Читать книгу Regency Affairs Part 1: Books 1-6 Of 12 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 33

‘Why are you sitting here alone in the dark?’

Genevieve rose sharply to her feet to stare across at the man silhouetted in the doorway to her private parlour. As stated, she was alone in the room, in the darkness, with the curtains drawn across the windows, the candles alight in the hallway behind him the only illumination. Even so, Genevieve would know that voice and silhouette anywhere. ‘What are you doing here, Benedict?’

‘I believe I asked my question first.’ He made no effort to enter the parlour, but continued to loom dark and dangerously in the doorway.

Genevieve gave an abrupt shake of her head. ‘I must have forgotten to light the candles …’

‘Forgotten?’ Benedict repeated slowly.

‘Yes. I—I had a headache earlier and the sunlight hurt my eyes, nor had I noticed, with the curtains drawn across the windows, that it had become dark.’

‘I do believe you are babbling again, Genevieve.’

‘And you are intruding upon my privacy!’ Her eyes flashed in the semi-darkness at his obvious mockery.

‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Which is most interesting, when your butler informed me that you were not at home.’

She shot him an impatient glance. ‘We both know that it is commonplace for such an excuse to be given when one does not wish to receive visitors—’

‘Again,’ Benedict continued as if she had not spoken. ‘I called to see you yesterday morning, and was told the same thing,’ he added hardly. ‘Again this morning. And again just now. And on every one of those occasions I have had no doubts you were very much at home.’

Genevieve drew in a sharp breath. ‘But, as I have just said, in no mood to receive visitors.’

‘Just certain visitors, or all?’

She was not fooled for a moment by the mildness of Benedict’s tone, knew him well enough to sense the seething displeasure beneath that calm politeness. ‘I told you, I have had a headache—’

‘For two days?’

‘For as long as I have known you, as it happens!’

‘Better,’ he murmured appreciatively.

She shot him an irritated glance. ‘How is it you managed to find your way in here, Benedict, when I distinctly left instructions I was not to be disturbed?’

He shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘I waited until the butler, having dutifully delivered my dismissal, returned below stairs, before I then quietly let myself back in the house to seek you out.’

Her eyes widened. ‘In other words, you broke into my home.’

‘The door was unlocked.’

‘That is no excuse for your arrogance—’

‘I will be back in just a moment …’ He stepped back into the hallway, coming back into the room just seconds later with a three-pronged candelabra which allowed that coal-black gaze to look at her critically. ‘Have you been crying?’ he probed shrewdly.

Yes, Genevieve had been crying. She seemed to have done little else for the past two days.

‘Genevieve …?’ Benedict prompted softly at her continued and uncharacteristic silence, deeply concerned by how fragile she appeared in a pale peach-coloured gown, her eyes very big and deeply blue in the pallor of her face. ‘I hope you have not been upset because of what happened between the two of us the other evening?’

‘No! No, Benedict,’ she repeated more calmly as he raised dark brows at her vehemence. ‘That evening was, and will remain, one of the most perfect and memorable of my life.’

‘Then why have you been crying?’ Benedict stepped further into the tiny parlour before placing the candelabra down on a small side table next to one of the armchairs on either side of the unlit fireplace. ‘And why have you shut yourself away in your own home, turning visitors away at the door and not venturing out yourself?’

Her eyes widened. ‘How could you possibly know I have not been out and about this past two days?’

‘I made it my business to know,’ he answered unapologetically. ‘Just as I know that you have allowed one visitor to call, at least.’ He looked down at her through narrowed lids. ‘Sophia Rowlands. No doubt she came to inform you of her impending marriage to my friend Dante Carfax?’

