Regency Debutantes (62 page)

As if awakening from a stupor Kathryn sprang to life. She moved to gently, but firmly, place Lady Maybury in the closest armchair. ‘My lady, please do not alarm yourself. It’s as Nicholas says, a flesh wound that
bleeds prolifically.’ Even as she uttered the reassurance her own fears, her own darkest dread, were being thrust deep down, hidden far out of sight. But from across the years came an image of another man she had loved, of the faint lingering smell of gunpowder, and the raw stench of blood…and her father’s lifeless fingers resting upon his desk, still wrapped around the handle of the pistol. Her eyes shuttered. Dear God, not Nicholas, never Nicholas. He could
not die…she would not let him. Determination rose. She gritted her teeth hard, shock still kicking in her gut. Pushed away all memories, all thoughts of fear and panic. Allowed instinct to take over. Kathryn would do whatever she had to…for Nicholas’s sake. So, having dealt with the dowager for the minute, she instructed the butler to send for a physician, the first footman to fetch boiled water and clean linen strips, and the remaining footman to collect four warm blankets from the press upstairs. Only then did she turn her attentions to Nicholas.

For all of the bemused expression that he presented to her, she could see the pallor in his face. It seemed that something grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed until it was tight and painful. She breathed deeply, squared her shoulders, and moved towards him. ‘Nicholas, we must remove your coat.’ Her voice was surprisingly calm and controlled. ‘Here, let me assist you.’

‘I assure you, Kathryn, there’s no—’ The deep voice got no further.

‘Assure me only of your compliance, sir,’ she said quietly.

A dark eyebrow arched, but before he could utter his protest she was peeling the fitted coat from his body.

She removed first the sleeve from his uninjured arm and then, without pausing, she caught him unawares and pushed him back on to the sofa.

‘I think I might manage on my own,’ he said wryly.

But her small bloodstained fingers were already on his arm, easing the cloth away from his wound. The coat was delivered close to the dowager’s feet in a heap. His neckcloth and waistcoat received similar treatment and soon lay on top of the crumpled coat. Kathryn worked with a calm quiet efficiency that belied the frenzied beat of her heart.

She cleared her throat. ‘Now for your shirt.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Please remove your shirt, Nicholas.’ Arms akimbo, smoky grey eyes that glistened with determination…and something else that she could not quite hide, Kathryn was unaware that
she presented a most formidable sight, enough to make a man’s pulse race, especially a man whom she’d been avoiding for the past two days.

The sensual mouth grinned wickedly. ‘You’re putting my grandmother to the blush, Kathryn.’

‘I’m sure that Lady Maybury will forgive me this once,’ she said with a great deal more confidence than she felt. ‘Please, sir, for I don’t mean to ask you again.’

His smile deepened and he deliberately lay back upon the cushions, and waited.

‘Very well, my lord.’ She swallowed hard, gathered her courage together in both hands, and, stepping forward, effected her action in one fell move. The tear of linen sounded loudly in the room. Shock showed upon his face. And she knew that, whatever Nicholas had been expecting, it was not to have her quite literally rip the shirt from his body. Having disposed of the front and one arm of the garment, she lingered over the injured limb, gently easing the material away from the wounded area. The sight of the bloody mess of flesh was almost her undoing.
The smallest scratch
he had said, but Kathryn’s heart turned over at what she saw once the last vestige of shirt had been removed. A few inches over and the ball would have lodged itself in his chest. A wave of dizziness swept through her at the thought.

‘Kathryn!’ Lady Maybury gave a weak protest.

Kathryn took a deep breath and pulled herself together. Such weakness would not help him. ‘Don’t worry, my lady. I know what I’m doing. All shall soon be ready for the physician’s arrival.’ Kathryn flung the words of reassurance over her shoulder, but there was no such assurance or confidence within. She forced herself not to think, just to act. ‘Once we have this cleaned up, he shall be able to see the damage clearly.’

When the first footman eventually returned with two basins of boiled water that were still steaming and a small pile of linen
strips, it was to a scene in which his master was lying semi-clothed upon the sofa with his grandmother’s companion clasping his arm. It was the same footman that had witnessed Miss Marchant and the Viscount embracing by the front door not so very long ago. The man was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself and made no sign as to having observed anything remotely untoward.

