Revealed (37 page)

“I know several people who would tell you I’m no good whatsoever,” she retorted with cheer, as the pincers grazed the side of the wound, causing Marcus to wince in pain.

She wished he would yell. She wished he would cry out, but even though his breaths came hard, sweat coated his taut skin, and his voice was strained, he held himself in. He was being so strong. The only thing he asked of her was that she prattle on, the only thing that might keep his mind off the pain she was putting him through. And at that moment, the decision she made was easy.

She decided to let him in.

“My marriage to Alistair Benning,” she began, “was very short.” She felt him tense, then go still. As she managed to maneuver the prongs of the pincers around the sides of the bullet, she continued. “I was in my first Season, and he was very impressive. He was, in fact, the man of my dreams: ancient name, elite Ton, handsome, charming. He swept me off my feet.”

“You were young and in love,” Marcus said.

“I was young, yes,” she said, gently pulling the pincers out, “and I certainly thought I was in love. We were to sail to Venice for our honeymoon. But on the ship, a yacht given to us by my father, the whole crew came down with a fever. Five days into the voyage, Alistair died.”

“And you’ve . . . mourned him ever since?” Marcus asked.

“For a time, yes. I mourned the man of my dreams.” Suddenly, he gave a sharp gasp, as the pincers, bullet intact, were withdrawn from the hole in his shoulder. Exhaling her nerves, she dropped the small ball of iron and pincers on the table and pressed a strip of linen against the wound, again bleeding profusely.

“And then?” he asked, after he steadied his breathing.

“Then” she answered, “I discovered who he really was.”

For a brief moment, she considered telling him about how she had mourned the loss of Alistair, of their life together, for the first month. Then, tired of being coddled and pitied by her family, she had decided to move into the ancient Benning House on Grosvenor Square, which, since Alistair was the last of the line, she inherited. She found out soon enough, she inherited an empty house; the facade was the only thing kept up for appearances. And then the creditors began to knock. Luckily, they did so at the servants’ entrance, allowing her to preserve her dignity, and the lie of his solvency. Publicly, she preserved the lie of Alistair’s love. Lovelorn widows were so much more appealing than angry ones.

She almost told Marcus all of this—this story, which she had confided to no one else.

Almost.

“And that,” she concluded, “is the story of my marriage.”

And that was all she was willing to say.

E
XHAUSTION came quickly. And so did the fever. All his energy had been so focused on talking her through the process of removing the bullet, when it was done, his will drained away.

She pressed the linen into his wound, pressure helping to stanch the bleeding. Helping him to sit up again, she wound his crushed cravat around his body, holding the linens in place and applying much needed pressure. His shoulder was throbbing mercilessly, he would have killed for a drop of Byrne’s laudanum. But his head could not be muddled, at least, not to the blissful extent that those precious drops would allow, so he settled for a swig of brandy from the flask on the beside table.

She moved with efficency now, all of her nerves gone. After all, for her, the worst part of the ordeal was over. Of course, for him, it had just begun.

She murmured soothing words, nothing phrases, the simple melody of a nursery rhyme, as she ran a cool cloth over his forehead, his neck, his chest. He was too tired and too grateful for her ministrations to stop them. His skin was growing hot now, the expected fever coming on, the real danger in any battle.

Phillippa eased him back down onto the bed, on his stomach, and ran the cool, wet cloth on his back in long strokes.

Why had she chosen to tell him about her husband? Twenty-four hours ago, it was staunchly forbidden, the subject that shut her down, forced him from the room. But today, she had chosen to tell him that, contrary to popular belief, she had been disappointed in love. That wall that she had erected around her heart had shown the smallest crack.

He could only think of two possible reasons for such a revelation. First, that her relationship with Lady Jane was so black, so terrifying that she would not reveal it to anyone. He doubted this, if only because, as hard and proud and bright as she was, she was not cold. Not really. And neither was Lady Jane, in his limited experience.

The second option was that, for whatever reason, she had wanted him to know. She wanted to let him into that part of her life, that part that was unknown to anyone else. That possibly, he, not Broughton nor any of her other beautiful suitors, could be the one to dismantle that wall.

A thrilling thought—but also a frightening one.

For, as his mind drifted to warm blackness, the sweet undertow of sleep calling to him, he kept harkening back to that moment when he saw that flash of metal in the maze, and covered her body with his in the veriest nick of time.

She was not safe with him.

He could not be the one to break down the wall around her heart.

Because that bullet could have just as easily pierced it.

He fell into slumber quickly, fitfully. Phillippa tried her best to keep him cool, using up over half the jug of water in the attempt. It simply would not do to have him die, she told herself. It would require explanations to their hosts and the magistrate that she was unprepared to give. And besides, she needed him alive for the Benning Ball! That was the whole reason she was so diligent in her ministrations, she resolved. The only reason.

Phillippa was well-versed in making small adjustments to the truth for the sake of society, but when it was just her and just Marcus in a room alone together, the lies she told herself began to fall flat.

Something had changed. The when and the where of it she could not place, but at some point, she began to care deeply for Marcus Worth. Unassuming Marcus Worth!

