The moment Adeline Pimm saw the body slumped against the doorway, she knew that London was a city full of adventure. Oh . . . and, of course, danger.
A series of indrawn breaths followed.
Father’s gasp was more of a wordless exclamation as the man beneath the narrow portico of their rented townhouse tipped over the threshold and crumbled into his arms. Mother’s accompanied a jolt of her limbs, an ever-preparedness to manage any given situation. While Adeline’s stalled in her throat. Tiny grains of gooseflesh rose on her arms. Her skin tingled. And some strange force clutched her heart.
Her own response made little sense to her. After having been shielded from . . . well . . . everything for her entire life, a more understandable reaction might have been to faint, perhaps. Yet instead, she felt compelled to rush across the foyer to offer aid.
Her body answered this urge. Automatically she took a step forward. Unfortunately, so did her mother, effectively blocking her path.
Hildebrand Pimm—Bunny to all those who knew her—clapped a hand over her daughter’s eyes. “Adeline, hasten to your room. This sight is too troubling for your eyes.”
Not just any young woman’s eyes, Adeline noted, but hers and hers alone.
She knew her parents loved her. They wanted to protect her. They wanted what—they believed—was best for her. And for the majority of the past twenty-two years, Adeline had rarely put up a fuss. Usually, she followed her mother’s instruction without question. There had never been an ounce of discord between them, and even less rebellion from Adeline. However, since the last year or two, easy acceptance of the way her life always had been and always would be—so it seemed—had become unsatisfactory.
She wanted to take risks. She wanted adventure. Instead, she was cosseted and safeguarded from morning till night. Yet, as she had explained to them not long ago, if she was old enough for the marriage mart, then it was past time for her to stand on her own two feet. Or rather, in her case, stand firmly on one foot, while the other balanced on tiptoe.
Gently, Adeline lowered her mother’s hand. “You promised not to coddle me any longer, remember?”
Beneath a frilled cap and a mass of light brown hair, much like her own, Mother’s indigo gaze darted down to the tip of Adeline’s shoe—the one with the extra inches of cork added to correct her limp, caused by an accident at birth. “Dearest, now is not the time to assert your independence. There is a man at our door, and we do not even know if he is alive.”
“Aye. He’s alive enough for now,” Serge Pimm said, supporting the stranger’s head against his barrel chest, his arms curled beneath the stranger’s as he pulled him into the foyer. “Bunny, could you see to the door? And Adeline—”
“I am a grown woman, Father,” she interjected before he could order her to her room as well. “I can help. And since the servants are not here, you need me.”
After leaving their quiet country village, the family had arrived last night, a full day earlier than expected. Their coachman, Gladwin, had made a point of setting out before a storm had swept through Boswickshire. Unfortunately, the carriage filled with a half dozen of their servants had been delayed because of it. Not only that but, at first light, Mother had sent Gladwin and their tiger, Sean, to market with a list.
Normally, the absence of servants wouldn’t have caused issue. Her parents, the Baron and Baroness Boswick, made a point of being models of self-sufficiency, unlike other aristocrats. In this particular moment, however, there was an unconscious man on the foyer floor.
Father glanced at her, a hank of thick salt-and-pepper hair falling over his forehead. His burly brows furrowed, and the spray of lines beside his brown eyes drew tight. “There’s blood. A good deal of it.”
In that instant, she realized he was not ordering her to leave. He was not shielding her as he’d always done. Instead, he was offering her a choice.
Without hesitation, she took a step forward. “I’m certain the blood won’t bother me.” After all, young women were no strangers to it.
Mother saw to the door and scurried over to the sideboard for a lamp. She had an uncanny ability to anticipate a need before it became apparent. Adeline wished she’d thought of it, because at first, all she could see was the top of the stranger’s dark head, the sleeves of his blue coat, two long, immobile legs in speckled gray trousers, and a pair of muddied boots.
Yet as soon as Mother lowered the lamp to the floor, Adeline realized it wasn’t mud on his boots. It was blood. A good deal of it. The speckles on his trousers were not mud either. Nor were the puddle-shaped stains on his waistcoat. And his face . . .
