This Earl Is on Fire (6 page)

“Brilliant, Rendell. I knew there was a reason I kept you.” Liam waved a hand in the steward's general direction. “However, that was the last
my lord
I can tolerate for one day, so see yourself out, if you please.”

He wanted relief from the pain. Automatically, he found himself listening carefully to the sounds in the house. Rendell's lumbering steps down the stairs. Boswick's deep baritone. The door closing. He held his breath, listening intently. But there was no Miss Pimm.

Peculiarly, her voice served as a tonic that he already found himself requiring. Tonic? He nearly laughed at the notion. What idiocy! Exhaustion, that was all this was. And perhaps the blow to his head had rattled his good sense.

A
deline couldn't sleep. So, as she brushed her hair in her bedchamber, she listened to the steady cadence of Father's snores from the far end of the hall, as well as the clamor of traffic outside the window. The sounds of two opposing worlds—country gentility and London society. The latter were just now beginning their evenings.

Tomorrow evening, that would be her as well.

Setting down her brush, her cheeks lifted in a grin. Father had sent Gladwin to the opera house to procure tickets. The opera! Adeline had never attended one before. She had, however, heard a few performances over the years. Father hosted various musicians, singers, and play actors, inviting them to stay in Boswickshire. He had wanted to give the best of the world to his wife and daughter.

During the first years of her life, Adeline had felt rather spoiled in that regard. This lasted until she was eight years old, when a village girl revealed the truth that had changed everything.

According to Miss Georgiana Hatch, coming over to play with Adeline was part of the weekly chores that all the village girls their age had to endure. But they were told never to say anything about her leg. That was when Adeline had begun to feel secluded instead of pampered. From that moment on, she'd feigned a stomachache whenever her assigned playmate was scheduled to arrive.

She'd always wanted a friend, someone with whom she could feel comfortable, not pitied. In fact, part of her hoped she might find that here. Perhaps she would meet such a person at the op—

A sudden
thunk
startled Adeline. The low oath
“Bloody hell!”
followed. She looked to her open door, the sound coming from across the hall.

Alarmed, she snatched the lamp from her side table and rushed to their guest's door. She paused at the threshold for the barest moment. When she heard Wolford cursing under his breath again, she entered the room without knocking.

Then she stopped short, halting so abruptly that the lamp sputtered.

The greenest eyes she'd ever seen stared back her, the enigmatic clover color holding her transfixed for a moment. Liam did not move either. He was sitting up in bed, his legs draped over the side, and—more importantly—with the length of his bandage curled in his hand.

After speaking to him and sitting at his bedside for hours on end—with nothing to do but memorize the features exposed to her view—she already knew he was handsome. She'd gone to sleep thinking about the angular line of his jaw, the tendons on his throat that shifted when he swallowed, the shape of his mouth . . . She just never expected him to be
this
handsome.

How could she have guessed that the slope of his forehead was utter perfection? That his dark brows were so thick and tapered? That the length of his lashes served as a frame for those eyes, making it nearly impossible to look away? And that with the natural contour of his beard that he would look like a veritable pirate?

“You removed your bandage,” she said, dumbstruck and unable to state anything other than the obvious.

He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. Then when he opened them again, he grinned. “Miss Pimm.”

The warmth of those two syllables caused her to blush, but the unbidden effect helped her to break eye contact. Pulling herself together, she stepped into the room and set her lamp on his bedside table. She knew in an instant that she shouldn't have dared to stand so close to him. Her skin tingled all over, from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Her fingertips pulsed as if yearning to glide over his brow, to trace those chiseled features, to memorize the texture of his skin.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she reached down and took his bandage from his grasp. “You shouldn't have done so.”

“I was tired of the constant darkness,” he said, his gaze unwavering. He studied every minute activity she did—winding the gauze, brushing it free of the ruffles down the center of her night rail when it started to cling, pulling a wayward length of her light brown hair free of the bundle, tossing that hair over her shoulder—and missed nothing.

