Slightly Sinful (14 page)

What a purely asinine explanation!

"Quite so, sir," the sergeant said agreeably, scooping the pins into one large hand. "I would protect that little lady with my life if anyone tried to harm her-as I am sure you would yourself, sir. I'll always remember the way she was sobbing over you even though as it turned out you was not her man. A tenderhearted lady she is, sir."

"I am well aware that I owe her my life, sergeant, and a great deal more even than that," Alleyne assured him.

Sergeant Strickland did not labor the point. He picked up the shaving things and took them from the room. Without even waiting for his breakfast to arrive, Alleyne flung back the bedcovers, swung his legs carefully over the side of the bed, and drew the crutches toward him.

He was feeling restless, weak, irritable, guilty-and downright sinful. He could do something to alleviate the first two conditions, at least. And the others? He was going to have to think of some way of making his peace with Rachel York. But a simple apology would not do it, he sensed.

He would have to think of something.

He tucked the crutches firmly beneath his arms and hoisted himself up onto his right foot.

R ACHEL BUSIED HERSELF IN THE KITCHEN FOR MUCH of the morning, helping Phyllis bake bread and cakes and peel potatoes and chop vegetables. The other ladies did not leave their beds until late, a fact for which she was very thankful. She was amazed that Phyllis appeared to notice no difference in her. She felt as if last night's activities must be written all over her face and person.

She was also very thankful that Sergeant Strickland had firmly established himself as Mr. Smith's valet and catered to all his needs during the morning.

Before noon she volunteered to do some shopping and hurried away from the house. She had avoided going out much following her return to Brussels, lest she be seen by some of Lady Flatley's acquaintances and be accused of being Mr. Crawley's accomplice, even though she realized that it was unlikely any of them would be aware of his villainy yet. Indeed, it was possible that most of them never would unless they checked up on the charities to which they thought they had contributed. But today she was desperate for air and exercise and did not much care whom she met. It did not even occur to her that in London before her father's death she had not been allowed to set foot outdoors unchaperoned.

She walked farther than her errand made necessary. She even strolled for a while in the Parc de Bruxelles and watched the swans on the lake and soaked up sunshine and warmth. It was the middle of the afternoon before she returned to the house, and even then she dreaded doing so. She was going to have to confront Mr. Smith again, and she shrank from the prospect. How ever would she be able even to look at him after what had happened between them last night? She would take a cup of tea into the sitting room and compose herself first, she decided, hearing the sound of voices and laughter coming from that direction.

She opened the door gingerly and peered around it, fearful that perhaps her friends were entertaining clients, though they did not often do so during the daytime. And indeed she almost jerked back her head when she saw that there was indeed a gentleman in the room with them-an extraordinarily handsome gentleman. For a split second she did not recognize him. But there was a pair of crutches propped against the chair beside him.

"Rachel!" Bridget called. "Come in, my love, and meet our gentleman caller."

"Isn't he gorgeous?" Phyllis asked gleefully.

Geraldine was standing by the window, her hands on her hips. "He dresses up well enough, I must admit," she said. "It's just a pity those pockets are empty."

"I am not sure I care, Gerry," Phyllis said.

"We will be putting the poor man to the blush," Flossie said as Rachel came unwillingly into the room and shut the door behind her. "But he is enough to make any self-respecting girl squabble with her closest friends."

They were all joking and flirting as usual, and Mr. Smith was grinning and taking it all in good part. But he busied himself with his crutches and hauled himself out of his chair at the sight of Rachel. He made her a surprisingly graceful bow.

"Miss York," he said.

He looked very directly at her, some of the laughter gone from his eyes. Rachel hoped fervently that she was not blushing. It was almost impossible, seeing him now, to realize that less than twenty-four hours ago they had been naked and intimate together. But since it was not quite impossible, she felt she could cheerfully die of mortification.

. . . since it would appear that we were a disappointment to each other . . .

She could hear him speak those words as clearly as if he were saying them now.

She had not realized quite how tall he was. His clothes had not been fashioned by the most exclusive of tailors, she guessed, but his shirt was dazzling white, his cravat crisp and neatly knotted about his neck, his blue coat well fitting enough to show off the breadth of his shoulders and chest, and his gray pantaloons tight and creaseless about shapely, well-muscled legs-if one discounted the outline of the bandage about his left thigh. He wore leather shoes rather than the Hessian boots that might have been more usual with such an outfit, but altogether Phyllis was quite right. He looked gorgeous. His hair had even been freshly washed. One dark lock had fallen forward invitingly over his right eyebrow.

"Your new clothes all fit well, then, Mr. Smith?" she asked him, concentrating hard upon keeping her manner casual and amiable.

"All except for one coat," he said. "And, alas, it is the one I most fancy. But even with all of Sergeant Strickland's strength thrown into the effort, I could not be squeezed inside it."

"We miscalculated, Floss," Geraldine said mournfully. "That chest is even broader than we supposed."

"The shoulders too, Gerry," Flossie said, looking him over frankly. "We paid too much attention to that handsome face and the roguish smile that goes with it. I would not make the same mistake again."

"You might have asked for my measurements, ladies," Mr. Smith said, lowering himself carefully to his chair again after Rachel had seated herself.

"But they were afraid you would not remember and I would have all the pleasure of going at you with my measuring tape," Phyllis said. "This will teach them never to leave home again without theirs."

