Adeline couldn’t sleep. So, as she brushed her hair in her bedchamber, she listened to the steady cadence of Father’s snores from the far end of the hall, as well as the clamor of traffic outside the window. The sounds of two opposing worlds—country gentility and London society. The latter were just now beginning their evenings.
Tomorrow evening, that would be her as well.
Setting down her brush, her cheeks lifted in a grin. Father had sent Gladwin to the opera house to procure tickets. The opera! Adeline had never attended one before. She had, however, heard a few performances over the years. Father hosted various musicians, singers, and play actors, inviting them to stay in Boswickshire. He had wanted to give the best of the world to his wife and daughter.
During the first years of her life, Adeline had felt rather spoiled in that regard. This lasted until she was eight years old, when a village girl revealed the truth that had changed everything.
According to Miss Georgiana Hatch, coming over to play with Adeline was part of the weekly chores that all the village girls their age had to endure. But they were told never to say anything about her leg. That was when Adeline had begun to feel secluded instead of pampered. From that moment on, she’d feigned a stomachache whenever her assigned playmate was scheduled to arrive.
She’d always wanted a friend, someone with whom she could feel comfortable, not pitied. In fact, part of her hoped she might find that here. Perhaps she would meet such a person at the op—
A sudden thunk startled Adeline. The low oath “Bloody hell!” followed. She looked to her open door, the sound coming from across the hall.
Alarmed, she snatched the lamp from her side table and rushed to their guest’s door. She paused at the threshold for the barest moment. When she heard Wolford cursing under his breath again, she entered the room without knocking.
Then she stopped short, halting so abruptly that the lamp sputtered.
The greenest eyes she’d ever seen stared back her, the enigmatic clover color holding her transfixed for a moment. Liam did not move either. He was sitting up in bed, his legs draped over the side, and—more importantly—with the length of his bandage curled in his hand.
After speaking to him and sitting at his bedside for hours on end—with nothing to do but memorize the features exposed to her view—she already knew he was handsome. She’d gone to sleep thinking about the angular line of his jaw, the tendons on his throat that shifted when he swallowed, the shape of his mouth . . . She just never expected him to be this handsome.
How could she have guessed that the slope of his forehead was utter perfection? That his dark brows were so thick and tapered? That the length of his lashes served as a frame for those eyes, making it nearly impossible to look away? And that with the natural contour of his beard that he would look like a veritable pirate?
“You removed your bandage,” she said, dumbstruck and unable to state anything other than the obvious.
He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. Then when he opened them again, he grinned. “Miss Pimm.”
The warmth of those two syllables caused her to blush, but the unbidden effect helped her to break eye contact. Pulling herself together, she stepped into the room and set her lamp on his bedside table. She knew in an instant that she shouldn’t have dared to stand so close to him. Her skin tingled all over, from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Her fingertips pulsed as if yearning to glide over his brow, to trace those chiseled features, to memorize the texture of his skin.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she reached down and took his bandage from his grasp. “You shouldn’t have done so.”
“I was tired of the constant darkness,” he said, his gaze unwavering. He studied every minute activity she did—winding the gauze, brushing it free of the ruffles down the center of her night rail when it started to cling, pulling a wayward length of her light brown hair free of the bundle, tossing that hair over her shoulder—and missed nothing.
Neither did she. Once the alarm faded, she realized she was standing before him in her night rail. She hadn’t even thought to grab a wrapper. Thankfully, the garment was layered, thereby offering a measure of modesty. Or at least, that’s what she told herself as she moved toward the sideboard to set the bandage down and pour him a glass of water.
“You’re limping,” he accused. “Did you hurt yourself on the way to my room?”
Adeline tensed. The question felt like a poke at a bruise that would not heal. While she would rather no one learn of her secret, there was no hiding it now.
Drawing in a breath, she prepared for the pity that would inevitably come. “I’m lame, Wolford. I always limp, unless I wear my corrective half-boots.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded, his gaze dropping to her feet. “Ah. That explains the shuffled step.”
While her left foot was planted cleanly on the floor, her right was on tiptoe. With the length of her night rail nearly reaching the floor, she was sure he couldn’t see much of her feet, but she felt the need to flare her hem wider for concealment, nonetheless. “Pardon?”
“Whenever you walked into the room, your steps would shuffle,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your father’s footfall is crisp and heavy. Your mother’s is steady and light. And yours . . .”