Adeline felt herself sway, the room spinning beneath her feet. She sank to her knees beside him. Crimson smudges covered his flesh, matting in the black slashes of his brows. All that she could see of his eyes were two swollen folds of flesh. Bloated and raw, the left side of his face looked as if it took the worst of the beating.
Her stomach roiled, though not in sickness. In anger. A surge of it gripped her lungs, turning each breath so hot that it scorched her throat. She glared at the gash splitting his bottom lip near the corner and yanked a lace handkerchief from her sleeve. “Who would do this to him?”
Father shrugged off his coat and tucked it beneath the man’s head. “By the cut of his clothes, he appears to be a gentleman. Perhaps he was set upon by ruffians or thieves. Though with his gold watch chain in plain sight, I doubt it was the latter. Whatever the reason, they meant to be thorough.”
She gently dabbed at the stranger’s face, but the blood was sticky, like red quince jelly, and the handkerchief too dry for her ministrations to be effective. Thankfully, Mother brought a white glazed pitcher into view and handed it to Father.
“Thank you, Bunny. And see if there’s a bottle of spirits in the—”
But Mother already had a bottle of honey-colored liquor in her other hand. Then, setting it down on the floor, she hastened up the stairs, likely preparing for the next unforeseen necessity.
Father poured a few drops of water onto Adeline’s handkerchief before withdrawing his own. “Be gentle, child. We don’t know how broken he is yet. When Gladwin returns, I’ll send a missive to my Uncle Peirce and see if he is in town. When I was a lad, he was the best leech in three counties.”
Father also had a knack for healing. Adeline had always wondered if she possessed that trait as well. Yet each time she’d attempted to assist a maid or footman who might have a cut finger or twisted ankle, they’d ended up trying to take care of her instead. As if her limp made her an invalid.
But she wasn’t. She just needed a chance to prove it.
Beside her, the stranger’s chest rose and fell in hitched, shallow breaths as if each one pained him. She settled her hand over his heart. Hard, labored beats met her palm.
Peculiarly, she already felt an inexplicable fondness for this stranger. As she tenderly cleansed his face, she felt somehow tethered to him. She didn’t know where the abrupt, fledgling feeling came from. All she knew was that he needed help.
Right now, in this moment, he needed her.
“It will all be better soon,” she promised on a whisper, a sense of certainty washing through her. “You were meant to find our door.”
Since they’d arrived at such a late hour, they hadn’t had an opportunity to see the façade of their temporary lodgings. With the first rays of dawn coming through the transom windows, they were just going outside when they’d found him instead.
“I’ve no doubt he was.” Father carefully sifted through the blood and matted hair as he continued his examination. “Not many would have discovered him on their doorsteps for hours yet to come. Divine providence deals a fine hand when we least expect it, and likely when we need it most.”
As Adeline nodded in agreement, an odd sensation occurred beneath her breast. Her heart wavered out of rhythm. It sped up for a moment, pounding hard and heavy, then slowed, but not to its original tempo. Instead, it matched beat for beat with the organ beneath her fingertips.
She lifted her hand and stared down at it as if it were a foreign limb. Then, like one pole of a magnet being drawn to another, she settled it over the man’s bloodstained waistcoat once more.
“What is it?” Father asked, placing his own hand beside hers. “Is his heart fading?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know how to explain it, but just now I thought I . . . Well, my own heart did the strangest thing.”
Her gaze darted to her father and saw that his was equally startled. Then a knowing smile, of sorts, lined his countenance, appearing more worried and wistful than glad. “Then we will do all that is in our power to heal him.”
She was close enough to her parents that she understood this expression. She knew their story. Knew a similar malady had struck her father when he first laid eyes on her mother.
This was why they’d been so understanding when Adeline had refused Mr. Wittingham’s proposal. They knew she hadn’t been thunderstruck by anyone yet. They even feared that, because of her deformity, she never would be, and that was the main reason they had agreed to let her come to the treacherous city of London in the first place.
“No.” She shook her head, answering Father’s unspoken assumption. She had no plans to fall in love and refused to resign herself to a life of more coddling. Which was precisely what any marriage would do. Her reaction was the result of eating her breakfast porridge too quickly. That was all.
