Page 20 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #18)

Angela awoke to the sound of voices, and she opened her eyes, but her head hurt, and as she opened her eyes, the light seemed too bright, and it hurt them.

She struggled to rise, but someone placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.

How silly! The room was actually quite dim.

Only one lamp sat on her bedside table, its flame turned down.

But the light still made her want to close her eyes. So, she did.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Only she couldn’t quite place what it was. Oh yes, the things Susan had told her. Evan had deceived her from the first. They had discussed it, but he was leaving to give her space to think...

Oh, Evan! He had been shot.

“Evan.” She jerked her eyes open.

He was there beside her. His white shirt bore what seemed like a huge red splotch that apparently seeped from the bandage on his shoulder.

She forgot all about her own pounding head. “Oh, Evan!”

He smiled and waved her off. “This?” He pointed to his shoulder. “It is a flesh wound. The impact was more of a shock than anything else.”

She gaped at the red stain on his shirt. “You’ve been bleeding.” How much blood had he lost?

“Believe me, my love, it looks worse than it is.”

Could she believe him? She studied his face, and he broadened his smile. “I will be fine.”

“Evan, you have lost some blood, and the doctor has left instructions that you should spend the next few days off your feet.” Lady Wyndam’s voice quavered with concern.

Angela turned to face her, causing a wave of dizziness to sweep over her, and she placed a hand to her head, willing Lady Wyndam’s image to stop spinning. “Will he truly be all right?”

“Yes, if he rests.”

“Tell me the truth about the extent of his injury,” she begged the older woman, and again, she tried to raise up. The whirling became more violent.

Evan put his hand on her shoulder and pressed her back while Lady Wyndam placed both her hands on Angela’s shoulders, and that lady seemed far stronger than Evan as they gently pushed her down to the bed. That realization alarmed Angela.

With her head back on the pillow again, Angela closed her eyes and swallowed against her nausea. When the bed stopped rocking, she asked, “How is he really, Lady Wyndam?”

“Please keep your head on that pillow, Angela,” Evan said before Lady Wyndam answered her. “You hit your head.”

“Yes, you lay in that bed, Lady Ashington.” Lady Wyndam commanded.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Don’t you ‘Your Grace’ me. My name is Katherine.”

Tears welled in Angela’s eyes, blurring the image of the other woman’s kind brown eyes.

This woman had been nothing but kind and compassionate to her since they had met.

And after the horrible reception with her father’s wife and heir, she needed some kindness and compassion.

“Thank you, Katherine, and I hope you will call me Angela.”

Katherine squeezed her hand. “Your husband will recover.” She repeated her reassurance. “He lost some blood, to be sure. It took the surgeon several hours to remove the bullet. Never fear; I shall stay and see to the care of both of you.”

“Please don’t miss Christmas with your family on our account,” Angella said.

Lady Wyndam waved her off. “I will be happy here, looking after my two good friends.”

“How many more days will I have to stay in this bed?” Angela asked Evan several days later as they rested together in their chamber at the dowager’s house.

Filled with irritated energy, she sat up and reached down to stroke Natalia’s downy head, where she slept against her foot, the warm little cuddler.

Natalia barely opened her eyes, then snorted and repositioned herself, pressing more heavily on Angela’s foot.

She had a new puppy, and it was Oliver who was playing with her in the mornings and working to house-train the little pup.

How unfair this prolonged bedrest was getting to be.

And she was impatient about going to Mayfair.

Evan said that they would start looking for a townhouse for the two of them.

His own townhouse was located in an unsuitable part of town for a wife to live in, and he was already exchanging letters with a distant cousin who wished to buy it.

Yet, Lady Wyndam had this idea that Angela’s recent distaste for coffee and troubled belly might be a sign that she was carrying a child.

The lady emphasized to her that if she were carrying Evan’s child, she was lucky to have escaped the fall and hit her head without losing said child.