“Shuffles,” she finished for him, feeling more ungainly than usual.
“Those are things I’d never noticed before. All sorts of sounds. While I’d always thought I was an astute observer of people, I never knew how much I’d relied on my eyes to assist me. Hearing only the cadence of a voice and not seeing their stance or expressions was difficult to overcome.” His gaze lifted, and there appeared to be a question in his eyes.
She braced herself. Usually, along with the pity, people wanted to know exactly how she became lame. And she hated telling that story.
“You did not come to me again after your outing with your mother.”
Surprise stuttered out of her lungs. Was that all he had to say about her leg, just a mere observation and nothing more? She doubted that was the end of it.
“How did you know when I returned?” Likely, he’d heard the sound of her ungainly, doddering footfalls.
Yet he surprised her again with his next words.
“Your voice has a certain . . . quality to it that is easy to recognize,” he explained with the hint of a grin. The upward tilt of his mouth caused a curved, narrow fissure to line one cheek. “And I heard you return early this afternoon.”
A certain quality? What could that mean? She wondered whether it was good or bad.
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you,” she said, stating a partial truth. “Father believes sleep is important for healing.”
“He is a wise man, for I do feel better. Certainly relieved.” He lifted a long-fingered hand, gesturing to his eyes.
She noticed that his breathing was less labored than before, but not entirely easy. Holding the water glass, she moved toward the bed. Without thinking, she lifted it to his lips. When she realized how pointless her effort was, she stammered, “F-forgive me. I did not mean to—”
Yet before she finished or even lowered the glass, he stopped her by curling his hand around hers. Then, tipping the glass, he drank every drop. And his eyes stayed with hers the entire time.
She felt her cheeks heat once more. In fact, they might have caught fire because she had the distinct impression that she was glowing like an ember.
When he finished, she withdrew the glass and turned to face the table. Placing the glass beside the lamp sent rows of diamond-shaped shadows against the burgundy silk-covered wall. It brought her attention to the size of the room. It seemed a trifle smaller, more intimate, now that his bandages were gone.
She swallowed and tried to keep her head about her. Though when she turned back to him and noted that he was still looking directly at her, it proved difficult. She feigned a sudden interest in a key on the floor. Likely, it had fallen during his struggles to remove the bandage.
“What is this?” Picking up the key, she glanced over to the similar cloverleaf bow protruding from the lock in his door.
“Rendell left that for when I am well enough to leave. It opens an adjoining door between our houses,” he said, his gaze pinning hers once more. “As soon as your father believes I am out of danger, I’ll be gone.”
“Your swelling has diminished completely,” she said, feeling a strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Then she gripped the key tightly as if it were her life’s purpose. “Your flesh is somewhat bruised, however, and purplish in places. When you arrived, we weren’t even able to see that you had eyes.”
“And now that you are able?” There was an edge of mockery to his tone and—yes—to his lips too. Now there were appealing fissures on both sides of his mouth.
“Are you seeking a compliment? I had not taken you for a vain peacock,” she chided, feeling comfortable enough to tease him in return. Yet, that quickly altered when he reached up and closed his hand over hers.
He tugged her closer. “Your expression reveals little. And there are no mirrors nearby to show me whether I am merely bruised or disfigured. That pretty blush upon your cheeks could be because you are here in your nightdress and shy about it, not necessarily because you think I am handsome.”
Were all the gentlemen in London this bold? She held her breath, trying not to move and wanting to absorb every sensation caused by her hand in his grasp. Her skin rejoiced, sending shivers of warmth through her like sparks from flint and steel. His thumb swept back and forth over the mound of her thumb. Then his fingers curled casually as if touches such as these were commonplace. At least, for him.
Adeline was not wholly unfamiliar to the touch of a man’s hand. Mr. Wittingham had taken her hand . . . even if only to aid her into a carriage or up the steps to the parish church.
This felt far different. Wolford wasn’t offering assistance. In fact, she might even presume that his only aim was to touch her, to feel her hand in his. It awakened parts of her that made her feel womanly. Not at all like a lame girl.
“I like the look of you,” she confessed, holding his gaze. A man who’d suffered such a beating deserved that, at least. Yet when she noticed another grin at his lips—one clearly stating that he’d known her answer the whole time and was merely teasing her—her ire sparked. She slipped free of his grasp, leaving the key with him. “I’m sure you’ve heard as much from many women.”