But wouldn’t it be just her luck if the only trait she’d inherited from her parents was a tendency toward overblown romantic notions?
A sense of panic flooded her. All Adeline had wanted was an adventure—to experience London as if she were just any other debutante, not a pitiable, feeble creature. Now, this strange feeling put that in jeopardy. She felt cornered, almost as if this man were threatening to take it all away from her.
Wanting distance, she scrambled to her feet. When her corrective shoe caught the hem of her morning dress, she stumbled back.
Righting herself, she reached out a shaky hand and waved it in his direction. “Perhaps we should send him away instead. H-he isn’t well. And, well,”—she swallowed—“he should be at home. His home. Wherever . . . that . . . may . . . be.”
“Oh dear, I feared this would happen,” Mother said, rushing down the stairs to her side and placing a hand against her forehead. “This is too much of a shock.”
A shock, indeed. And an unwelcome one at that. Though she wasn’t entirely sure if her mother was referring to the man’s injuries or to the fact that Adeline was experiencing the most peculiar sensation of . . . of . . .
Indigestion. That was all this was. Adeline couldn’t acknowledge that it might be anything else, even if only to herself. Once was enough. And she would never admit that she had felt anything for the man lying supine on the foyer floor—not aloud, at any rate.
She would much rather pretend that the past five minutes had never occurred.
Yes. That thought calmed her.
Adeline slowly exhaled, forcing herself to relax. After all, once the stranger recuperated, then she need never see him again. Gradually, her breath came easier. Yet that uncomfortable pinching around her heart remained.
She shook her head, gently dislodging her mother’s hand. “I am perfectly well. The stranger is our main concern. I should fetch more cloths . . .” Her excuse stalled the moment she saw the neat pile of fresh cloths her mother had brought. “Or perhaps a basin”—but there was one on the floor next to Father now too.
During her smallish bout of hysteria, Father had cleaned the blood from the stranger’s head and face. Then he’d shifted, hovering over the body with his back to Adeline and Mother.
“His fingers are distended,” Father said, proceeding with his examination, his movements concealed from their vantage point. “He gave back as much as he got, I imagine. There are no visible signs of broken bones. His arms appear sturdy. His ribs, however . . . A wealth of bruises tells me that he took quite a few blows to the left side, and”—Father hissed—“at least one in the shape of a man’s boot.”
The stranger issued a low moan. Heedless of the fear that caught her off guard minutes ago, Adeline rushed forward. Again, she sank to her knees beside him. When she took his hand in hers, a warm, comforting feeling washed over her, as if this gesture were a habit of many years instead of a first touch.
She chose to ignore the sensation. “What can I do, Father?”
“Even if we knew where he lived, we could not send him away in his condition,” he said, gazing at her with a measure of caution and worry.
She could see the struggle within him—the desire to protect her, competing with the desire to honor his promise of not coddling her. As always, she was grateful for his well-meant affection. However, she had a choice to make. Did she want to remain the cosseted, helpless girl that her parents saw? Or was she ready to prove herself capable of facing any circumstance?
It didn’t take long to come to a decision. Adeline squeezed the stranger’s hand. “Then we shall see to his care. All of us.”
Liam Cavanaugh’s cranial bones seemed to shift and throb like rock over magma. The flesh surrounding his skull and the pulpy gray matter beneath pulsed in a constant hellish fire of searing, unending pain.
What had happened to him?
He tried to remember, but consciousness was limited and somewhat hazy.
When he concentrated, all he saw were blurry fists plunging through shadows, white light flashing behind his eyes, and a gritty voice growling in warning, “If you let her go, we could end this. Your choice, guvna.”
The effort caused agony to pummel him anew. He felt himself slipping away, falling into—what he hoped was—slumber. Though right this instant, death would not be unwelcome.
He didn’t know how long he drifted—a moment, an hour, an age—until he came to a semblance of awareness. A memory greeted him in this next place.
“Liam, come here. Take your father’s hand.”
