The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (18 page)

The maid helped her put the costume on before seating her at the dressing table. As the servant powdered and rouged her face and dressed her hair, Maggie gazed at herself in the looking glass, fighting to keep her tears at bay. Hugh needn’t sell her to a Paris brothel. He’d turned her into a French whore right here in her own home.

Maggie followed the maid out of the room, down the dim corridor, and into the foyer, where Hugh waited at the foot of the staircase. Her stomach tightened when she saw he wore only a banyan.

As the maid turned to go, Hugh offered Maggie his arm. She wanted to run, to scream, to scratch his eyes out, but she merely smiled and took the offered elbow. With each step they ascended, her chest grew tighter until she could barely breathe.
 

At the landing, Hugh stopped, turned to face her, and tilted up her chin to look at her face in the light of the wall-mounted sconce just above. “You are looking pale, Maggie. Is there something I should know?”

“If I am pale,” she said, keeping her tone light to belie the heaviness in her breast, “’tis doubtless the result of all the cleaning and washing I’ve been doing of late.”

“There is a glow about you as well,” he said, still eying her suspiciously. “Is it possible you are with child?”

As fear stabbed her heart, she opened her mouth to deny the supposition.

His hand jumped to her throat and squeezed until she choked.

She grabbed his wrist and fought to pry him off, but he only tightened his grip. Her vision dimmed and she staggered backward until her spine was pressed against the newel post.

“None of your lies,” he hissed, his face mere inches from hers. “Do you carry my brother’s brat in your belly or not?”

She tried to shake her head, but could not.

“Never mind,” he said. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, after all.”

He let go of her neck, drew back his arm, and drove his fist into her stomach.

Maggie heard a horrible whooping noise as the air left her lungs.

As she doubled over, gasping for breath, he moved around to the side. Then, his leg shot out with enough force to knock her off her feet. Panic raced through her as her body became airborne. She made a wild clutch for the bannister, but missed. Darts of pain stabbed her head, ribs, and hip as she bounced her way down the flight. By the time she landed at the bottom, she’d been overtaken by oblivion.
 

Chapter Ten

Gemma Wakeman, the physician’s daughter, had proved herself closer to a miracle worker than an apprentice physician. After a se’nnight of constant care and herb-infused broth, her still-nameless patient was well along the road to recovery.

Apart from the huge remaining lapses in his memory, of course.

He still could not recall who he was or what had happened to him and was as yet too weak to get out of bed, though he could now at least sit up and feed himself. Mistress Wakeman still had to shave him and help him with the chamber pot, but that would change very soon.

Too soon perhaps.

He’d heard soldiers wounded in battle sometimes attached themselves to their female caretakers, and now he understood. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown quite fond of his nurse. But she would never mean as much to him as his Rosebud did. All his future hopes and dreams were pinned on making Maggie his bride. As soon as he inherited, he would declare himself and pray she accepted his proposal of marriage.

If and when they at last tied the knot, he wanted Maggie to be his everything. If she could not be, he would take a mistress with whom to enjoy his vices, but his wife would always be first in his heart. In the meantime, he sowed his wild oats with women (and men on occasion) toward whom he felt naught but lust.

Mistress Wakeman no longer fit that category, but neither did she surpass Maggie in his affections. And even if she could in time, she was promised to Jones the apothecary.

Much as she loathed the arrangement.

The poor lass had cried for two days together when her father informed her he’d secured the betrothal. On her patient’s available shoulder, much to his frustration. He’d come dangerously close to kissing her, too. How could he help himself? She was soft and warm and weeping. She needed comforting and smelled of fresh herbs and fresh-baked bread. When she’d looked up at him with those teary green eyes, he all but forgot his pledge to avoid romantic contact.

Luckily, her father came in seconds before their lips met. Oddly, ’twas the only time since he’d been conscious Dr. Wakeman had come to check on him. The man obviously trusted his daughter’s physicking skills implicitly.

Or could not be bothered to attend to a person as insignificant as himself.

“You are mending nicely,” the gray-bearded physician had observed after looking him over and asking numerous probing questions. “I only wish your memory was repairing as quickly as your skull. When next I visit the palace, I shall make inquiries as to your identity. Perhaps the knowledge will help draw other recollections to the fore.”

The patient had seen neither hide nor hair of the good doctor since, and was growing more worried and restless with each passing day. If the king tossed him out on his ear, where would he go? Home to wherever home was? He could not imagine that would set well with his father. He might not remember his own name or the name of the town in which he’d been born and bred, but he vividly recalled the shouting matches and being sent away to spare his old man further anguish.

Unlike in the Biblical fable of the Prodigal Son, there would be no feast to celebrate his unexpected homecoming. On the contrary, his father would undoubtedly slam the door in his face.

The sound of someone entering brought him out of his pre-waking ruminations. Opening his eyes, he found Mistress Wakeman at the foot of the bed giving him a careful once-over.

“Good morning,” she said when his gaze met hers. “How is the patient feeling today?”

“Stronger,” he said. Then, fearing she might get her hopes up, he added, “But not nearly fit enough to manage aught too strenuous.”

He hoped she took his meaning. Not that he found her disagreeable. Quite the contrary, truth be known. She was as lovely as a spring day and just as refreshing. At present, she wore a simple-yet-tight-fitting blue linen bodice, which showed off her comely figure in ways that tempted him to break his vow. He did not merely desire her, however. He liked her, liked her touch, her smell, her company, her sense of humor, her clever mind, and her sweet disposition.

Aye, he was fond of Mistress Wakeman, but he did not love her as he
loved
his Rosebud. Though why his feelings for a lass who barely knew he existed should suddenly matter mystified him no end. Since he’d stupidly fallen for his father’s young ward, he’d shagged plenty of women without a second thought. So, why should he feel beholden now?