Not denying it, he flashed a full smile. Then winced a bit. Her gaze fell to the cut at the corner of his mouth. Automatically, she reached for the jar of salve from the table. Before she gave a thought to her action, she dipped her fingertip into the silken jelly and brought it to his lips.
“You’ll need to—” She stopped in near mortification. This time she hadn’t been trying to anticipate a need but had simply reacted. And as if she had the right to touch him whenever she pleased. She would never have been this forward with anyone else.
It was her skin’s fault, she decided. That sensation-greedy part of her enjoyed manipulating her into acting too familiar with him.
Pushing the jar into his hand, she pretended that she’d meant to do that. “And now you know exactly how to apply the salve.”
“I never would have accomplished it without your assistance.” He winked at her and then pressed his lips together. “Mmm . . . I enjoy the cool bite of the mint.”
It was a favorite of hers as well. In fact, this was her jar. She usually applied it right before bedtime. All it took was the barest scent to cause her lips to tingle. Not only that, but the tip of her finger did as well, pulsing beneath the silky residue. She wanted to wipe it over her own lips, but such an action would be far too intimate.
She needed a distraction. And some distance would be preferable too. “There is also beeswax in the salve.”
“Is that so?” He grinned, apparently amused as he placed the jar and the key on the bedside table.
“Boswickshire boasts the finest honey. In fact, we might have a jar in the larder. I could assemble a tray, if you have the appetite.”
The instant she made the offer, she expected him to look down at her foot and shake his head in polite rejection. No matter where she went in the village, everyone knew of her limb and believed her incapable of so much as carrying her own ribbons to the carriage. And Father had never once let her walk there. It had taken him years to allow her to venture as far as the stables.
Liam, however, surprised her by accepting without hesitation. “A hearty appetite, in fact.”
Her cheeks heated once more at the low timbre of his voice. His gaze dipped but not to her foot. To her mouth instead. And then drifted down her throat.
Suddenly, her offer seemed more intimate than a cheese plate.
Liam was ravenous. He devoured slice after slice of dark, grainy bread smeared with soft, salty cheese and drizzled with sweet, golden honey. “Miss Pimm, how did you ever discover such a delicious combination of flavors?”
Her gaze slid down to his mouth as he licked at a stray drop of honey. Actually, her gaze dipped often. He doubted that she realized how obvious her aroused state was. The signs were there. Now that he could see, he didn’t miss a thing. Her dark pupils expanded, nearly eclipsing the acorn brown of her irises. All that remained was a ring of golden brown in between those mirrors and a blue rim along the outside.
Whenever he pressed his lips together, so did she. Whenever he swallowed, she did the same. And whenever their eyes met, she would look furtively down to the plate. Then she would cut into the end of the loaf.
And because it aroused him to watch her watching him, he’d already eaten six slices. At this rate, he would gain twenty stone by tomorrow.
“Miss Pimm?” he asked, when his previous question went unanswered.
She blinked at him and licked her lips. “Pardon?”
Even that single word tunneled through him. That lush, brushed-velvet voice could set a man aflame. Liam should have guessed she would have a mouth to match it—ever so slightly plumped and with the barest of indentions in the center of her bottom lip. The perfect spot for a dab of honey and the tip of a tongue. His.
But no, he should not think those things. He reminded himself that he did not tamper with debutantes. No matter how tempting they were.
He repeated the question, asking her about the food she’d chosen.
“Quite honestly, the pantry was not as full as I’d hoped. I had thought to find a wheel of the sharp, veined cheese that one of our tenants makes. It pairs rather splendidly with our honey,” she said, busily slathering another slice of bread with creamy white cheese. “Unfortunately, the majority of our foodstuffs are packed and traveling with our cook and the rest of the servants. They should arrive on the morrow.”
After adding a drizzle of honey, she lifted the slice to him. He wondered what she would do if he asked her to feed it to him. Likely she would grow still, as she had earlier when she’d smoothed salve over his cut. It was puzzling to see her so at ease with him one moment and then as skittish as a sparrow the next. Then again, he was rarely in the company of debutantes and did not know if they were all like this—seeming to flirt and then afraid of the results.
He liked to tease her, though. “Then tomorrow I shall look forward to another taste of your Boswickshire honey.”