In this vision, he saw a frail old man lying against a brace of pillows in a massive bed of thick corner posts and dark, carved wood. His face was ashen, his eyes dimmed from the luminous green of a forest glade to the pale, cloudy hue of peridot stones.
“My bright boy, do not be afraid,” he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “When I am gone, you will not be alone. Mr. Ipley and the others will remain until you reach your majority. I have seen to it.”
The vision turned watery just before a small voice answered, “But I don’t care if the servants stay, Father. I don’t want you to go.”
“Your mother is waiting for me. I can hear her call my name as if from the next room.” Father closed his eyes, his mouth faintly curling into a smile. “Come and give a kiss, son. Very soon, you will be the eighth Earl of Wolford. Be strong and promise you will remember all I have taught you.”
“I promise,” the small voice said against a vellum cheek that was cold beneath his lips. And before Liam could back away, he heard one last breath. A raw, endless death rattle.
And the pain returned.
With a shock of clarity, Liam realized the moan was coming from his own throat. No wonder—it felt like his lungs were filled with shards of glass. Every breath was torture. He tried to move, but his limbs felt trapped, heavy. He tried to open his eyes, but darkness met him at every attempt.
“Shh . . .” a woman said as a cool, soft hand curled around his. “Do not be afraid. You are not alone.”
This voice was unfamiliar. One of his servants? Not one that he could place.
Her tone was brushed velvet, soft, low, and lush, and more like a lover than a chambermaid. Somehow, hearing her made the next breath come easier. Yet to make sure that this sensation was not part of his dream, he squeezed the fingers in his grasp.
“Again,” he said, wanting to hear that voice. His own was gravelly and coarse against his throat, scraping its way out.
A gasp answered him. The hand he held gripped his. “You are awake at last! I cannot tell you how worried I was . . . Well, we were all worried about you.”
The we in her declaration bothered him. Since he did not recognize her voice, he didn’t know the we of whom she was speaking. The simple answer was likely his servants. But which servants and in which one of his houses? And how had he come to be here, wherever he was?
There were too many questions and too much relentless pain to fight through in order to ask for the answers.
“More,” he commanded, believing that the more she said, the more would be revealed. Besides, her voice seemed to offer a temporary respite from agony.
“ ‘More’ of what? No, do not tell me. The answer should be simple,” she said, apparently mulling it over while oblivion threatened him. “More. Oh yes, of course! I suppose you mean more water. Thus far, I’ve only managed to dampen your mouth with a cloth every quarter hour. We didn’t want you to choke or cough, you see. Father says your ribs are damaged. Though I imagine you’re quite thirsty now.”
Father? Then she must be a servant’s daughter. He wondered which one of his footmen was old enough to have a child who sounded both green and sultry at once. Though given that criteria, she could be anywhere between the ages of fifteen and five and twenty. The last time Liam had asked, Mr. Ipley had no children. As for Mr.—
Suddenly, her hand slipped out of his grasp. For reasons unbeknownst to him, his body jerked, attempting to follow her. A dire mistake. Instantly, the razor points in his lungs intensified. A tortured groan ripped from his chest.
“Lie still. Try not to move,” she said, coming back to his side. A slight weight settled beside him. That was when he realized he was in a bed. Which bed or where, he did not know yet. Against her orders, however, he did move, enough to take an accounting of all of his limbs.
His hands and arms were stiff, sore, but nothing too terrible. His toes wiggled and his ankles rotated without any effort. A good sign. When he lifted one leg—albeit marginally—a sharp pain radiated upward and into his torso. He hastily abandoned the effort. For now. Yet he did lift a hand to his face, wondering why the room was so dark.
“Oh, please stop. You are injured, and I couldn’t bear it if something else happened to you before you are well enough to leave.”
Leave? What an odd thing for a servant to say. Why would he leave his own house?
When her hand grasped his arm, he forgot the question. The refreshing coolness of it penetrated a layer of linen that was likely his shirtsleeves. Though without being able to open his eyes, he couldn’t be sure.
“We applied a salve to reduce the swelling and then bandages to aid in your healing,” she said. Then tentatively, she directed his hand to his face and settled it against his forehead.
