Page 8

Chapter

Eight

A ngelica walked into Lord Benedict’s room and found him in a state of undress, but also exhausted. The poor man looked wretched, tired, and disheveled after the three-course meal they’d just enjoyed downstairs.

She stopped herself from announcing that she thought him joining the family had been too soon, that he would only make himself tired and possibly make himself unwell if he joined them, and from looking at him now, she was correct.

From the paleness of his skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the slow, labored rise and fall of his chest, she was certain she was not wrong.

“How can I help, my lord?” She came and stood before him, and he looked up at her like a man who had lost his way—a flicker of shame and fatigue filled his eyes that tugged unexpectedly at her heart.

“I should not have asked, my lady. To help me would not be proper, but maybe you could ring for my brother to join me.”

“I do believe Lord Whitmore is with the duke still, my lord, and from the laughter I can hear from downstairs, he’s now joined the ladies in the parlor.” Her voice sounded too breathy, too soft, and she hoped he hadn’t noticed. Instead, she knelt before him, smoothing her skirts beneath her.

“Come, I’ve been helping you almost the past two weeks, and I shall not have any talk or embarrassment should you need me to help you dress for sleep.

You are injured, sir. You’ve been shot, if I do not need to remind you.

I do not think I’m in any way in danger of you stepping outside the bounds of propriety and causing a scandal. ”

His lordship’s eyes settled on hers, and the flicker of heat in his gaze, quickly masked, sent an odd thrill through her. Angelica squashed the sensation as soon as it rose within her, reminding herself he was meant for the church and wasn’t an eligible gentleman for marriage.

In truth, the man ought to be more concerned that she would do something improper, not the other way around. There was something about his lordship that she liked very much, and she feared that even if she enjoyed her Season, her mind would forever think back on this time at home.

“Of course, no, my lady. I would never.”

A shame … She stifled a sigh and busied herself instead in preparing him for bed. “Undo your falls, and I shall help pull off your boots and silk breeches before anyone knows I was in here. If you hurry, I shall be able to have you in bed and myself out of this room before anyone’s the wiser.”

“I cannot. Lady Angelica, that would be improper.”

She shrugged, ignoring the tremor of anticipation that coursed through her veins.

“Do I need to remind you, my lord, that I’ve seen you in such a state of undress for some days now?

I cut off the breeches you were wearing the day you were shot.

You will not shock me, I assure you. I will not swoon if that is your fear. ”

“That is not my fear…” He bit his bottom lip—a quick, almost boyish gesture that sent a warm flush spreading over her cheeks —and then, thankfully, reached for his falls and pulled the buttons free.

She pulled his boots off, before he wiggled on the bed, pushing the breeches down his hips before Angelica grabbed the hems, careful not to brush against him more than necessary, and pulled them free of his legs.

Before he could move away and hide under the blankets, she checked his bandages and was pleased to see the wound did not seem to be bleeding. The smell of linen, faintly tinged with the sharp tang of salves, rose between them.

“All looks satisfactory here. The doctor is to call tomorrow, but I do not think he’ll be displeased with your recovery.”

“No, I believe you will be right.” He sat on the bed in only his long shirt and Angelica fought not to think of his nakedness beneath. How very close she was to his anatomy…

“Do you wish to change into your nightshirt? It’s right here on the chair.” She stood, smoothing her hands over her skirts, and collected the garment, her fingers brushing over the soft lawn fabric.

He shifted his bedding over his lap and then lifted his shirt from his body, throwing it aside.

Angelica stilled at the sight of his sun-kissed, muscular chest. Her pulse kicked up a beat and a sweet flutter settled low in her belly.

Of course she’d seen him without a shirt on days before, but he’d been listless, and her mind had not been distracted as it was now.

He was broad, defined, with a faint dusting of hair that glinted in the lamplight. She had thought men of the cloth would be pale and bookish, but this man—this man was strength and sinew, warmth and heat.

She rallied her self-control and her wayward mind, clamping down on the dangerous longing that threatened to undo her, and helped him slip the nightshirt over his head. Her fingers grazed the hard curve of his biceps—his skin warm and firm beneath her touch—and her breath caught.

What was happening to her? Why did he make her feel all sixes and sevens, as if she could not catch her breath—and nor did she wish to. The feeling was new and wonderful, and she wanted nothing but to bask in it for a few moments longer.

“Thank you, Lady Angelica. I do not know what I would do without you.”

