The Reluctant Duke (A Seabrook Family Saga) (12 page)

She was going
straight to hell for the wanton thoughts traveling through her mind. Because
Emma knew, even before this, she had craved his hands on her…his kisses. But in
the library just now, she had experienced passion that burned low in her belly
for him, and she did not fully comprehend the foreign feeling of it. When he
had pulled her hips tightly against his hard body, there was no mistaking the
bulge in his breeches. That man-part Penelope had warned her about.

Penelope had
said men wanted to put that between a woman’s thighs. Only now it did not seem
shocking and frightening when she envisioned Thomas doing that to her. Ahh, and
he asked her to call him Thomas. But she would not allow herself to think of
him as Thomas. He must remain the untouchable duke to her.

Her hands slid
up her belly, and she cupped her full sensitive breasts. God help her, she
wanted to feel his large hands there again. She lowered one hand to touch
between her thighs, shocked at the warm moisture her fingers brushed against.
She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. Surely no gently bred lady would touch
herself there or have such wicked thoughts in her head.

What had the
duke done to her?

Would she ever
feel normal again?

More sobs came
as she worried how she would face him on the morrow. Would the dowager duchess,
Bella, Amelia, or dear God, Sebastian, know she had changed so much overnight?

Telling herself
that what had passed between her and Thomas meant nothing would be a bold-faced
lie. For as long as she lived, regardless who she married, she would always and
forever treasure the memory buried deep within her soul of the one passionate
encounter she’d had with the Duke of Wentworth – the first man to steal her
heart.

But what she
wanted and needed she could only have in a marriage bed. She knew she could
never marry Thomas, that she was not good enough.

She also knew
marriage wasn’t what he had wanted from her tonight.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Barely half an
hour after Emma left the duke alone with his dark thoughts, Giles arrived with
an urgent note from Amesbury’s valet pleading that Thomas come immediately. His
lord was deathly ill.

The note
slipped from Thomas’s hands unnoticed, as he tried to contain the sudden chill
of foreboding that gripped him. He should not have left Amesbury alone; he had
guessed he’d been unwell.

Dashing out of
his study, tugging on his greatcoat, he mumbled for Giles to ready his mount;
the carriage would be too slow.

Racing through
the dark deserted streets of London, he prayed he wasn’t too late. Surely,
whatever ailed Amesbury that evening would not kill him. Thomas refused to
entertain such a morbid thought.

Amesbury’s
valet, his demeanor somber, greeted Thomas on the steps and took his horse’s
reins. “He is in his chamber, Your Grace.”

Bounding up the
stairs two at a time, Thomas tried to remember which chamber belonged to his
friend. He didn’t have to wonder long as Myles stood leaning against a wall,
his arms crossed on his chest.

“What
happened?” Thomas asked, breathless.

“I don’t know.
The doctor’s with him. I just arrived myself.”

The door opened
and an elderly white-haired, bespectacled doctor stepped into the hall. One
hand carried a worn medical bag while the other quietly closed Amesbury’s
chamber door.

“Lord Amesbury
is suffering from an overdose of laudanum. Every sign leads me to believe he is
addicted to opiates and has been for some time. If his use continues, he will
die. I placed smelling salts on the table beside his bed. See if you can keep
him awake and push fluids into him. I bled him to extract the poisonous drug
from his system. There is nothing else I can do.” He bowed. “If you will excuse
me, I have another patient to see. I will come back on the morrow. The next
several days will be difficult––if he lives through them.”

Thomas shared a
confused look with Myles. Quietly, they entered the room and went to stand at
Amesbury’s bed. Amesbury lay on his back, perfectly still. His lips were tinged
blue, as was his skin. If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of Amesbury’s
chest Thomas would have sworn his friend had already passed on.

Thomas, for the
life of him, could no longer draw air into his lungs and reached to grasp the
bedpost to keep from swaying.

His eyes fell
on the bandage on Edward’s wrist, and he cursed. He did not believe in
bloodletting. In his opinion, it killed more people than it saved.

Grabbing the
smelling salts off the table, he looked at Myles. “Sit him up and hold him
while I do this.”

Myles climbed
up next to his friend, stacked pillows against the headboard, and struggled to
raise his friend’s unconscious body. The moment Thomas passed the vile under
Amesbury’s nose he awakened and struggled to breathe, fighting to push the
salts away. His unfocussed eyes popped open, and he began to sputter
deliriously.

Thomas grabbed
the glass of water beside the bed and tried to get Amesbury to take some. It
was useless; he gagged and spit it out. Thomas did not think it a good idea to
try the water again. If his friend could barely breathe he certainly could not
swallow anything. They were liable to drown him. Their goal was to keep him
alive, not kill him.