And yes, he intended the double entendre. He couldn’t help it.
He took a greedy bite, paying more attention to the way she watched him rather than how hungry he was. Even so, he thoroughly enjoyed this coverlet picnic, the simple yet flavorful fare, and also the company.
When he swallowed, she swallowed too, a tantalizing undulation. And before he could stop his naughty mind, he thought of the soft, wet inner tissue of her throat, her tongue, her lips . . .
He shifted on the bed. While his main hunger was satisfied, another part of him . . . wasn’t. It didn’t help matters that she was sitting across from him wearing only her ruffled nightclothes and her unbound mass of fawn-colored hair. It was so long and thick that she was practically sitting on it. She was a veritable Rapunzel or Lady Godiva. He couldn’t decide. Though the fact that she’d grabbed her wrapper before she’d returned with the tray forced him to stick with the former. In fact, he wished she were locked away in a tower, far from him.
Abruptly, the sharp hitch in his side returned, cinching like a vise around his lungs. With such pleasant distractions, he’d almost forgotten the reason he was here.
He closed his eyes and lowered the last bite of bread, exhaling through clenched teeth. “Miss Pimm, I require the sound of your voice.”
“Oh,” she said, the syllable too brief to offer much relief.
He felt the air stir beside him, and a shadow cross his closed lids. His eyes squinted open to see her standing beside him. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not. I’m merely removing the tray so that you can lie back.” And she did, even slipping the half-eaten bread from his fingers. Then she returned from the sideboard in quick order, reclaiming her place on the chair. “Shall I recite poetry, do you think? But no, I do not take you for either the maudlin or romantic sort. Perhaps I should quote from Fordyce’s Sermons? While they were written for the proper behavior of young women, I’m certain they would suit a man who finds himself in the gossip pages quite well.”
He made an effort not to cringe as he settled back against the pillows and headboard, still mostly sitting. “Ah. Then you have read the Standard.”
“The author spoke of a masquerade you had apparently attended. You are the only confirmed guest because they found your cloak and mask in the center of a maze. What was it that you were doing in the center of the maze?”
“Scandalous things, I’m sure. I’ve earned my place in the gossip pages,” he admitted.
“As I’ve been warned,” she responded, unmoved. “Though it sounds to me as if you do not remember. Did you attend the masquerade?”
“I believe so. I do recall a rather lively party and walking through the maze with a masked woman with an enticing decolle—” He stopped. “Well, that part doesn’t matter. However, then my memory goes rather hazy. That must have been when I met up with a rather jealous protector or husband.”
“She was married?”
“I could not tell you for certain. However, I usually avoid married women—and their jealous husbands—for the obvious reasons.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand over his face and torso. “I am afraid to inform you, Miss Pimm, but we live in a world of debauchery.”
“You’re mocking me. And not only that, but you’re mocking the union of two souls who will forever be united.”
He marveled at her complexion. Her face was not the pale perfection of milk that so many women powdered themselves to oblivion in order to achieve. Instead, her skin had a faint but healthy pinkish glow that made her look sun-kissed, even in the light of a single taper. So innocent and pure. Pity.
“Hmm . . . I keep forgetting that this is your first experience with society. Your naivety is somewhat refreshing. It allows me to see this wicked society with fresh eyes, eager for corruption all over again.” And when she narrowed her eyes at him and huffed at his smirk, he continued. “Most men and women marry for status and property. There is no ‘union of two souls.’ “
“I understand that many marriages take place for convenience, but is there never an exception in London?”
“Here? Absolutely not. Waiting for the banns to be read, signing contracts, and negotiating dowries—that is a London wedding. Never fear, however, as there are many foolish souls who rush off to Gretna Greene. In fact, a friend of mine was married only a week past in that manner. Not to mention, my cousin was married on his country estate over Christmastime. He even rode out in the dead of night to procure a special license.”
She smiled. “Quite romantic.”
“But not a London wedding,” he said pointedly, not comfortable with the wistful tilt of her lips. “See here, weren’t you supposed to be talking to me as part of my recuperation?”
She settled back against the chair and hid a yawn in the cup of her hand. “I think I’m more interested in hearing about the reason you don’t seem to care that your name will be in the Standard for the rest of your life.”
“I’m certain they’ll tire of me eventually. Besides, in twenty years or so, I’ll begin mending my ways by becoming completely boring to atone for my misguided escapades so that I can marry when I am sixty and in need of an heir.”