Perhaps the head injury was to blame for this baffling change in him.

“Do you require my assistance with the chamber pot this morning?” asked Mistress Wakeman.

His lips compressed. Letting her get her hands on his cock was not a good idea, especially given his morning erection. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I believe I can manage on my own this morning.”

“It gladdens me to hear you say so.” Her eyes noticeably brightened, rekindling his worries. “For it means you must be feeling more yourself this morning.”

He swallowed hard. “Indeed, but still a long way from well.”

She bent to retrieve the chamber pot and, after setting the commode on the table, made to pull down the bedclothes.

He held them fast around his chin. Resisting her was hard enough beneath the shield of the blankets.
 

“My heart belongs to another,” he blurted, still holding tight to the bedclothes.

She gave him a wicked smile and tried to wrest the blankets from his grip. “Be that as it may, I ask not for your heart, my lord. Only your tarse.”

“Aye, well,” he ground out as he fought her to keep himself covered. “In my case, the two are inseparable.”

Dear Lord. Had he really just said that? More remarkably, he’d meant it, but still could not fathom the change in his ethics. He had always been up for it—without the least regard for his or the other party’s feelings. Or Maggie’s for that matter. He’d made no promise to his sister's friend. So far as he knew, she had not the least idea he carried a torch for her, and would probably laugh in his face when he finally mustered the nerve to declare himself.

“I see,” she said curtly. “And, if I may be so bold, what changed in the past week?”

“Naught.” He desired to be truthful without wounding her feelings. “I simply thought better of our arrangement. Now, would you kindly turn your back so I may do my business without an audience?”

When she turned round, he took up the chamber pot, pulled down the covers, and relieved himself. Returning the commode to the table, he quickly drew the covers back over his lap. “I am decent once more. You may look now.”

Rather than turn round, she walked to the fireplace and fingered the ceramic dogs upon the mantle. “It surprises me not that you have reneged on our agreement.” Bending to the dying fire, she took the poker from its place and jabbed the log, which answered with a flurry of sparks. “My father made inquiries at the king’s court yesterday. No pages have gone missing. When he described you to those he met, not one of them claimed an acquaintance.”

He stared at her back in slack-jawed astonishment for several moments before he gathered enough of his wits to say, “But—that cannot be. I spoke the truth. I swear it. Insofar as I recall, I am a Page of the Bedchamber to the king. Did your father speak directly to His Majesty? Charles will vouch for me. I am certain of it.”

She shot a glance at him over her shoulder. “My father does not enjoy access to His Majesty. Only Her Majesty, and even then, only when summoned.”

“He could gain access to the king by bribing one of the pages,” he offered.

She laughed rather harshly and poked the log again. “Now there is an irony if ever I heard one. He should bribe a page to see the king in order to ask if he is missing a page of your description." Turning, she met his desperate gaze with a stern one. “And what do you propose we use to make this bribe? Look around you, my lord. Do we appear to be rolling in money?”

“I will give you the money.”

“Unless you are a Leprechaun with a pot of gold stashed somewhere, I do not see how. When my father found you, you’d been robbed of all but your shirt, which, though finely made, was ruined by rips and stains.”

He scratched his head, which still ached rather fiercely. Either she was putting him on or he’d gone stark raving mad. He was sure he was a Page of the Bedchamber at the Palace at Whitehall. Biting his lip, he tried to puzzle it out why his fellows might deny an acquaintance, but could come up with no reasonable explanation.

All the while she watched him, her eyes brimming with suspicion.

“I swear to you, I have spoken truthfully,” he said, feeling compelled to explain himself. “But there are significant gaps in my memory. I have no recollection of being attacked, for example. Though I must have been. For I see no other way I ended up in an alleyway, stripped and bloodied.”

Her expression grew pensive as she settled in the armchair. After several moments of silent contemplation, she said, “My father did say a blow to the head could cause a person to lose time. Perhaps you’ve lost more time than the hours surrounding the attack. What is the last thing you remember doing before you came to your senses?”

He dragged his memory, finding his mind like a writing slate that had been erased—or a letter whose ink has been smeared by a spill. Shadowy remnants remained, but nothing he could make out as a whole. A scene flickered. A swordfight with a ruffian. Might that be the attack that robbed him of his memory? Nay, it could not be, for he saw himself in the countryside fighting beside a grand carriage bearing his father’s ducal seal.

“I recall being besieged whilst making a journey in my father’s coach, but only vaguely.”

As he said it, something came into his mind. A pearl rosary with an engraved silver heart instead of a crucifix. The prayer beads had belonged to his mother and yet, he vividly remembered the feel of the rough natural pearls betwixt his fingers as he knelt in supplication. In the memory, he donned a long velvet coat with ridiculously wide cuffs—a style with which he was unfamiliar.

When and where had this been?

Sudden, suffocating dread gripped him. “My rosary. Did I have it when your father found me?”

“Your rosary?” Her eyes bulged in astonishment. “You are Catholic then?”

Invisible fingers closed around his throat. Had he endangered himself? He swallowed, licked his lips, and regarded her in earnest. “Would it make a difference if I were?”

He breathed easier when a kindly expression overtook her features.

“’Twould make a great deal of difference, as a matter of fact,” she said. “As we are Catholics as well, we’d be much more inclined to offer you sanctuary until we are able to ascertain who you are.”

* * * *

This was the first time Maggie had ever been seriously ill. She knew she was sicker than they dared tell her, weakly realized at some level she hovered on the brink of death. The cracked rib stabbed when she breathed, her head pounded whenever she moved, and her whole body felt as though she’d been set upon by demons armed with red-hot pitchforks.