Charles was silent for several moments, gazing toward Teresa, who had displayed herself charmingly at the pianoforte. “Perhaps such an experience would shape the lives of some men, embitter them, make them hate and distrust women, but not Phillip. He’s much too perceptive a man to allow Elaine’s despicable behavior to jade his view of the entire female sex. I at least hope to heaven that it’s true.”
“But why hasn’t he married?”
“I’m not married either, Margaret, and Phillip and I are the same age, twenty-six. Goodness, woman, give us time. We’ve just begun to ripen, as Rohan Carrington says.”
“What else does Rohan say?”
“Ladies ripen early. They must either wait for the boys to ripen or pluck the older ones.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Margaret said, and punched her brother’s arm. “But will either of you ever marry, Charlie?”
“I believe I shall be a bachelor, Margaret. As for Phillip, I can only say that he is a very careful man. Only time will tell.”
“I’m so very happy. Marriage is amazing. I just never considered that there were so many things I was missing. There is so much more to life when there is another who cares about you and wants to make you happy. I just want you to know what it’s like. Do reconsider, Charlie, do.”
“I’ll think about it. Promise me you won’t tease Phillip. You won’t make any veiled references to anything I’ve told you.”
“I’m trustworthy, Charlie. I promise.”
Charles’s attention was drawn to the sound of Miss Elliott’s raised voice. “No, I have no wish to play whist,” he heard her say to the dowager Countess of Mowbray. “Viscount Derencourt is my partner and I shall wait for him before I play.”
Ch
arles said, “Actually, Lady Mowbray is very lucky. Teresa is a disaster at whist. I had the misfortune to partner her once. She trumped my ace of spades. I wanted to wring her neck. I remember that Phillip was watching. He just laughed.”
“Another ice maiden, I think,” Margaret said, patted her brother’s arm, and took herself off to partner the countess in whist.
10
She whispered against the hollow of his throat, “Please, build up the fire, it is so very cold.”
Phillip pulled Sabrina’s body more tightly against him. He felt her low cracked breathing against his neck; he felt the pain each of those breaths cost her. Hair had worked its way loose from the braid he’d fashioned for her, tickling his nose, curling around his jaw. He smoothed her hair, moving his head slightly on the pillow. She followed, even closer now, trying to get inside him, he thought, to find his warmth and burrow into it. Her hands were clutching at his shirt, her legs pressing as hard as she could against his. He felt desire for her. It had happened before when he’d stripped off her clothes, when he’d bathed her. It didn’t matter. He again ignored it. He was a man, not a randy boy. He treated it like any other discomfort that couldn’t be changed, he controlled it, focusing on Lucius, remembering how he’d held his brother, just as he was holding Sabrina now, letting his heat flow into his body. But unlike Lucius, Sabrina was very small. He knew he must be nearly smothering her, covering nearly all of her, and what his body didn’t touch, his large hands did. He rubbed his chin very lightly against the top of her head. He had no intention ever again of leaving London during future Christmas holidays. Then he realized if he hadn’t been here, in this particular spot, she would have died. He didn’t want her to die. He realized more than anything he wanted to see her smile, see life in those incredible violet eyes of hers, hear her speak, not necessarily telling him important things, just occasional thoughts she had. It didn’t matter. He just wanted her well. He kissed her again. No, no more complaining. He’d never believed in an outside force that changed men’s lives for no good reason, hurling them in an entirely new direction. No, he’d always reckoned that a man was master of his own destiny, until something he himself set into motion, be it wise or stupid, changed the course of his life. Well, maybe he’d been wrong. Fate had flung him into Sabrina’s path and he’d accepted the responsibility of her. He wondered how much further his life would now change as a result.
He awoke the next morning sweating and stiff. He nearly groaned aloud at the cramp in his shoulder. Then he felt like giving a shout of sheer pleasure when he realized Sabrina was also sweating. Her fever had broken. “Sweat all you like, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her temple. He gently eased himself away from her and out of the bed. She immediately rolled into a small ball, her sleep unbroken. He stood quietly, listening to her quiet, deep breathing.
“This time I’ve won,” he said aloud to the silent room. He stood a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, listening to her breathing. He felt happier at that moment than he had in many a long month. Actually he hadn’t been this happy since Rohan and Susannah had visited Dinwitty Manor and they’d figured out the clues to the treasure. Yes, he was immensely pleased with himself.