Coarse fabric met his fingertips—layer upon layer of an open weave that reminded him of cheesecloth. It covered most of his head, both of his eyes, and nearly one side of his face, including an ear.
An ear too? His pulse spiked with a heavy dose of worry. He could feel the throb of it behind his eyes.
Even though his limbs were intact, that said nothing about the rest of him. What lay beneath these bandages?
While he never wanted for feminine attention or admiration, he’d never considered himself a narcissist either. Only dandies primped or fussed in the mirror. The style and fit of Liam’s clothes was the duty of his tailor and valet. Both a physician and a notable sportsman earned salaries to keep him in remarkable health. Yet when faced with the possibility of a deformity, he discovered a trembling, vain figure huddled in the corner of his mind, begging for a mirror.
What precisely had happened to him? The images of shadowed faces and fists that came to him were fleeting and exhausting. “If you let her go, we could end this . . .”
Her. Had this all happened over a woman? Damn. If he managed to survive, then he would have to live with Thayne’s taunts for years to come. His friend was forever trying to make Liam more palatable to society and to abandon his more salacious activities.
If only he could remember his most recent assignation. Perhaps then he could pinpoint which woman had caused the upheaval and keep his distance in the future. But the effort caused an excruciating headache to pound beneath his temples.
Giving up, he lowered his arm.
“On the bright side, there is nothing broken—not even your nose—which Father said was quite a feat, considering how many blows you suffered,” she continued, her voice a soothing balm, quieting his fears. Then something firm, cool, and smooth pressed against his lower lip. “Do you think you can manage a sip or two?”
Realizing it was the rim of a glass, he parted his lips in response. Straight away, blessed water quenched his mouth, slipping down his ragged throat. It was divine. Silken on his tongue and palate. Cold and wet at the corners of his mouth where it dribbled down his chin, saturating the linen at the base of his neck. He didn’t care. He could gorge himself on it.
Had the finest wine or whiskey ever tasted so good? Smelled so clean and pure? He wasn’t certain, but he doubted it.
Then too soon, she withdrew the glass.
“Oh, drat,” she said on a huff and began pressing a cloth to his chin and throat. “I had hoped to be a better nursemaid. Who knew there was a certain talent required for assisting in the simple task of drinking?”
Even though her mopping was a little more vigorous than was comfortable in his current state, he found her self-reprimand somewhat amusing. While she batted away at the base of his neck, he chased the lingering droplets on his lip with his tongue, content for the moment.
Then her weight shifted as if she were prepared to leave him. He couldn’t allow that, not when she was his only link to relief from pain and to the sighted world.
“Stay,” he said. For good measure, he draped an arm across her legs, anchoring her to his side.
She stiffened, the slender muscles of her thighs contracting in a quick vibration, almost like a shiver. It didn’t take her sudden indrawn breath to tell him that his action was improper. Sultry voice or not, she was a servant’s daughter. And he never dallied with those paid to be of service . . . unless pleasure was their profession.
Not believing that was the case in this instance, he knew he should remove his arm. Instead, he splayed his hand against the whisper-soft fabric of her dress, finding comfort in her nearness. And finding the outer curve of her hip as well. Not only that, but he realized she was not wearing a dress after all. It was a night rail.
In his life, he’d had ample experience with women’s various states of dress or undress. Though his preference was, most assuredly, of the latter.
As for the fabric beneath his fingertips, the soft, delicate weave was not the practical homespun he might have expected from one whose father worked in service but something more decadent.
A nervous laugh escaped her as she adjusted his hand more appropriately into her own but remained beside him. “Your glass is empty. Should you like more water—if you are willing to risk my clumsy efforts, that is—then I must cross the room to where the pitcher waits.”
“Later.”
“Hmm . . . That makes four words now.” She shifted, her movements accompanied by the clap of a glass on a nearby wooden table.
He wondered if it was the mahogany Chippendale console at Wolford House in St. James or the walnut Hepplewhite commode in his rooms on Brook Street in Mayfair. The bedside tables he’d shipped to his new property, Sudgrave Terrace in Knightsbridge, were either marble-topped or bronze and would have made more of a clack instead . . .