Neither did she. Once the alarm faded, she realized she was standing before him in her night rail. She hadn't even thought to grab a wrapper. Thankfully, the garment was layered, thereby offering a measure of modesty. Or at least, that's what she told herself as she moved toward the sideboard to set the bandage down and pour him a glass of water.

“You're limping,” he accused. “Did you hurt yourself on the way to my room?”

Adeline tensed. The question felt like a poke at a bruise that would not heal. While she would rather no one learn of her secret, there was no hiding it now.

Drawing in a breath, she prepared for the pity that would inevitably come. “I'm lame, Wolford. I always limp, unless I wear my corrective half-boots.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded, his gaze dropping to her feet. “Ah. That explains the shuffled step.”

While her left foot was planted cleanly on the floor, her right was on tiptoe. With the length of her night rail nearly reaching the floor, she was sure he couldn't see much of her feet, but she felt the need to flare her hem wider for concealment, nonetheless. “Pardon?”

“Whenever you walked into the room, your steps would shuffle,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your father's footfall is crisp and heavy. Your mother's is steady and light. And yours . . .”

“Shuffles,” she finished for him, feeling more ungainly than usual.

“Those are things I'd never noticed before. All sorts of sounds. While I'd always thought I was an astute observer of people, I never knew how much I'd relied on my eyes to assist me. Hearing only the cadence of a voice and not seeing their stance or expressions was difficult to overcome.” His gaze lifted, and there appeared to be a question in his eyes.

She braced herself. Usually, along with the pity, people wanted to know exactly how she became lame. And she hated telling that story.

“You did not come to me again after your outing with your mother.”

Surprise stuttered out of her lungs. Was that all he had to say about her leg, just a mere observation and nothing more? She doubted that was the end of it.

“How did you know when I returned?” Likely, he'd heard the sound of her ungainly, doddering footfalls.

Yet he surprised her again with his next words.

“Your voice has a certain . . . quality to it that is easy to recognize,” he explained with the hint of a grin. The upward tilt of his mouth caused a curved, narrow fissure to line one cheek. “And I heard you return early this afternoon.”

A certain quality?
What could that mean? She wondered whether it was good or bad.

“You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you,” she said, stating a partial truth. “Father believes sleep is important for healing.”

“He is a wise man, for I do feel better. Certainly relieved.” He lifted a long-fingered hand, gesturing to his eyes.

She noticed that his breathing was less labored than before, but not entirely easy. Holding the water glass, she moved toward the bed. Without thinking, she lifted it to his lips. When she realized how pointless her effort was, she stammered, “F-forgive me. I did not mean to—”

Yet before she finished or even lowered the glass, he stopped her by curling his hand around hers. Then, tipping the glass, he drank every drop. And his eyes stayed with hers the entire time.

She felt her cheeks heat once more. In fact, they might have caught fire because she had the distinct impression that she was glowing like an ember.

When he finished, she withdrew the glass and turned to face the table. Placing the glass beside the lamp sent rows of diamond-shaped shadows against the burgundy silk-covered wall. It brought her attention to the size of the room. It seemed a trifle smaller, more intimate, now that his bandages were gone.

She swallowed and tried to keep her head about her. Though when she turned back to him and noted that he was still looking directly at her, it proved difficult. She feigned a sudden interest in a key on the floor. Likely, it had fallen during his struggles to remove the bandage.

“What is this?” Picking up the key, she glanced over to the similar cloverleaf bow protruding from the lock in his door.

“Rendell left that for when I am well enough to leave. It opens an adjoining door between our houses,” he said, his gaze pinning hers once more. “As soon as your father believes I am out of danger, I'll be gone.”

“Your swelling has diminished completely,” she said, feeling a strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Then she gripped the key tightly as if it were her life's purpose. “Your flesh is somewhat bruised, however, and purplish in places. When you arrived, we weren't even able to see that you had eyes.”

“And now that you are able?” There was an edge of mockery to his tone and—
yes
—to his lips too. Now there were appealing fissures on both sides of his mouth.

“Are you seeking a compliment? I had not taken you for a vain peacock,” she chided, feeling comfortable enough to tease him in return. Yet, that quickly altered when he reached up and closed his hand over hers.