No sooner had
his sick friend opened his eyes than they rolled back and his eyelids closed
again. His body sank heavily against the pillows.

The night
continued much in the same manner. The two men took turns doing what they
could. Thomas pulled a chair beside the bed and stared at Amesbury’s chest,
watching it rise and fall. Several times their friend appeared to stop
breathing. Thomas willed his friend’s heart and lungs to keep going, for each
time Amesbury stopped breathing, Thomas stopped breathing as well. God answered
him each time, because sure enough his friend’s chest would rise and fall
again. Then Thomas would suck much-needed air into his lungs and thank God.

Every half-hour
they hit Amesbury with the smelling salts; Amesbury’s eyes would open, roll
back in his head, and close again. Thomas met Myles’s worried, bloodshot eyes
across the bed, knowing he looked much the same as Myles.

“I feel
useless. Why doesn’t he wake up?” Thomas demanded.

Myles dragged
his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never been one to take
laudanum. I don’t know what it feels like or how it affects the body.”

“Nor do I. I
never believed in it. Doctors seem to think it’s the cure-all for any ailment.
Clearly it is dangerous – more dangerous than I’d believed.” He paused, putting
his thoughts together in his mind. “What happened to him while we were
overseas?”

“Damned if I
know,” Myles replied, his voice hoarse.

Dawn approached
quickly, and the only change in Amesbury was that his coloring took on more
normal tones, which Thomas took as a good sign. The skin on their patient had gone
from a sickly blue to a pasty white.

Someone knocked
on the door, and two servants hurried in carrying trays of food. After they
left, Thomas pushed the eggs around on the plate. He chewed a piece of pastry,
then settled down with his mug of coffee. He did not know about Myles, but his
own stomach churned, and what little he ate settled like a brick inside. So he
continued sipping the coffee, praying his sick friend would wake up on his own.

Thomas thought
about sending for his own mother as Amesbury had lost his parents and his
younger sister in a tragic carriage accident several years ago. What did he,
Thomas Seabrook, Duke of Wentworth, know about nursing someone back to health?
But something made him think Amesbury would not want an outsider to know of his
plight––even Thomas’s mother. Myles agreed.

So it would be
up to the two men to nurse their friend back to health and see him off the
laudanum for good.

The doctor came
and pronounced their friend strong enough to live. He would, however, suffer
greatly for many days without the laudanum in his system. He gave more
instructions and left.

Myles rang for
Amesbury’s valet, Simon, who came immediately. Dark circles under his eyes
indicated his own worry.

Myles said,
“We’ll need you and two of the marquess’s most loyal and trusted servants to
help us. No others. And they must remain silent about this.”

“That would be
Mrs. O’Connell, the housekeeper, and her daughter Erin,” Simon said.

“Please send
for them quickly,” Thomas added to Myles’s request.

“Yes, Your
Grace. Your Lordship,” Simon replied, bowing first to Wentworth then to
Norwich.

While Myles
stayed by Amesbury’s bedside, as soon as they arrived, Thomas gave instructions
to the housekeeper and her daughter. They would need plenty of sheets, a
bedpan, and washcloths for bathing the marquess’s face––and warm broth to warm
his body.

When Mrs.
O’Connell came back with everything he had requested, she told them with the
authority of a housekeeper confident in her position and ability, “If I may be so
bold as to say, Your Grace, my daughter and I can care for the marquess. A
sickroom is no place for Your Grace and His Lordship.”

A smiled almost
curved Thomas’s lips at the concern and worry etched on the housekeeper’s face.
“Lord Norwich and I are not leaving.”

She bowed her
head. “As you wish.”

***

Staring at
herself in the mirror, Emma watched her cheeks flush when she thought about her
soul-seeking, tongue-tangling kiss with the duke. How would she ever face him
again? Or go on as if it never happened?

“Stop it, stop
it Emma,” she scolded herself.

Surely a duke
in his right mind would never have kissed her. It must have been the brandy.
Pretend
today is like any other day in which I greet Wentworth and his family for
breakfast––as if last night never happened
.

She refused to
think of him as Thomas. Calling him the Duke of Wentworth would put what they
shared last night in perspective.

Her eyes
anxiously scanned the sunny morning room as she entered…and her stomach sank to
her knees. Obviously, the duke had chosen not to have breakfast with them. He
would probably avoid her for the rest of her life...

Emma told
herself the absence of Wentworth was a good thing, but alas, that was a lie. As
much as she dreaded coming face to face with him today, she wanted to see his
handsome self. Glimpse his deep blue eyes as they met hers. And find out what
was there–if anything. Did what happened between them have any impact on him?
Would it change things between them?