His thoughts trailed off, surprising him. It was almost as if he could see by sound alone. Of course, he would much prefer having these bandages removed and his vision restored.
When she settled back, her fingers flitted over the top of his hand as if absently, touching each of his knuckles. “All day long and into the night, I’d wondered about the sound of your voice—wondered if I would ever hear it—and now my only reward is one command after another.”
She didn’t speak to him as a servant would, which added to his curiosity. And if it weren’t for the low, teasing tone, Liam might have issued an apology for his rudeness. At the moment, however, all he wanted to do was listen to her and feel the jagged edges inside him go blissfully numb.
“How many words”—he dragged in a breath—“do you require of me?”
“I certainly have earned your entire lexicon, poor nursemaid or not. However, I will take only as many as you would give.”
He felt a grin tug at his lips but also a cut that puckered his flesh at the corner. Halting before he ripped open the obvious wound, he merely answered her quip with one of his own. “Shall I begin . . . alphabetically?”
This time her laugh was not of the nervous variety but unreserved and inviting. “I would settle for your name.”
Though somewhat puzzled, he grinned despite the twinge of pain it caused. “Do you not know it already?”
“Father said that if you knew your name, then we would not have to worry about”—she hesitated—“an injury we couldn’t see. A more severe injury.”
Alarm returned to him, undoing all the ease she’d provided. “What do you mean, exactly?”
So many bandages, even over his eyes. Could he have been blinded by whatever violence brought him here? Damn, he wished he could remember who did this to him.
She gripped his hand tighter, comforting and terrifying him with one small gesture. “Have you ever heard of amnesia?”
Other than the recent past, he recalled every single year of his life. And if that was her primary concern, then perhaps he could rest easier.
“Amnesia, you say? I’m not . . . certain I . . . remember what that is,” he teased.
“It’s a terrible disorder afflicting men who smirk at the women who sit at their bedsides. I believe it’s caused by suffocation from a bed pillow,” she answered directly, patting his hand.
Her quick parry drew a surprised laugh from him, which was shortly followed by a hoarse grunt of pain. He clutched his side. His lungs seized, tightening and burning. “Rotter. You should warn . . . a man . . . when you . . . intend to be . . . clever.”
Her hands grasped his shoulders, urging him to lie back. “For all you know of me, I could be a wit, and every word I speak should first come with a caveat. Now be still. Try to breathe.”
Impossible. He shook his head. “I can only breathe . . . when you’re talking to me.”
Apparently, agony was something of a truth serum. He might have felt embarrassed if it weren’t for the spasms wracking him as he fought to sift air into his lungs. If he were amongst acquaintances, they would have mocked him ceaselessly, and he would have made a jest in return. He was forever playing the part of a gentleman with a head stuffed with bank notes and a tongue coated with quips and barbs.
He spent copious amounts of money on houses and various acquisitions. He supped on the finest cuisine. Indulged in lavish, hedonistic entertainments. He had everything a man could desire and was usually charming enough that people did not despise him for it. But right now, he felt . . . vulnerable. All he truly wanted was to hear the sound of this woman’s voice.
“I’m certain you’ll be able to breathe easier by the time you’re well enough to leave,” she crooned softly, but there was an edge of determination in her tone. This was the second time she’d mentioned his departure.
Her hands fussed over the bedclothes, tucking them tightly over his chest. A little too tightly for comfort. Then she began kneading his pillows. Again and again. They’d been perfectly fluffed before, but now they were lumpy and forced his chin to his chest.
On the other hand, it wasn’t all bad. Each time she pushed and molded the feathers, her sweet breath rushed against his lips. The supple, unhindered weight of her bosom pressed against his chest in a combination that was half pleasure, half pain. And as she leaned over him, her hair fell across his face, enveloping him in a curtain of heavy silk and the hint of a perfume he did not recognize.
He focused on the scent, drawing it in bit by bit. It was pure and clean, reminding him of the white blossoms of a pear tree, the first of spring. It was light, almost as if a drop of dew had traversed the petals moments before it touched her skin.