‘Yes.’ And Genevieve was happy for both Sophia and Pandora, felt nothing but admiration for her two friends, because they were both obviously brave to try marriage for a second time. But with her two closest friends now totally absorbed in their new husband or husband-to-be, Genevieve did not feel it right to confide her own present unhappiness to either of them, with regard to William and his rough treatment of her when he had called two days ago. Not that she ever had told Pandora and Sophia the details of her marriage to the elderly Josiah Forster anyway, but they had at least known, and sympathised with the fact, that she admitted to it having been a less-than-happy one. With those two ladies’ own happiness now assured, Genevieve did not feel she could confide in either of them with regard to the continued cruelty of the hated William Forster.

She schooled her features into ones of calm composure. ‘I am very pleased that both Sophia and Pandora have found happiness at last.’

Benedict allowed himself a wry smile. ‘But you have, nevertheless, still been crying.’

‘But not because of Pandora and Sophia’s obvious happiness!’ she defended herself indignantly. ‘And how dare you first force your way in here, only to then insult me because my red nose and sore eyes are evidence of the tears I have shed?’

Much, much better, Benedict acknowledged inwardly; he could deal much more ably with a spitting and angry Genevieve than the pale and sad-looking woman he had found when he first entered the parlour. Nor was he convinced that the intimacies they had shared at Vauxhall Gardens two evenings ago were not partly responsible for those tears …

He frowned darkly. ‘I should like to extend my apologies if my behaviour at Vauxhall Gardens in the least offended you.’

‘Why, when I have told you—when I have expressed my—’ She gave an impatient shake of her head, red curls bouncing. ‘An apology is not necessary. How could it be, when you must know how much I enjoyed our … intimacies?’

Benedict had thought often of the intimacies he had shared with Genevieve these past two days: during the restless night’s sleep which had followed, when the throbbing ache of his own arousal had made a complete nonsense of his assurances to Genevieve that it was not necessary for him to attain his own physical release, and yet again the following morning after being turned away at her door.

He had even thought about their night at Vauxhall Gardens over lunch at his club and during a meeting with Eric Cargill later that afternoon to discuss how best to use the information received from their French count. This had been followed by another restless night of very little sleep. And the frustration this morning when he was once again refused entrance to Genevieve’s home, despite knowing that Sophia Rowlands had not received that same refusal.

To have returned this evening, following another unsatisfactory day when he had thought far too much of Genevieve, only to be told once again that she was ‘not at home’ had just been too much.

Hence his having decided to just walk in once he was able to do so without any of Genevieve’s household staff being any the wiser; he was, after all, an agent for the Crown, able to move with both stealth and speed when the situation warranted it. He had decided that this situation warranted it.

His expression softened now as he looked down at Genevieve. ‘Your nose is not red nor your eyes looking sore—What is it?’ he demanded as Genevieve drew her breath in sharply when Benedict reached out to take a light hold of the slenderness of her wrist, her face having now turned a sickly grey. ‘Genevieve—’

‘Please, Benedict …!’ she groaned as she tried to release even that light grip of his fingers from about her wrist. ‘You are hurting me!’ Tears glistened in her eyes.

Benedict released her immediately. ‘What is it, Genevieve? Can it be that your bruised wrist is still paining you?’

‘I am sure it is getting better.’ She attempted to smile dismissively.

‘Show me.’ He held his hand out towards her, palm turned encouragingly upwards.

‘No!’ There was pure panic in those expressive blue eyes now as she put her hand behind her back.

‘Genevieve …’

‘I have told you, it is nothing.’

‘Then allow me see that for myself,’ he insisted firmly.

Her lashes lowered and for several long seconds she looked down at the hand Benedict still held out to her, before slowly, very slowly, lifting her own hand with the other and placing it lightly in his.

Benedict shot her a searching glance before slowly unwrapping the bandage he discovered still covered her wrist. ‘Who did this?’ he growled harshly once the swelling, and lividness of the purple-and-black bruising about her wrist, was revealed to his angry gaze.

Genevieve winced at the harshness of Benedict’s tone. ‘I told you, I caught the sleeve of my robe—’

‘This was not done by wrenching your arm on a door handle.’ He appeared every inch Lucifer at this moment, his expression coldly angry as he looked down at her.

