attention at all? I am infuriated. With you.”

“Of course you are,” she crooned.

Good God. What would it take to get this message across? Did she need it spelled out in maritime flag signals?

He stopped on the landing of the staircase, out of breath. “Don’t want you here. Don’t want them here. Going to put a sign on the door tomorrow. No Females Allowed. Not even doll ones.”

“No females whatsoever? That might interfere with your plans for the Cave of Carnality.”

“You interfered with my plans for the Cave of Carnality. Another thing I hold against you.”

Her amused little smile made his head swim with frustration.

“This isn’t serious, Alex. I am being funny.”

“Oh, indeed.”

God damn it. None of this was coming out right. His brain buzzed like a hive of wasps. His whole body hurt. “Stop looking at me that way,” he growled.

“In what way is that?”

“As if you care.”

“I do care.”

“As if you expect me to care in return.”

“Don’t you already?”

“No.” He released the banister, drew to his full height, and marshaled all his remaining strength into making one last stand. “Come Michaelmas, the girls are going to school. You will be leaving my employ. I will bid all three of you farewell, and we will carry on with our separate lives. No attachments.” He let the words fly like missiles. Gunshots, arrows. Meteors, comets. Dried peas launched through a hollow reed. Anything hurled far and fast enough to wound. “And our little lessons downstairs? Those are through. We are through. I don’t know what kind of dream you’ve sold yourself on, but it is time to wake up. Nothing has changed. Nothing.”

He despised himself for putting it to her so viciously. But apparently, it needed to be done. Any alternative would have been crueler, on balance.

“There, now.” He dragged air into his lungs. “I hope we understand each other.”

She nodded. “I think we do.”

“Good.”

And then, to put an ironic punctuation mark on this little speech, Chase staggered two steps sideways and fainted at her feet.

“Chase.” Alarmed, Alexandra shook him by the shoulder. “Chase.”

No response, other than a low mumble. Something about sheep and manure.

She loosened his cravat. Good heavens, he was burning up. His breath came in shallow rasps. He was even more ill than she’d thought.

Alex surged into action. What with waking the house, calling for physicians, boiling water for tea, and dragging some fifteen stone of weakened, feverish man to his bed, the next few hours passed in a rush.

The following days, however? They slowed to a snail’s crawl.

The longer Chase remained ill, the further Alex slipped toward madness. The nature of her relationship with the master of the house was—she hoped—a secret to everyone but the two of them. She didn’t have an excuse to visit Chase’s bedchamber, let alone sit by his sickbed and keep a nightly vigil, as she yearned to do. Neither could she use the excuse of bringing the girls in to visit. Too much risk of contagion.

The situation served as a painful dose of reality. A reminder of her true status in his life. She’d fancied herself to be something more than just another of his illicit lovers, but she wasn’t. Not really. Not in any way that counted now.

She couldn’t lay claim to him.

Her only news came from overheard scraps of conversation and bits of information shared by the servants. The doctors came and went, they said. Mr. Reynaud wasn’t improving. A pneumonia had settled in his lungs, and his fever hadn’t broken.

Alex wore a brave face for Rosamund and Daisy, but fear tightened its grip on her heart. Chase was a strong, healthy man in his prime of life—but even strong, healthy men in their prime of life could be struck down without warning. She knew that all too well.

After three days, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She waited until the house went to sleep and then took the chance of slipping into his bedchamber. There would certainly be a maid or footman present, watching over him. On the way, she sifted through a dozen pitiful excuses. Mrs. Greeley was calling, or a new poultice had been prepared, or she, the governess, had been charged with keeping watch for an hour, for some unfathomable reason in a house full of servants.

To her relief, she found him alone.

Alex rushed to his bedside. “Chase.”

His eyelids fluttered, and he moaned through cracked lips.

“It’s me. It’s Alex.” She stroked the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. Sweet Lord, he was still on fire with fever.

She took a cloth from the washstand, dampened it with tepid water, and dabbed his brow and neck.

