Page 53 of The Rebellious Countess (The Ruined Duchess #2)

Dear Sir Robert Williamson,

It was no accident. His last meeting was with Viscount Pembrock. Then six children were orphaned.

Astley

—A letter penned by Baroness Caillen Griffith to the Sir Robert Williamson, War Office, London, England, for the severely sick Simon Clark, Earl of Astley.

C aillen was not meant to be a nursemaid. The injured and sick earl lying in front of her dying was testament to that. She was not meant to be anything. She had no purpose. No goals. No feelings. Except…

Astley had said the death was no accident. She wouldn’t have thought too much about his insistence she write his dying testimony to Sir Williamson at the War Office if he hadn’t mumbled, six children were orphaned .

Six children were orphaned.

Astley had six siblings—not children. He had one son and he’d made her promise to take Sébastien to his own mother when he died.

If he died. She prayed he wouldn’t, but it didn’t look like those prayers would be answered.

His fever had lasted for days, and she didn’t know how much longer his body could fight.

She rinsed out the cloth in the wash basin and returned to the man in the bed where she began sponging off Astley’s brow.

His dark skin held the pallor of death, yet the angles of his cheeks and jaw still showcased the most handsome face she’d ever seen.

Careful not to push too hard around his swollen eye, she wiped down the bridge of his gloriously straight aquiline nose that now had a new bump in the middle it had not had the last time she’d seen him.

She continued down across his full, split but masculine lips.

She worked her way down the cords of his neck and thought about his long hair she’d had to cut.

She’d come close to crying as she’d lopped off the snarled mass that had once been silky smooth.

She worked the cloth across his Adam’s apple and down across the wide breadth of his chest. She smiled as she remembered the first time she’d seen Astley’s chest ten days earlier.

She’d never seen her husband’s chest and was rather shocked to see Astley’s nipples and the light sprinkling of hair.

He’d lost a tremendous amount of weight, yet she could still see the strength of his muscles across his entire torso.

She worked her way down his stomach and hips, marveling at the trail of hair to his—she froze.

Her gaze flew to his face to find him still sleeping peacefully.

She looked again at his manhood, shocked to see him aroused for the first time since she’d begun taking care of him.

Even that part of him was markedly different than what she remembered of her husband.

In his entirety, Astley was beautiful, despite the bruising and cuts and broken bones.

The exact opposite of what she had looked like when he’d rescued her from similar circumstances.

A knock at the door made her throw the bedclothes over the earl, only to see a large tenting in the middle from his hard manhood.

“Blasted. Do you always have to bring attention to yourself?” she cursed.

“Caillen, may I come in?” her sister asked.

“Just a moment!” Caillen ran across the room and grabbed another blanket and tossed it over the earl’s midsection.

“Control that damned thing, Astley,” she whispered.

She stood back and looked at her handiwork.

Now only an experienced woman would know what the rise in the blanket meant, and she prayed Iseabail had not explained everything to her younger siblings yet.

She grabbed the cloth and said, “You can come in now.”

Her younger sister Robina entered the room with a bowl of broth. “I thought you’d never let me in. How is the earl today?”

“The same.” Lie. He was worse.

“Do you think he’s going to live?”

No. “I don’t know.” She rinsed the cloth out in the basin and wondered if a man’s appendage became hard when they were about to die.

“Are you ever going to talk to us again?” Robina whispered.

“What would make you ask that?” Caillen wrung out the cloth and folded it.

“Because you don’t engage in conversation with us. You just spout out answers that are meaningless.”

“I’m just preoccupied with Astley.” And I have nothing to say, except… “What can you tell me about Viscount Pembrock?”

Robina put the tray down next to the bed and folded her arms across her chest. “Why do you ask?”

She bit her lip before she said something that would start an argument. “One of Astley’s sisters is interested in him. I wanted to make sure he was a good person.”

Robina snorted. “He’s the last person you would want your sister to be around.”

Caillen thought about the day her husband was killed. “Probably not the last person.”

“Oh, most definitely the last. Don’t you read Whispers of the Ton ?”

“No.” She didn’t care about gossip.

Robina sighed then crossed over to the chair and plopped down.

Blast. That was the last thing she wanted her little sister to do. She wanted a quick report, and then she wanted Robina to leave her in peace.

“He is said to be a bigger rake than Astley.”

“Not possible.”

Robina shrugged and looked at her fingernails. “He’s vastly wealthy, owns much of the land that the canal is being built upon, and he’s said to keep a mistress at each one of his estates. Can you imagine how expensive that would be?”

She was going to scream. Robina had to be the nosiest, most talkative sister in the bunch, but she was telling her nothing of import. “Are there any rumors about his involvement with the underworld?”

Robina laughed, her gaiety so loud the earl flinched.

“Shhh,” she admonished.

“The ton might consider dabbling in trade as the underworld , but if you’re talking about criminals, no. Unless…did the earl implicate him? Is Pembrock a French spy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed as she leaned over the earl’s body toward her far-too-intelligent little sister.

Robina’s eyes widened. “It’s true! Wait until —”

“Say one word and I’ll box your ears so hard, you’ll never be able to listen in on another conversation.”

Robina grinned as she stood up and skipped across the room. “It’s nice to see my sister again.”

As the door closed behind her, Caillen closed her eyes and took a deep calming breath.

“I’m not sure what’s worse. Having the information that is supposed to go to the War Office in the hands of your little sister, or not being able to respond when a beautiful woman washes your body.”

Caillen’s gaze shot to Astley and her cheeks heated. “You were awake?”

His lip quirked. “Could a man sleep while his body is being caressed?”

“I did not caress you! I bathed you like I’ve been bathing you for over a week!”

His brows drew together. “I’ve missed an entire week of erotic hands doing wonderful things to my body?”

Caillen’s lips thinned as she pressed them together. “If you even think about touching me, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

“Damn, all that passion wasted.”

She was going to hit him.

He grinned for the first time. It would have been wonderful if…

“You can’t hit a dying man.”

“Actually, I can.”

His grin grew. She wanted to celebrate until he said, “My cock still needs to be washed.”