Not angry towards her, Genevieve accepted, but towards whoever might be responsible for causing her injury. But to answer him truthfully would, Genevieve had no doubts, cause Lucifer, and not Lord Benedict Lucas, to appear on the doorstep of William Forster’s London home before this day was over, for the sole purpose of inflicting suitable punishment for the other man’s offence against her. An outcome Genevieve might wish for, but could not allow to happen. Not because she did not believe Benedict perfectly capable of besting the other man. Or because William did not fully deserve the retribution Benedict would inflict on her behalf! But she knew William far too well. Knew of his viciousness of nature, both verbally and physically, a viciousness that Genevieve had no doubt would include telling lies about her if it suited his purpose. As, in this case, it surely would.

The worsening condition of her arm, rather than its easing, was the very reason that Genevieve had chosen to hide herself away these past two days. Waiting, hoping for its recovery, before she dared to face the eagle-eyed Benedict Lucas again.

She gave a shake of her head. ‘As I explained to you the other evening—’

‘I believe we have already discussed my feelings in regard to being told untruths?’ His voice was dangerously soft.

Genevieve moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘It looks much worse than it is.’

‘Somehow I very much doubt that,’ Benedict bit out harshly. ‘Now tell me how this happened—I will not be answerable for the consequences if you attempt to lie to me again, Genevieve!’ His eyes glittered darkly in warning, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw.

Genevieve winced at the anger she could see in his glittering black gaze. ‘It is not so very painful.’

There was a knot of anger lodged in Benedict’s chest and a cold fury inside his head, both making it impossible for him to see any further than the bruising and livid bruises about Genevieve’s tiny wrist. Such a slender and delicate wrist, to have been treated so cruelly. ‘These are fingerprints, Genevieve.’ He placed his own fingers gently about her wrist in demonstration. ‘A man’s fingerprints,’ he added grimly as his own fingers touched the exact same places where those bruises appeared more vivid.

Genevieve’s mouth now felt so dry she had trouble swallowing, let alone forming an answer, knowing that Benedict’s own strength lay not in subjugating a woman, but in seducing and pleasuring her, and so rendering another man’s physical bullying totally unacceptable to him.

And she could not bear it, if Benedict were to confront William, for him to learn the ugly truth of her marriage from that hateful man. Nor did she have the courage as yet to tell him of that marriage herself. Perhaps one day, if he were to ask, but not yet. Not yet!

She gave a shake of her head. ‘The fact that the … discomfort is worse now than the day I caught—when the injury first occurred,’ she quickly amended as she saw Benedict’s frown darken, ‘does seem to imply that I have done more than just bruise the skin,’ she conceded huskily, having found little rest or sleep these past two nights as the discomfort of her wrist and down her arm seemed to increase by the minute.

‘What did the doctor have to say?’

‘I have not sent for the doctor—’

‘Why not, when your arm is obviously so painful to you?’ he demanded incredulously.

It had simply not occurred to Genevieve to send for the doctor to examine her arm, because one had never been called to see her in the past when Josiah had ordered William to beat her for one misdemeanour or another.

‘Never mind,’ Benedict bit out harshly as he saw the uncertainty in her expression. ‘My own doctor will be sent for immediately.’

‘And what will I tell him?’ Genevieve looked distressed again. ‘How will I explain my … my injury to him …?’

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. ‘Honestly, it is to be hoped.’ He crossed to the fireplace to ring the bell for Jenkins. ‘Although I somehow doubt that any doctor worth his salt could possibly mistake the reason for those bruises.’ His mouth thinned. ‘I only hope that he will not jump to the conclusion that I am the one responsible for them—Ah, Jenkins.’ He turned to the surprised butler as he appeared in the doorway, offering no explanation for his presence there, despite the older man having only minutes ago refused him entrance, instead briskly issuing his instructions and the directions to the doctor’s place of residence.