“Alex.” He opened his reddened eyes, struggling to focus on her face. “Sorry, love. Can’t lick your cunny tonight. I’m sick.”

She laughed aloud, even as tears of relief came to her eyes. The real Chase was still in there somewhere.

“I know you’re sick, darling. It’s all right.” She kissed his forehead.

The door swung open behind her. Alex leapt to her feet and wheeled about.

Mr. Barrow entered the room.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she stammered. “The children have been asking how he’s coming along. I thought I’d—”

“Don’t worry. No excuses needed. I know about the two of you.”

She was briefly stunned. After a moment, she found her tongue. “I know about the two of you, too.”

“He told you?”

“I guessed.”

“I’m not surprised.” He pulled up a chair, and they sat next to one another at the bedside. “You’re clever. And he’s not very good at hiding it when he cares for someone.”

“No, he isn’t. And you’re too promising a solicitor to take this post without a compelling reason. No one would remain in Chase’s employ unless they were either desperate for work, or cared too much about him to leave.”

“So what’s keeping you here?” Her voice was quiet, but steady. “Desperation? Or love?”

“To be honest, I’ve been asking myself the same question. A bit of both, I think.”

Chase had lapsed back into a fitful sleep. His rattling breaths were an unsettling accompaniment to their conversation.

“He isn’t getting better, is he?” she asked.

Mr. Barrow exhaled heavily. “No. Much as I hate to even countenance the idea, the lawyer in me is cruelly pragmatic. We may need to prepare for the worst.”

A painful lump rose in Alex’s throat. “What would happen to the girls?”

“For the time, they’d pass back to the old duke’s guardianship, just like everything else attached to the estate. That is, until the next in line can be granted power of attorney.”

“They’ve been through so much already. To thrust them into the unknown again, just when they’ve begun to feel safe . . .”

“I’d do my best to advocate for them. But in the end, the decisions wouldn’t be mine.”

“I know. And it isn’t only being uprooted that would devastate them. They adore him.”

“As do we all.” He sighed. “God knows why. He’s such a horse’s arse.”

“He truly is.” A hot tear spilled down her cheek.

Mr. Barrow reached for her hand. “All this talk will likely come to nothing. He won’t go easily. At school, he was always scrapping with the other boys. Most of the time, in my defense. Mind, he wasn’t purely motivated by brotherly love. He copied all my schoolwork. Without me, he never would have passed an exam. But he knows how to put up a fight.”

“Right now he’s fighting with both hands tied behind his back.” Alex sat forward, determined. “We have to even the odds somehow. We can’t just sit by and watch.”

“All the usual remedies have failed. Bleeding, purging, sweating him out, starving the fever . . . Nothing the doctors have tried has helped.”

“Then we send the doctors away,” she said firmly. “Whatever we try, we can’t possibly do worse.”

He looked at her and nodded in agreement. “Very well.”

Alex drew to her feet and peeled the heavy wool blanket away from his body. “We have to bring down his fever first. Cool compresses, tepid baths. And he’s been sweating so much, he must be miserable with thirst. We should be spooning him all the broth and tea he’ll take.”

“I’ll ask Elinor about an aromatic poultice for his chest.”

“Elinor?”

“My wife. Perhaps you’ll meet her someday. The two of you would get on well.” He lifted Chase’s head so Alex could place a cool cloth beneath his neck. “Chase and I were born only three weeks apart, less than one year after his parents married. That alone should tell you how much my natural father valued his wedding vows.”

“That must have been difficult for you.”

“Not really. I had the better half of the bargain. My father stepped forward to marry my mother and raised me as his own, with love and principles. There wasn’t any affection in the Reynaud house.”

Alex paused. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because when it comes to love, Chase has no idea what the devil he’s doing. He’s brilliant at caring for others. He’s bollocks at letting others care for him.”

Of course. Of course he was. For weeks, she’d been needling him to express love for the girls—but she’d been taking the wrong tack. Chase needed to believe he deserved their love in return.

But before all that, he needed to not die.

“Well.” She plumped his pillow decisively. “He’s going to be cared for now, whether he likes it or not.”