It was the double life he led, surely. The dashing Blue Raven, his exploits and expertise. The danger that lurked around every corner. Although she had to admit that, having been a party to that danger, its excitement was not nearly all that it was cracked up to be. But it was the alluring secret that drew her to him, she was convinced, that made his acceptable countenance positively mouthwatering. Not his kindness or amiability. Not his humor or his faith in her abilities. Those were all well and good, but it would never do for Phillippa Benning to be brought to a heel because of the mundane day-to-day. By someone, well, average.

And Marcus Worth, as the Blue Raven, would never be average.

Her ruminations were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Seeing that Marcus had stilled and was resting comfortably, she went to the door, ushering in Lady Jane.

“I have a dress—” Lady Jane began, but Phillippa brought one finger to her own lips. She then indicated Marcus’s slumbering form before Lady Jane could continue, but at a much lower pitch.

“I also managed to scratch my arm and procure some ointment,” Jane finished, handing over a small pot of browning cream, and showing off a long, thin, red line on her arm.

“How’d you do that?” Phillippa asked.

“Just my fingernail; I have very sensitive skin, you know.”

“Yes,” Phillippa remarked, “you freckly redheads are positively cursed with it. But, Jane,” she continued before Jane could snipe back, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, I didn’t. I told my ladies’ maid you did it in a fit of jealousy,” Jane smiled wickedly.

Phillippa shot Jane a look as she put the jar down on the dresser, the dress on a nearby chair. Under the dress was a small pile of linens, unnecessary, considering the massive amount Jane had brought them earlier.

“More linens?” she asked.

“Oh, those aren’t for him; they’re for you.”

“For me?”

“To fill out the top of the dress. You’ve always been the lesser of us in that area.”

Phillippa smiled ruefully. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

“Just a little,” Jane replied. Then, with a glance to the bed, “Will he be all right?”

Phillippa followed her gaze, saw that Marcus had rejected the covers, and his long, lithe back was exposed to view. She went to the bed, pulled the sheet back over him. “I think so. I hope so. I don’t know much about this sort of thing.”

“As well you shouldn’t,” Jane replied. “Who among us knows how to treat a bullet wound?”

“He does,” Phillipa replied, with a nod to the sleeping Marcus. “He talked me through it.”

Phillippa smoothed a hand over his brown hair, pushed a lock away from his fevered skin. She must have gotten lost in staring at him, because Lady Jane had to clear her throat to get her attention.

“Well, I should be back in bed by now; the party deteriorated after the stables were put out.”

“Oh! The fire at the stables! Was anyone hurt?” Phillippa asked.

“A stableboy or two got singed.” She shrugged. “They saved the horses. The building’s a charred ruin, however.”

Phillippa walked Jane to the door, one question hanging in the air. As Jane put her hand on the door’s latch, Phillippa decided it was worth the gamble to ask it.

“Jane. Earlier, Marcus—Mr. Worth—asked me why you and I were . . . at odds.”

Jane’s eyes became cool. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him it was difficult to explain,” Phillippa replied.

“It is difficult,” Jane agreed.

“Can . . . can you explain it?” Phillippa asked.

Jane kept her eyes on Phillippa’s, as her jaw worked it over. “Lots of little reasons, I suppose. None of them big enough to merit this conversation,” she concluded frostily. “Don’t worry about the dress; you can discard it when you’re done, I shan’t wear it again.”

And with that, their roles rightfully returned to the antagonistic places they had held for so long, Phillippa bade Lady Jane good night, and closed the door.

Marcus awoke at daybreak, his throat parched, his body crying out for relief from the heat of his fever. He was weak, yes, but his mind was there. He was not lost in some fevered dream. He knew this because Phillippa was not there, as she had been, in his mind, all through the night, his body wrapped around hers, their skin melded into one flesh.

Instead, he was greeted by Byrne.

“Good morning,” Byrne said. “How do you feel?”

“Like cow dung,” Marcus replied. “I need sleep.”

“Yes, but first, we need to get you out of this house,” Byrne said, as he threw assorted shirts and bloody linens into a valise. “And we need to do it without letting anyone know you’ve been injured.”

Byrne was right, of course. The party ended today, and everyone would be piling into their carriages to go back to the city. He could not cry illness, because that would alert everyone, and especially Sterling (if he was helping Laurent as suspected) that he was injured. No, Marcus had to get up and walk out of this room, through the house, and into the carriage as if nothing had happened.

“Your fever’s a bit less,” Byrne remarked, placing a cool hand on Marcus’s forehead.

“Where’s Phillippa?” Marcus asked, looking around the room.

“I got back a few hours ago. I sent her to bed. She was successful with the bullet, I see.” Byrne indicated the small lump of iron left on the bedside table. Marcus’s eyes fell on the chair across the room, where Phillippa’s once-beautiful dress lay, bloody and torn and dirty, as Byrne continued. “And I have to admit, she had a cooler head under the circumstances than I would have expected.”

“Yes, she’s a bloody rock,” Marcus grunted, as he forced himself up to a sitting position. And for the first time, he noticed Byrne’s condition.

“You look terrible.”