‘Poor Jenkins,’ Genevieve murmured as soon as the bewildered butler had departed to send for the doctor.

‘Poor Jenkins, be damned.’ Benedict gave a disgusted snort as he began to restlessly pace the parlour, his hands gripped tightly behind his back. ‘If the man had allowed me entrance yesterday you might not have been in pain for as long as you so obviously have.’

‘He received his instructions from me—’

‘I already know what instructions he has received from you.’ Benedict eyed her impatiently. ‘We will talk of this again once the doctor has examined you and you are hopefully in less discomfort than you are now.’

Much as Genevieve knew Benedict should not be here, that it would be better for him if he did not become embroiled in the unpleasantness between herself and William Forster, she nevertheless felt better than she had for the past two days. Less … vulnerable. As if just Benedict’s presence made her safer. Made her feel safer.

Even if she knew she was not …

And now that her initial shock had passed, and part of the truth of her injured wrist revealed at least, she had time, whilst they waited for the doctor to arrive, to look her fill of Benedict. To really look at him.

He appeared tired, the lines beside his eyes and mouth somehow seeming deeper, grimmer, as if he had not rested for the past two days or nights either. Oh, not because of her—Genevieve did not fool herself into believing that she was in any way important to Benedict’s life. He found her amusing, they had shared … intimacies, but Genevieve did not fool herself that she meant any more to him than that. Just as she knew it was now Benedict’s inborn sense of responsibility that made him demand his own doctor be sent for to examine her wrist and arm.

And it did hurt so very much. Unbearably so. An aching, nagging throb, which had prevented her from achieving any rest or calmness of mind or body this past two days and nights.

In the past William had always made sure that he hit her where no one would be able to see the bruises. Always hard enough to hurt and humiliate her, but never enough to break anything or for those bruises to be visible to others. Genevieve was not sure she had been so lucky this time.

A fact Benedict’s doctor confirmed some half an hour later, after examining her thoroughly and declaring that she had broken a small bone in her wrist, before giving her something to take for the pain and then bandaging it tightly and giving her a sling to put about her neck to take the weight off her arm. The easing of the constant pain, brought about just by that simple act, was enough to cause Genevieve to sigh her relief as she relaxed back in one of the armchairs by the fireside whilst Benedict walked downstairs to personally see to the doctor’s departure, closing her eyes in the first relief of pain she had known for some time.

Benedict took one look at Genevieve when he returned a few minutes later and knew that she had fallen asleep. A deep and untroubled sleep, it was to be hoped, the lines of pain smoothed from her beautifully delicate face, those long dark lashes fanned out upon the paleness of her cheeks.

Benedict wished that his thoughts could be as untroubled, but they could not. Not until he knew who had inflicted this injury upon Genevieve. What man had dared to treat such delicacy of body and nature with such brutality as the doctor had told him would have been necessary to bruise her so badly and break the bone in her wrist?

It was incomprehensible to Benedict that any man could ever find reason to harm such a gentle and beautiful soul as Genevieve, and not just physically, but to the degree that the light of excitement and joy she found in life had been completely erased from her expressive eyes.

One thing was certain, Benedict did not intend leaving this house until Genevieve had told him the name of the man responsible.

Genevieve sensed—knew, as she began to awaken from her deep sleep, that she was not alone. That there was someone in her bedchamber with her. Not just in her bedchamber, but actually in her bed.

Her stomach gave a sickening lurch at the thought that it was Josiah. The husband she despised. The husband she feared. And she could not bear it. Had to get away. To escape—

‘Everything is well, Genevieve.’ A gentle hand was placed soothingly against her cheek. ‘No one shall harm you whilst I am here.’

Benedict!

It was Benedict who lay beside her, not Josiah. Thank God. Josiah was long dead. And Benedict …

Benedict should not be in her bedchamber, let alone lying on her bed with her!

Her eyes opened wide to candlelight and she found herself looking up at Benedict as he bent over her, such an expression of concern upon his wickedly handsome face it made her heart ache. ‘Why are you still here?’ Her voice sounded hushed in the semi-darkness of her bedchamber.