He tugged her closer. “Your expression reveals little. And there are no mirrors nearby to show me whether I am merely bruised or disfigured. That pretty blush upon your cheeks could be because you are here in your nightdress and shy about it, not necessarily because you think I am handsome.”

Were all the gentlemen in London this bold? She held her breath, trying not to move and wanting to absorb every sensation caused by her hand in his grasp. Her skin rejoiced, sending shivers of warmth through her like sparks from flint and steel. His thumb swept back and forth over the mound of her thumb. Then his fingers curled casually as if touches such as these were commonplace. At least, for him.

Adeline was not wholly unfamiliar to the touch of a man's hand. Mr. Wittingham had taken her hand . . . even if only to aid her into a carriage or up the steps to the parish church.

This
felt far different. Wolford wasn't offering assistance. In fact, she might even presume that his only aim was to touch her, to feel her hand in his. It awakened parts of her that made her feel womanly. Not at all like a lame girl.

“I like the look of you,” she confessed, holding his gaze. A man who'd suffered such a beating deserved that, at least. Yet when she noticed another grin at his lips—one clearly stating that he'd known her answer the whole time and was merely teasing her—her ire sparked. She slipped free of his grasp, leaving the key with him. “I'm sure you've heard as much from many women.”

Not denying it, he flashed a full smile. Then winced a bit. Her gaze fell to the cut at the corner of his mouth. Automatically, she reached for the jar of salve from the table. Before she gave a thought to her action, she dipped her fingertip into the silken jelly and brought it to his lips.

“You'll need to—” She stopped in near mortification. This time she hadn't been trying to anticipate a need but had simply reacted. And as if she had the right to touch him whenever she pleased. She would never have been this forward with anyone else.

It was her skin's fault, she decided. That sensation-greedy part of her enjoyed manipulating her into acting too familiar with him.

Pushing the jar into his hand, she pretended that she'd meant to do that. “And now you know exactly how to apply the salve.”

“I never would have accomplished it without your assistance.” He winked at her and then pressed his lips together. “Mmm . . . I enjoy the cool bite of the mint.”

It was a favorite of hers as well. In fact, this was her jar. She usually applied it right before bedtime. All it took was the barest scent to cause her lips to tingle. Not only that, but the tip of her finger did as well, pulsing beneath the silky residue. She wanted to wipe it over her own lips, but such an action would be far too intimate.

She needed a distraction. And some distance would be preferable too. “There is also beeswax in the salve.”

“Is that so?” He grinned, apparently amused as he placed the jar and the key on the bedside table.

“Boswickshire boasts the finest honey. In fact, we might have a jar in the larder. I could assemble a tray, if you have the appetite.”

The instant she made the offer, she expected him to look down at her foot and shake his head in polite rejection. No matter where she went in the village, everyone knew of her limb and believed her incapable of so much as carrying her own ribbons to the carriage. And Father had never once let her walk there. It had taken him years to allow her to venture as far as the stables.

Liam, however, surprised her by accepting without hesitation. “A hearty appetite, in fact.”

Her cheeks heated once more at the low timbre of his voice. His gaze dipped but not to her foot. To her mouth instead. And then drifted down her throat.

Suddenly, her offer seemed more intimate than a cheese plate.

L
iam was ravenous. He devoured slice after slice of dark, grainy bread smeared with soft, salty cheese and drizzled with sweet, golden honey. “Miss Pimm, how did you ever discover such a delicious combination of flavors?”

Her gaze slid down to his mouth as he licked at a stray drop of honey. Actually, her gaze dipped often. He doubted that she realized how obvious her aroused state was. The signs were there. Now that he could see, he didn't miss a thing. Her dark pupils expanded, nearly eclipsing the acorn brown of her irises. All that remained was a ring of golden brown in between those mirrors and a blue rim along the outside.

Whenever he pressed his lips together, so did she. Whenever he swallowed, she did the same. And whenever their eyes met, she would look furtively down to the plate. Then she would cut into the end of the loaf.

And because it aroused him to watch her watching him, he'd already eaten six slices. At this rate, he would gain twenty stone by tomorrow.