At his last word, her brows lifted. “A marriage for status and property? I would not have guessed that for such as you.”
He frowned. “And why ever not?”
“Because you were so afraid that I was trying to trap you into marriage. Yet that is precisely what you intend for your future—put your foot in the snare as bait to lure a bride young enough to produce an heir in exchange for your title.” She gave him a grin that was sleepy near the corners of her eyes and soft on her lips. “It is rather comical, is it not?”
“I would not need to lure any bride. Once the word is out, they’ll flock to my doorstep,” he grumbled in his own defense. Though, while her mocking tone and sharp wit cut him to the core, he was not cross. Instead, he found himself oddly contented and wanted to continue this joust for hours to come.
“You’ll be old. Not only that, but the woman you plan on marrying hasn’t even been born yet.” She feigned a shudder. “I suppose in ten years you’ll be eyeing the sleeping inhabitants of perambulators and making a list.”
A small giggle escaped. Then she closed her eyes, shifting in the chair as if trying to make herself comfortable.
Liam knew it would only be a minute before she left him to his solitude, so he tried to find a reason for her to linger awhile. “Tell me about your outing today. Did you drive through the park, visit shops, find adventure?”
She shook her head and slowly opened her eyes. “No park. Mother worried that after the shops, I would be too tired. In fact, the most adventurous thing that happened was losing my hairpins. It has a mind of its own.”
“Your hair is magnificent,” he said, distracted by the tuft she absently twirled around her finger.
“Thank you, Wolford.” She released a soft sigh. “I know it is wrong to be prideful, but I rather like my hair too. Oh, certainly it is a bother when it will not stay put, yet I consider it my one remarkable feature that has nothing to do with my—” She broke off with a glance down to her foot. “Well, never mind. I do have a question for you that I’ve wondered since my outing. Perhaps you could tell me what a Season’s Original is.”
He could tell her that it was a bunch of foolishness, but it would be better for her to decide for herself. “An Original is a man or a woman who has earned the ton’s approval, so much so that he or she can do no wrong. The way they dress becomes en vogue. The debutante Originals are sought after by the upper echelon of the peerage. They can marry whomever they please. Whereas their male counterparts are cast upon the rocks as waves of manipulative, marriage-minded misses seek to drown them.”
“It seems a far better reward for the debutantes.” She battled another yawn and glanced over her shoulder to the door.
“Come here,” he said on impulse. “That chair looks so uncomfortable that it’s causing me pain.” Drawing in a breath, he braced himself for another sharp twinge as he moved away from the edge of the bed. When he made a suitable space, he patted the coverlet.
She blinked, struggling to open her eyes as if her lids were filled with heavy sand. “I cannot lie beside you. Think of your reputation.”
He chuckled. She should be thinking of hers. Yet even Liam could hear her father snoring down the hall. “I am in no condition to ravish you.” Not properly, at any rate. And he was feeling rather selfish at the moment. He wanted the company. Unfortunately, he’d slept all day and was fully alert, his inner clock set to society’s late hours. “Besides, it will be just for a minute. I want to hear all about the London adventure you have planned for tomorrow.”
“Only for a minute,” she said, eyeing the pillow with longing. She settled beside him. “We are attending the opera in the evening, and I need to be well rested.”
“You must use my box.”
She shook her head. “Father already has tickets. It matters not where we sit. I’m simply happy to go to the performance, instead of the performance coming to me.”
Even though her answer puzzled him, he did not ask her to clarify. Instead, he continued to insist. “Then accept, as a favor or form of repayment for all you’ve done.”
“Pimms do not require repayment for doing only what was right. Besides, I was ready to send you away—for your own people to care for you—almost immediately.”
This made him laugh. “Why? Afraid of the sight of me?”
“No. Just afraid of my own”—her voice faded, garbled on a yawn—“I wasn’t prepared. Still not. Need you to . . . leave.” She snuggled in beside him.
“Afraid of your own what?” he prodded.
But she did not answer. Instead, she drifted off to sleep, her head on his shoulder.
The unfortunate thing of it all was that this had been his own bright idea. Now, with Adeline in his bed, his curiosity wasn’t the only thing aroused. And here he was, finally awake, and lying next to a soft, warm woman whom he dare not touch.