The room was cold. He built up the fire, always one eye on her to see that she still breathed, to see that she still sweated.
While she slept, Viscount Derencourt heated water to wash his clothes in the kitchen. First though, he bathed himself, sighing at the feel of being clean again. He eyed the pile of dirty clothes, but knew there was no hope for it. Without a second thought, he dumped the clothes into the water and washed them as best he could. He grinned, picturing Dambler’s face were he to see his master scrubbing his fine white lawn shirt in a rather dirty tub of water in front of a kitchen fire.
He hung his clothes to dry over the backs of chairs that sat around the big block wooden table in the kitchen. He dressed himself in his only remaining clean shirt and britches and went back upstairs to check on his patient.
She still slept, curled up on her side away from him. Her brow was cool, but her dressing gown was damp with sweat. Damnation, he hadn’t thought to check. He stripped her, hoping she wouldn’t awaken. Because he was a man, because he simply couldn’t help himself, he looked at her, tried to touch her as little as possible because he wasn’t completely lost to good sense, and gritted his teeth. But she was lovely, particularly since there was a flush on her cheeks.
The hair on her woman’s mound was just a bit darker than the hair on her head. He wanted to touch her, touch her woman’s flesh. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. Very well, he’d think about nonsexual parts of her. Her hands were very white, her fingers long. He imagined she played the pianoforte. There, that wasn’t badly done of him. Not to mention her breasts that were actually very nice and—no, that wasn’t well done of him either. He stared at her feet. Nice feet, arched, probably quite useful, as good feet went.
Then he laughed at himself, he couldn’t help it. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m trying to do the best I can. Please forgive me when I fall into these lapses.”
She moaned softly in her sleep, which was no answer, and made him think about sex.
Phillip straightened the man’s white shirt over her, smoothing it down. It came halfway down her thighs, surely modest enough. He supposed he’d have to wash the two dressing gowns. No, he didn’t think velvet could be washed. He looked down at her quiet face. He knew that face now; it was precious to him. It was odd, but it was true. He had no idea if she was a shrew, a devious liar, a saint. When they’d spoken, she’d seemed well enough, witty even, her voice soft and cultured, but he knew from long experience that she could just as easily be another virago like Elaine. Elaine. He hadn’t thought about her in a very long time. In fact, the only time he ever thought about her was when he came face-to-face with her at a gathering in London. He rather hoped she was miserable, she deserved to be.
She still slept. Food, he thought, it was time to make something. He made bread. The two loaves of something that could pass for bread, maybe, he eased from the old iron oven. He swelled with pride. It didn’t matter that they were flat and burned on the corners. It didn’t matter that any sort of bread wasn’t supposed to have corners. It was edible and he had made it. He was a fine human being. He could survive. No, it didn’t matter a bit that the two loaves reminded him of the gray quarry stones his workers hauled from the sandstone pit near Dinwitty Manor to repair the ancient Elizabethan watchtower wall. They would use the same quarry stone when he finally managed to get started on his new crenellated tower that he’d spent most of the past summer designing. However, he still hadn’t gotten it built, or even started it, probably because he’d been so shaken up by what had happened in Scotland with Rohan and Susannah Carrington. No, he wouldn’t think about that bizarre experience. He allowed himself to remember all of it only late at night when he was alone, drinking brandy in his own library, staring into his own fire, seeing things no man should even imagine.
He broke off a burned corner. It didn’t taste wonderful. On the other hand, he wasn’t starving, and he knew from experience that starving indeed made a difference. His mouth was still spoiled from memories of food Cook made him at Dinwitty Manor. It didn’t matter. It was nourishing and it could be eaten, if one was desperate enough, and surely both he and Sabrina were desperate enough.
She was still asleep. He wasn’t worried, no, sleep was the best thing for her. He carefully wrapped his two loaves of bread in coarse cloths he found stacked on a shelf in the kitchen. Then he shrugged on his greatcoat and went to the stable to see to Tasha. The moment he stepped outside, the howling wind whipped against him, sending snow in his face. But the blizzard couldn’t last for much longer, no storms in England ever did. He looked toward the path that wound its way to the front of the house, a white ribbon. No one would be coming for a while yet, not for at least several more days.