Now, she was ordered to stay in bed and rest for the sake of the potential child.

Angela shook herself. Lady Wyndam was surely mistaken, but she would stay in bed to please her. She hated to give their benefactress any further cause for worry.

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I think we could safely have spent the evening in the drawing room by then. Evan said and then turned back to his London newspaper.

She rubbed the back of her neck and then shuddered.

At the motion, he looked up. “What is it?”

“That man is still out there, somewhere. He might hurt someone else.”

“My superior, the Duke of Radstock, sent a message just this morning. He is coming here later this evening with some news relating to that whole business.” He drew his brows together. “He warns that his news may be shocking to us.”

She placed her hand over her collarbone. “I could do with a little less shocking news.”

He went back to reading the paper, and Natalia remained sleeping, curled up at the foot of the bed.

Angela tried to focus on the book she was reading but found herself filled with nervous energy and no longer comfortable just resting in bed.

She put her book down and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to go look out the window.

She sank down on the window seat and watched a pair of lady waxwing birds feeding on the seeds and nuts that she’d placed in a bowl on the balcony of their chamber.

Their cheerful gluttony eased the anxiety within her.

After a time, an elegant carriage came rolling up the drive.

She sat up straighter. Who could that be?

Was Radstock arriving early? The carriage came to a stop in the center of the drive.

The coachman jumped down. That still put a little prickle of alarm into her chest, for it reminded her of that night on the road to Whitestone Manor.

He was wearing a livery colored green and gold with cream-colored breeches, a snowy white wig with an emerald bow tied at his queue, and pale green gloves. He opened the carriage door.

She turned away to call to Evan, “Someone’s here. Perhaps it is Radstock.”

His jaw tightened. A barely perceptible gesture, but one that she already recognized. He was more concerned about Radstock’s visit than he had said.

“Already?” He put down his paper, then ran his hands down his cheeks. “I had hoped to have a shave and to change into my clothes before he arrived.”

“You look beautiful enough as you are,” she teased him, allowing her gaze to drink in his scruffy two-day beard and mussed hair.

How many others had he allowed to see him in such disarray?

Likely not many. They had not indulged in carnal activity since his injury.

Adding to that distance, she also wasn’t completely sure about how she felt about their relationship in light of his previous deception.

Yet, they had shared a different, more poignant sort of intimacy in the past few days.

Realizing that her husband had literally taken a bullet for her made his previous deception, a deception that he had thoroughly apologized for, seem insignificant now.

Realizing how much he must truly love her made her heart seem to squeeze in her chest. The depth of her own love for him did not scare her as it once had, yet she still felt awe that made her limbs tremble when she thought too deeply about it.

She’d been angry, and her pride had been bruised, to think of how completely he had deceived her. And then later, she’d been afraid that if she didn’t put some distance between them over the matter, then he would never respect her, just as Jacob had never respected her.

Just as Amesbury had never loved and respected her?

Yes, likely she’d complicated the whole issue with those feelings as well.

He rose from the bed and donned his dressing gown over his nightshirt. He went to the sidebar and lifted the brandy decanter. “Would you like a quick drink before he is announced?”

“No, thank you.”

He poured one for himself and downed it in one gulp so quickly that she felt her own throat dry as fresh alarm washed over her.

“Maybe I’ll have one after all.”

He filled a goblet with wine and brought it to her. She accepted it and took a sip as she turned back to the window.

A man was being settled into a wheeled chair. He was wrapped in blankets, and he wore a thick woolen hood over his head. His face bore a gauntness and a pallid complexion that spoke of a recent, serious illness.

A tight feeling in her chest told her that she’d been holding her breath for several moments. She exhaled sharply.

Evan was still at her side, looking out the window.

“Is Radstock ill?” she asked.

In the silence after her question, she gulped the remainder of her wine. Then she repeated, “Is Radstock ill?”

“That’s not Radstock.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Angela, that’s your father.”