Emma did not
know if she even liked the duke. From their very first acquaintance, she had
been drawn to him even though he was moody, self-assured, and demanding. During
the weeks aboard the ship, if it had not been for Lord Norwich she would have
torn her hair out. Wentworth had barely spoken two words to her on any given
day. He let his feelings for her be known through his condescending actions,
his rules, and his disapproval. So when had his feelings for her changed? Or
when had he seen her as a woman rather than as a tiresome ward?

This attraction
she tried to ignore would not go away. She attributed it to the excitement of
the season. It would end soon enough. It had to. She just had to keep reminding
her inexperienced body, which had other ideas. Ideas and desires and needs she
did not understand.

While she sat
down with her plate of eggs, sausage, and toast, Emma caught the end of Amelia
and Bella’s conversation about their relief to finally have money for new
gowns. Surely the duke was a wealthy man? All she had to do was look around her
to see the extent of his fortune. Before she could stop herself she blurted
out, “What do you mean about
finally
having enough money?”

Both sisters
looked at each other and then at her; redness scorched their cheeks. Before
either of them answered her, their mother spoke.

“Do not listen
to my daughters. They have a more than generous allowance for clothing,
although the duke increased it to include several new ball gowns.” Her eyes
widened at her daughters. “Your brother has been most generous.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed
in puzzlement. She sensed the duchess was not telling the whole truth. She
would ask her newly acquired sisters about it later. Meanwhile, she enjoyed her
breakfast until Sebastian entered the room and smiled at her.

His eyes, the
exact color of his brother’s, sparkled, letting her know he remembered their
encounter the afternoon before. Emma’s pulse quickened. How could she have
forgotten her intimate time with him? How he had declared he wanted her.

Dear Lord, how
was she to manage living in this home surrounded by two brothers, both of whom
had let her know they wanted her? Sebastian was every bit as handsome as the
duke. Why could her heart not flutter for him? He would be the perfect husband
for her.

From this
moment on she would not think about the duke. She would try to think about
Sebastian instead. Her brain screamed to her that Sebastian’s feelings
regarding her were honest and that he would treat her with respect. His
intentions were honorable. Wentworth’s, on the other hand, were possibly quite
scandalous and could lead to ruin.

“I trust this
morning finds you ladies well?” Sebastian sank down in the chair opposite Emma
and winked. She genuinely smiled back at him because how could she not? He was
so likable.

Unlike someone
else she could name. If only all men had his easygoing nature, or at least if
only the duke had some of that.

“Indeed the
morning is lovely, Sebastian, thank you for asking,” replied Emma. Bella,
Amelia, and the duchess responded the same.

He winked at
her again, and Emma lost the battle not to blush; she scanned the table
wondering who saw. Bella fluttered her eyes and smiled at her knowingly. Did
she think she and Sebastian were . . .

“Has Thomas
risen yet?” Sebastian asked.

“How many times
do I have to tell you, you should call your brother Wentworth. That is his name
since taking the title,” Sebastian’s mother reprimanded.

Sebastian
groaned, “Mother, Wentworth is too formal. Surely as his family, we are allowed
the use of his Christian name? If we don’t and everyone refers to him as
Wentworth, he will likely forget his own name.”

“Nonsense,” his
mother replied. “His name may be, Thomas Seabrook, but he
is
 Wentworth.
Enough of this nonsense,” she said, rising as did everyone else. “I am retiring
to my rooms.”

After she left,
Sebastian, Bella, and Amelia burst out laughing.

“What do you
find so humorous?” Emma questioned.

Sebastian wiped
his eyes with his handkerchief. “Nothing, just Mother and her old-fashioned
ideas about rules and etiquette. Thomas is our brother, for bloody sake.”

Bella gasped.
“Do not let Mother hear you curse.”

“Excuse me.”
Sebastian grinned. “Thomas is our brother. For plum’s sake, we need not be so
stuffy in our own home.” He snorted.

“We aren’t,”
agreed Amelia, “Just in front of Mother.” Then she turned to Emma. “Are
Americans as formal in their homes?”

Emma pondered
her answer. “No. Most noblemen dropped their titles, especially the ones in
exile. Otherwise they’d fear for their lives. Some of them still refer to themselves
as Lord So and So. Most Americans are just Mr. and Mrs., except for those in
the military. It’s more wealth than title that is noticed there.”

She sighed. “I
must admit that last night and the previous night, my head hurt from
remembering who was a duke, a marquess, an earl, and so on. Never mind duchess,
countess, and marchioness. How do you remember it all?” She inhaled
dramatically after her long speech.