And so the conversation proceeded for the next ten minutes or so to the accompaniment of much laughter while Rachel tried to compose herself and rehearse what she would say when she was finally alone with him, as she inevitably would be sooner or later.

It was sooner rather than later.

"In my bobbing progress about the house," Mr. Smith said, "I have seen that you have a pretty garden at the back, ladies, and that someone has even been considerate enough to place a wooden seat beneath the willow tree overhanging the lily pond. If you will excuse me, I am going to convey myself out there and take a turn about the paved paths before sitting for a while, breathing in the air of the outdoors."

"Just be careful not to overdo the exercise," Bridget warned him. "Remember that this is the first day you have been up."

"We would hate to have to carry you back to your bed," Phyllis told him.

"No, we wouldn't, Phyll," Geraldine said.

"I'll be careful," he promised. "Miss York, would you care to accompany me?"

Bridget smiled and nodded her consent in Rachel's direction just as if she were still her nurse. Rachel set down her empty cup and saucer and got to her feet. She would have given a great deal to be able to avoid this encounter, she thought. She was not ready for it yet. But would she ever be? And since she could not now go back and change last night, she could only go forward and deal with the embarrassment of being alone with him. She opened the sitting room door and held it back while Mr. Smith moved past her on his crutches.

He made slow but quite steady progress on them, she noticed as they proceeded outside. She fell into step beside him after closing the back door. She clasped her hands behind her.

"Well, Miss York," he said, the amused, flirtatious tone he had used in the sitting room gone from his voice, "we need to talk."

"Do we?" she asked, concentrating her attention on the flagstones over which they walked. Like a child, she avoided stepping on the cracks. "I would really rather not. What is done is done. It was not of any great significance, was it?"

"What a blow to my masculine pride!" he exclaimed. "Of no great significance, indeed. I am well aware that under normal circumstances I should now be making you an offer of marriage."

She felt more mortified than ever.

"I would not accept it," she said. "What a foolish idea!"

"I am glad you think so," he said. "I cannot, of course, make any such offer-not yet, at least. I would have no legal name to write on the license or marriage register. And I may already be married to someone else."

She had forgotten that possibility. She felt a slight churning in her stomach.

"Not ever," she said firmly. "Not even if you discover after you know your identity that you are still unwed. I have been involved in one unconsidered betrothal this year, Mr. Smith. I have no intention of engaging in another anytime soon."

"What are you planning to do?" he asked her.

She felt at a disadvantage now that he was on his feet. She was accustomed to looking down at him. Even last night while they were . . . But really, she preferred not to think about that.

"I have not decided," she told him. "I will take employment again, I suppose."

"And I daresay," he said, "you would need a character reference from Lady Flatley. Would she give you one?"

Rachel grimaced.

"The ladies here want to go in search of Mr. Crawley as soon as they return to England," she said, "if they can raise enough money to cover their traveling expenses, that is. I have thought of going with them. I do not suppose he will be easy to find, and there is very little chance that any of their money can be recovered, but I feel the need to help them as much as I can."

"Those ladies," he said, "do not need your help, Miss York. They are hardened women of the world. They will survive."

"Yes," she said, stopping on the path and turning to face him, anger sparking from her eyes, "of course they will. They will survive. It does not matter that they will do nothing more than that, that they can never expect freedom or happiness or bounty. They are only whores, after all."

He sighed out loud. "My meaning was only," he said, "that you are not responsible for them any more than you are responsible for me-or than I am responsible for you. Sometimes one simply has to allow others to live their own lives even if it is painful to watch."

She frowned at him. She had been in the mood for a good quarrel. But he had refused to take up his cue.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "we ought to sit down before we continue this conversation. I would hate to totter and fall at your feet and perhaps give the wrong impression."

She went ahead of him, but she waited until he had seated himself with slow care and propped his crutches against the wrought iron arm of the seat before perching on the other end. She wished it were a little longer.

"Tell me about your uncle," he said.

"He is Baron Weston of Chesbury Park in Wiltshire," she said. "There is not much else to tell. He was my mother's brother, but he disowned her after she eloped at the age of seventeen to marry my father. The only time I saw him was after her death, when he came to London for her funeral and stayed for a few days."

"He is your only living relative?" he asked her.

"As far as I know, yes," she said.

"Perhaps," he said, "you ought to go to him. He would hardly turn you away, would he?"

She turned her head to look at him incredulously.

"I have heard from him twice since I was six years old," she said, "once when he refused my request for my jewels when I was eighteen and once when I asked for them again last year after my father died. On that occasion he wrote that I might not have them but that if I was destitute I could come to live with him and he would find me a husband."

"And so it is possible for you to go there," he said.

"Mr. Smith," she said, her anger returning, "if you were in my place, would you go? To someone who had cut your mother's acquaintance when she married and who had ignored you all your life except for a few days when you were six? And someone who was so eager to see you again that he informed you that you could come if you were destitute and threatened to marry you off to someone of his choosing if you did so. Would you go?"

His nearness was disconcerting. Even more so was that she still had to look up at him. He seemed to loom over her, far larger and more imposing than he had appeared to be when lying in bed.

"I suppose not," he said. "No, that is an inadequate answer. I would probably tell the bastard to go and boil his head in oil."

She was so surprised and so shocked that she burst into laughter. He smiled slowly, and she could see that his eyes had focused upon her dimple, which she always thought such a childish feature.

"Tell me about the jewels," he said.