‘Very good, Toby. Place the basins down here by me and the rags close by. Thank you.’ She gave the footman a little nod and moved the bowls to exactly where she needed them. ‘And Toby, send Mr Silverton home in the carriage as Lord Ravensmede instructed.’ A nod of her head indicated the young gentleman’s prone body.

‘Yes, miss.’

Then the second footman returned with the blankets and, having sat them upon the table, made to help carry the inebriated man from the room.

Kathryn washed her own red stained hands thoroughly in one basin before wetting the linen rag. For the first time since removing his clothes she sought Nicholas’s gaze. Kathryn was unable to help herself; her hand fluttered to lightly cup his face. ‘Although I’ll be as gentle as I can, Nicholas, my cleansing of the wound is bound to cause you pain.’ Her thumb stroked a gentle encouragement. ‘I’ll contrive to act as quickly as is possible.’

His eyes held hers. ‘This isn’t work for your hands, Kathryn.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she admitted softly. ‘But I’ll finish what I’ve started all the same.’ She looked at him a moment longer, wanting to kiss the worry from his face. One last stroke of her thumb, a little smile, and then her hand left his face, and her gaze dropped once more to his injured arm.

‘Dear Lord, but I’m too late!’ a mumbled utterance escaped Mr Silverton’s lips as the footmen manoeuvred him through the doorway. One pink-lined eye fixed itself on the woman bending low over the naked torso of Ravensmede. ‘Miss Marchant!’

Kathryn did not divert her attention. Nothing else mattered save for Nicholas and his wound.

By the time Nicholas’s arm had been cleansed and the deep furrow ploughed by the trajectory of the lead ball exposed, the Viscount lay back upon the sofa white-faced and with a grim line to his mouth. Perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip, but he made no sound. There was a nausea in Kathryn’s stomach at the pain her cleansing and probing had caused him. But the task was done now. The wound was tightly bound. And Kathryn could only be relieved. Taking his hand in hers, she guided it to lie across the top of the sofa back, allowing her fingers to linger when they should not have, desperate to give him some small comfort. There was nothing of embarrassment, no sense of impropriety at what she had done. Her thoughts were with Nicholas, and Nicholas alone.

His hand closed around hers. There was no strength in the light touch of his fingers, only the gentleness of a caress.

Green eyes met grey, and the smile they shared was both intimate and loving. It lasted only a moment, but it was enough. Kathryn tucked two warm blankets snugly around him, placed a cushion placed behind his head, and moved away. She had done what little she could; now there was Lady Maybury to attend to.

As she bent to hand the hot sweet tea to his grandmother, he could see that some of her hair had escaped her chignon, and was curling around her neck and shoulders. The long sleeves of her dress had been rolled back down into place, but the skirt and bodice were still marked with a liberal application of his blood. He knew that she had not been unaffected by what had just happened, had felt the slight tremble in her fingers, and admired her all the more for her courage. Her voice, quiet and clear, soothed, as did the slender scrubbed fingers carefully adjusting the mountain of blankets surrounding the old woman. He wondered that someone who had received so little care throughout
her own life had so much to give. His grandmother looked pale and infinitely older than usual. A frown crinkled his brow.

‘Kathryn,’ he said.

She hurried across.

His gaze twitched to the dowager and back to the woman standing above him.

As if reading his mind, she bent her face lower to his.

‘My grandmother should not have witnessed this. Her heart…She needs to rest. Help her up to her bedchamber.’

The grey eyes were filled with compassion. ‘Nicholas, Lady Maybury has suffered a great shock. What she needs now is to know that her grandson is safe, that you’ve taken no great hurt and will recover,’ she said quietly.

‘I told you, it’s nothing more than a scratch.’

‘Maybe so. But you bled like a stuck pig. You must reassure her yourself by behaving as normal. It would be better if we did not retire until the physician arrives.’ And with that she hurried back to attend to his grandmother.

He gave a slight nod in acquiescence, and smiled. Kathryn Marchant had courage and honour…and his love.