With his shirt now on, he reached for her hand, his fingers warm and strong, and brought her fingertips to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there.

Angelica cleared her throat, her breath catching, and fought not to gape at the sight of his lips brushing her skin. The warmth of his touch, the intimacy of the moment, made her heart gallop.

Dear heavens, had God sent him to her in some form of test? Had she misbehaved at some point in her short life, and he was here to see if she passed some virtue questioning?

“It is no trouble,” she murmured, though her voice sounded strange to her ears—low, breathy, and a little hoarse.

Lord Benedict shifted, attempting to slide up the bed to lean against the bedhead, but a sharp wince and the paling of his face had Angelica reaching for him without thought.

“Let me help you.” She slipped her arms beneath his and, with his assistance, they managed to get him upright. His breath, warm and shallow fluttered against her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine.

She pulled back, her hands still on his arms, and their faces were but a breath apart. His gaze—green, so green, the color of the hills in spring—dipped to her lips, and his grip on her arms tightened.

For several heartbeats, loud ringing sounded in her ears, and she could not move.

Was he debating kissing her? Would she let him kiss her should he try?

Oh yes, I would let this handsome, sweet man do more than kiss me...

The thought burst unbidden in her mind, and her breath caught, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Lord Benedict seemed to stiffen, as though the thought had leapt from her mind into his own, for he pulled back, a flush staining his cheeks.

Angelica stood quickly and stumbled a little at her hastiness. With the distance between them now proper, she met his eyes with some semblance of calm.

“You should return downstairs, my lady. You have helped me more than you should have already, and it sounds like there is much gaiety still to be had.”

“Of course,” she said, though her voice trembled, and she did not argue. She fled the room as if the devil himself were nipping at her heels, her skirts tangling around her ankles as she all but ran down the stairs.

By the time she entered the drawing room, she had managed to compose herself—or so she hoped. She found Isabella lounging on a settee, her chin propped on her hand, eyes fixed on Lord Whitmore with a contemplative look that spoke of trouble brewing.

“Tell me something to distract me,” Angelica blurted, dropping onto the seat beside her sister and trying not to fidget, though the memory of Lord Benedict’s lips on her fingers—and the forbidden ache it had stirred—lingered in her bones.

The man was destined for the church, and she had almost leaned in and kissed him.

She was certainly destined for the fires of hell for even thinking about kissing the man. Not only was she unmarried, but he intended never to be so.

Oh dear. Oh dear!

“Lord Whitmore is a flirt. I like him,” her sister said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched the marquess.

Angelica’s gaze slid to him, and her heart gave a quick, traitorous flutter when he reminded her of another upstairs. “Yes, he is, but I do think he’s kind and not mean-spirited.”

“Except he’ll break some lady’s heart.” Isabella’s tone sharpened. “Unless someone breaks his heart first.”

Angelica nodded, silently agreeing. “Do you like the marquess?”

Isabella turned toward her, tilting her head, her expression keen. “No more than any other woman who enjoys gazing upon a handsome man… But what is wrong with you, more like? You’re positively ashen.”

“I am?” Angelica instinctively reached for her cheeks, as if her palms could smooth away the flush—or the guilt. “Well,” she whispered, her voice tight but she needed to confide in someone. “I suppose I am a little, because just before I came down…well… I almost kissed Lord Benedict.”

“What!” Isabella’s outburst cracked like a pistol shot into the room, and the conversation about them faltered.

Angelica smiled weakly, waving her hand in a futile attempt to deflect attention, and thankfully, after a few curious glances, conversation resumed.

“Shh, Isabella. I do not need anyone to know.” Angelica cringed, sinking into the settee, wanting nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. “I cannot believe I would act so fast with a man of the cloth.”

“He’s not a Catholic priest yet. He’s merely contemplating it.”

“That does not make what almost happened any better.” She shook her head, her heart still fluttering painfully. “I will just have to pretend that nothing occurred.”

Her sister’s lips curled into a sly smile.

“But something almost did occur. Do you think he’s not thinking about it too?

Maybe he’s not suitable to be a Catholic priest. He can still be a reverend in a country parish.

I’m certain even Ravensmere may give him a living at our church when it becomes available. ”

The idea was not one she had considered, but it stirred something—a fragile, dangerous hope that she tamped down at once. “Rosalind is coming over. Do not say a word.”

Her sister chuckled under her breath. “Of course not. I’ll be the soul of discretion.”