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Waiting for you to awaken, of course.’

‘And how did I get here?’

‘I carried you.’

A frown creased her brow at her lack of memory of having been lifted into Benedict’s arms and being carried to her bedchamber, let alone being placed in her bed. She also noted that Benedict had removed his black superfine and loosened the neckcloth at his throat; it was to be hoped that he had not undressed her too! ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost two o’clock—’

‘In the morning?’ Her eyes widened even further. ‘But you cannot—you must not be here with me, in my bedchamber, in the middle of the night, Benedict!’

‘And yet here I am …’

Yes, here he was. And much as Genevieve knew he should not still be here, of the scandal that would ensue if anyone were to know of the presence of Lord Benedict Lucas in her bedchamber in the middle of the night, let alone the repercussions she might expect from William Forster if he were ever to find out, she felt glad, happy, to know that Benedict had stayed here with her.

Which was a danger in itself, when she had strived so hard this past year of her widowhood to be independent and unafraid, two things she had never been allowed to be whilst she was Josiah Forster’s duchess. She could not, must not, rely on anyone else for that independence or lack of fear. Comforting as it was to know—to feel Benedict’s protection of her, she had to manage alone.

She gave a tight smile. ‘And now that you are assured of my well being you must depart for your own home.’

‘Must I?’ He raised one dark and arrogant brow as he looked down at her.

‘I believe so, yes.’ Genevieve turned away to throw back the bedcovers with the intention of rising from the bed, thankful that she was still wearing the gown she had on earlier, only to find it impossible to sit up with her arm secured in the sling about her neck. ‘Bother.’ She scowled as she struggled to even sit using just one arm.

‘Here, let me.’ Benedict swung his legs down from the bed before standing up. Four strides took him round to the other side of the bed before he placed an arm beneath Genevieve’s uninjured arm and helped her sit, then scowling down at her as she would have risen to her feet. ‘The doctor instructed that you are not to exert yourself or remove your arm from the sling for at least the next few days.’

She gave him an impatient glance. ‘I do not believe that included my needing to use the chamberpot!’

‘No.’ Benedict grinned at her spirited response, happy to be able to do so; there had been an uncharacteristic air of frailty about Genevieve earlier, with only the occasional glimpse of her usual vivacity, something he had not cared for at all. ‘Would you like me to assist you?’

‘Certainly not!’ Two bright spots of embarrassed colour heightened her cheeks as she rose to her feet.

‘You might find it a little difficult to manage on your own with the use of only one arm.’

‘I am sure I shall manage somehow, thank you!’

‘As you wish.’ Benedict stepped back.

‘You will take that smile from your lips, Benedict,’ she instructed pertly, shooting him one last reproving glance as he refused to do so, before she walked quickly across to the adjoining dressing room and closed the door firmly behind her.

Benedict’s teasing grin disappeared the moment that door closed. He gave thought to Genevieve’s panic as she had begun to awaken, as if she feared seeing who lay on the bed beside her …

Did Genevieve fear him?

Had their lovemaking two evenings ago put her in fear of him, after all? She had claimed not earlier, had told Benedict that she considered that evening as having been the most perfect and memorable in her life.

So if Genevieve did not fear him, then whom did she fear? The obvious answer was the same man who had broken the bone in her wrist. A man who had perhaps been her previous lover? Perhaps one who had not been pleased to see himself replaced with Benedict? It would certainly explain Genevieve’s reluctance to talk about this other man to him.

But as far as Benedict was concerned, there was no excuse, no reason on this earth, why any man should ever physically hurt a woman. In Genevieve’s case, a woman who was so tiny and delicate she had no chance of being able to physically defend herself against even the smallest show of brute strength.

A brute strength which, in this case, had resulted in her wrist being broken. Benedict was determined to know this other man’s name, either from Genevieve herself, or by some other means …