Kathryn stood alone by the window in her bedchamber and stared out at the expansive shimmering sea views. The water had a turquoise-green hue reminiscent of that captured in the many paintings of Mediterranean subjects that she’d seen over the years. The rhythmic sweep of the waves lulled and pacified her. White spray frothed where the waves broke upon the shoreline. Cool sea air flooded in through the open window, filling the room with its own peculiar scent: salt and seaweed and freshness. Curtains billowed in the stiff breeze and several strands of hair fluttered unnoticed across the pale skin of the woman’s cheeks. Still, silent, outwardly serene, the image she presented was far removed from the turbulent emotions twisting within.

No matter that the physician had declared the Viscount to have been extremely lucky or that the damage to Lord Ravensmede’s
arm was minimal. Rest, clean dressings, and it would soon be healed, or so the doctor had said. The memory of Nicholas’s blood smeared upon her palms would not leave her. So much blood that she could have cried her fears aloud on the spot. She had wanted to clutch him to her, to take his pain upon herself, anything but face the awful terror of that moment, when her mind was filled with the worst of imaginings.

Death. It had a starkness about it that pared everything else to insignificance. So she had done what she had to, in order to remedy the situation, with no consideration for propriety, without the slightest notion of how her actions might be construed. He was alive and well. Now she could think of nothing else except how close she’d come to losing him. And that cast quite a different light on all of her best-made resolutions. Her façade of coolness and politeness and distance had crumbled to dust. Nicholas might well marry Miss Paton, but that didn’t change the fact that Kathryn loved him with a love so strong that it frightened her. She knew now that she couldn’t just turn her back on him, and walk away as if their friendship had never been. Not for all of Lady Maybury’s warnings, not even for the sake of her own good name. Kathryn Marchant was changed for ever.

K
athryn’s hand trembled before she clenched it into a fist and knocked lightly against the mahogany wooden panels of the door. Her heart was thudding fast and loud, and she swallowed to alleviate the dryness in her throat.

‘Come in.’ His voice alone caused a fluttering within her stomach.

She smoothed her skirt down with nervous hands and, before her courage could desert her, opened the door and stepped into Lord Ravensmede’s bedchamber.

His eyes widened momentarily at the sight of her standing there so awkwardly by the doorframe. ‘Kathryn?’ And then, as if catching himself, ‘Please…come in.’

Her fingers betrayed her, plucking at the pale green of her afternoon dress, in small furtive movements. For a moment it seemed that she had not heard him, for she stood stock-still and cautious as a deer scenting the wind. Then, just when he would have spoken again, she did as he bade, shutting the door silently behind her.

‘Nicholas.’ There was a silver light in her eyes and the first hint of a rose blush in the apple of her cheeks. The rich russet brown of her curls had been arranged up behind her head tidily as if she had only just combed and pinned them. Already two
curls had contrived to free themselves to dance enticingly against the creamy white skin of her neck. She stopped short of the bottom of the bed, her eyes flitting between him and the floor.

He could see her unease and the tension that ran through her slender body by the repetitive touch of her fingers to her skirt. Yet there was something in her gaze when it rose to meet his, something new, something that was both soft and generous yet, paradoxically, with the same determination he had witnessed the previous day in the drawing room when she had tended his wound with such calm competence. His senses tingled. She should not be here, in his bedchamber, while he sat beneath the bedcovers clad only in a nightshirt. He held his breath and waited for what she had come to say.

As if reading his mind she started, ‘I know that I shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to check that you…that your arm has not worsened.’

‘It’s the smallest scratch, nothing more. I’m only in bed today to satisfy my grandmother, and of course my own slothful nature.’ He stretched out his injured arm, clenching and unclenching his fist as if to demonstrate the proof of his words. ‘But thank you for your concern.’

The colour bloomed in her face. ‘I should go.’

‘No.’

The word hung between them.

‘Kathryn,’ he said a little more gently, ‘come and sit here beside me. I would speak with you before you leave.’

She showed no sign of complying.

‘I want to thank you for what you did yesterday. The physician said that your quick action saved me much blood loss from the wound.’

‘Anyone would have done the same.’