A sudden hunger quickened low in his gut, surprising him. He was used to women and their rosewater, their cloying lily and lilac, and even lavender. Those perfumes were always applied liberally. Pungency concealed all manner of sins, or so some thought. But this fragrance—this unobtrusive essence—stirred him as well as calmed him. An odd combination that left him in need of more.
Despite his nursemaid’s better efforts to the contrary, his body relaxed. Not only that, but her ministrations were invaluable at proving that his limbs weren’t the only parts of him in working order. The quickening of his gut shifted southward.
“There now. That’s better,” she said as if with triumph. “I believe I’ve been successful in anticipating your need for a plumper pillow. Would you agree?”
He would not. His neck was already starting to cramp. His headache was returning. And if anticipating his need had been her aim, then her efforts would have been more valued a degree or two lower. If she weren’t a servant’s daughter, he reminded himself.
Thayne the Reformer would have been proud that Liam had bothered to do so.
“Your question,” he began, drawing in another fragrant breath, “leads me to imagine that you are new to service . . . or that this is your first position as nursemaid.”
“Truly? You believe that I am qualified to be in service?” She lifted away but settled beside him with a small but perceptible bounce. Her enthusiasm was evident.
Confused and a bit terrified, Liam asked, “You are . . . old enough to be in service, aren’t you?”
She laughed, and he did his best to ignore the throaty, unreserved sound. “At two and twenty, I imagine I’m far too old to begin, but your words offer a most welcome compliment nonetheless.”
A measure of relief filled him. “Then it is only your father in service.”
Better and better.
“My father? Why ever would you imagine”—she went still, her breath suspended for a moment, until—“Oh. I realize the misunderstanding now. After all, we haven’t made our introductions, have we? I’m Adeline Pimm. My parents are Serge and Hildebrand Pimm, the Baron and Baroness—”
“A gentleman’s daughter?” he interrupted, shock and incredulity biting through him, making him wince.
“I am.”
While her admission answered many questions, it also incited his anger. “Is this some sort of entrapment scheme? Spending time alone . . . in the bedchamber . . . with me, pressing your body against mine . . .” He was panting now. Seething. “Were you hoping that your parents would find us . . . in a compromising position that would force . . . our marriage?”
A similar circumstance had happened in his youth—a falsely innocent invitation that had turned into an ambush by the girl’s parents. If not for Mr. Ipley’s timely intervention, Liam would have been forced to marry when he was but a lad of seventeen. The young woman had been six years his senior and staring at a life of spinsterhood. Her only goal had been to become a countess. She’d cared nothing for him. And Liam, young, besotted fool that he once had been, had learned his lesson.
Now, more than ten years later, he was still wary of debutantes. They were a cunning lot.
“Compromising position?” Miss Pimm’s voice rose as her weight left the bed. “I was fluffing your pillow!”
He scoffed. “You were doing far more than that . . . and you bloody well know it. No society woman of two and twenty is that naive.”
Proof of that was in the way he still could feel the tantalizing press of her breasts, taste her breath against his lips and—damn it all—breathe in her scent! That was the work of a practiced beguiler, not an innocent. Which was why he preferred the company of expert courtesans and audacious widows, ones whose aim was pleasure without deception.
“For a man who doesn’t even remember his own name, you seem to think you know quite a bit about me. You do not know the first thing,” she hissed. “I would never marry you, regardless of the situation, compromising or not.”
“Even to become a countess? I find that hard to believe.” He felt his lip curl into a sneer that cracked open his cut. “I am Liam Cavanaugh, eighth Earl of Wolford.”
By reputation alone, no respectable debutante dared to venture too close for fear of being tainted by association. And that was exactly the way he liked it.
“Well then, Liam Cavanaugh, eighth Earl of Wolford, I pity you. Not only because you are obviously an arse of the first order, but because you no longer have a nursemaid. Enjoy the rest of your night. I hope you do not become too thirsty.” Then she closed the door with a succinct click.
Liam relished the sudden quiet. Hell, he even welcomed the pain. All the better to be rid of that exhausting bit of baggage!
But damn it all, he could really use another drink.