In Bed with the Duke (8 page)

It felt as if she were stepping out of an invisible prison.

* * *

Morals, Gregory decided some time later that day, could be damned inconvenient things to possess. For if he didn't have so many of them he could be making love to Miss Prudence Carstairs instead of engaging only in stilted conversation.

He'd been thinking about making love to her ever since she'd flung back her head and started singing. That rich, melodious voice had stroked down his spine like rough velvet. And had made him see exactly why sailors leaped into the sea and swam to the rock on which the Sirens lived. Not that she'd been intentionally casting out lures, he was sure. For one thing she'd been covered from neck to knee by his jacket, whereas the Sirens were always depicted bare-breasted.

Ah, but he
knew
that her breasts were unfettered beneath his jacket and her gown. He had her stays in his valise to prove it. Which knowledge had given him no option but to take himself off for a brisk walk while reciting the thirteen times table. Fortunately he'd just about retained enough mental capacity to keep half an eye on her, and had made it to her side before those three drunken young fops had done more than give her a bit of a fright.

He'd have liked to have given
them
a fright. How dared they harass an innocent young woman? A woman under
his
protection? He could cheerfully have torn them limb from limb.

Though who, his darker self had kept asking, had appointed
him
her guardian? To which he had replied that he'd appointed himself. And he knew of no higher authority.

Besides, what else was he to do after the way she'd rushed to him and hugged him and said she'd never been so pleased to see anyone in her life? Nobody had ever been that pleased to see him. He hadn't known how to react. And so he'd stood there, stunned, for so long that eventually she had flinched away, thinking he hadn't liked the feel of her arms round him.

Whereas the truth was that he'd liked her innocent enthusiasm for him far too much. Only his response had been far from innocent. Which put him in something of a dilemma. She wasn't the kind of girl a man could treat as a lightskirt. For one thing she came from the middling classes. Every man knew you didn't bed girls from the middling classes. One could bed a lower class girl, for the right price. Or conduct a discreet affair with a woman from the upper classes, who'd think of it as sport.

But girls from the middling class were riddled with morals. Not that there was anything wrong with morals, as a rule. It was just that right now he wished one of them didn't have so many. If only Prudence didn't hail from a family with Methodist leanings, who called their daughters things like Prudence and Charity. Or if only he wasn't fettered by his vow to protect her. Or hadn't
told
her of his vow to protect her.

Or if only she hadn't gone so damned quiet, leaving him to stew over his own principles to the extent that he was now practically boiling over.

What was the matter with her? Earlier on she'd been a most entertaining companion. He'd enjoyed watching her haggle her way through the market. She'd even induced many of the stallholders to let her sample their wares, so that they'd already eaten plenty, in tiny increments, by the time they'd left the town with what they'd actually purchased.

But for a while now she'd been trudging along beside him, her head down, her replies to his few attempts to make conversation monosyllabic.

Had he done something to offend her?

Well, if she thought he was going to coax her out of the sullens, she could think again. He didn't pander to women's moods. One never knew what caused them, and when they were in them nothing a man did was going to be right. So why bother?

‘How far?' she suddenly said, jolting him from his preoccupation with morals and the vexing question of whether they were inconvenient encumbrances to a man getting what he wanted or necessary bars to descending into depravity. ‘How far is it to wherever you're planning to take me?'

‘Somewhat further than I'd thought,' he replied testily. When people talked about distances as the crow flies, the pertinent fact was that crows
could
fly. They didn't have to tramp round the edges of muddy fields looking for gates or stiles to get through impenetrable hedges, or wander upstream and down until they could find a place to ford a swiftly running brook.

‘So when do you think we might arrive?'

He glanced at the sky. ‘It looks as though the weather is going to stay fair. It should be a clear night. If we keep going we might make it some time before dawn tomorrow.'

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

‘Prudence?' He looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time since they'd left the outskirts of town. ‘Prudence, you aren't crying, are you?'

She wiped her hand across her face and sniffed. ‘No, of course not,' she said.

‘Of course not,' he agreed, though she clearly was. Which gave him a strange, panicky sort of feeling.

There must be something seriously wrong for a woman like Prudence to start weeping. A woman who'd been abandoned by her guardians, left to the care of a total stranger, had thought up the notion of singing for pennies with which to buy provisions so he could keep back his gold watch for emergencies, and then gone toe to toe with him about how to spend money she was proud of having earned herself—no, that wasn't the kind of person who burst into tears for no good reason.

Was it?

‘Look, there's a barn over there,' he said, pointing across the rise to the next field. ‘We can stop there for the night if you like,' he offered, even though he'd vowed only two minutes earlier not to pander to her mood. After all, it wasn't as if she was crying simply to get attention. On the contrary, she looked more as though she was ashamed of weeping, and was trying to conceal her tears behind sniffles and surreptitious face-wiping.

‘You will feel much more the thing in the morning.'

‘Oh.'

She lifted her head and pushed a handful of wayward curls from her forehead in a gesture that filled him with relief. Because when they'd first set out she'd done so at regular intervals. Without a bonnet, or a hairbrush to tame her curls, they rioted all over her face at the slightest provocation. But as the day had worn on she'd done so less and less. She'd been walking for the last hour with her head hanging down, watching her feet rather than looking around at the countryside through which they were trudging.

‘Well, I don't mind stopping there if
you
wish to rest,' she said.

She was drooping with exhaustion, but would rather suffer in silence than admit to weakness.

All of a sudden a wave of something very far from lust swept through him. It felt like...affection. No, no—not that! It was admiration—that was all. Coupled with a completely natural wish to put a smile back on that weary, woebegone face.

As they got nearer the barn he started casting about in a very exaggerated manner. Tired as she was, she couldn't help noticing the way he veered from side to side, stooping to inspect the ground.

‘What are you looking for?' She turned impatiently, as though getting inside that barn was crucial.

‘A rock,' he said.

‘A rock?' She frowned at him. ‘What on earth do you want a rock for? Aren't there enough in your head already?'

‘Oh, very funny,' he replied. ‘No, I was just thinking,' he carried on, with what he hoped was an expression of complete innocence, ‘of giving you some practice.'

‘Practice?'

‘Yes. You claimed you weren't able to hit a barn door when you threw that rock at me. I just thought that now we have a barn here for you to use as target practice you might like to...'

‘In the morning,' she said, her lips pulling into a tight line, ‘I may just take you up on your generous offer of using this poor innocent building as target practice. For now, though, all I want to do is get inside, get my shoes off and lie down.'

So saying, she plunged through the door, which was hanging off its hinges, and disappeared into the gloomy interior. Leaving him to mull over the fact that, in spite of deciding that coaxing a female out of the sullens was beneath him, he'd just done precisely that.

With about as much success as he'd ever had.

Chapter Eight

T
he barn was almost empty. It looked as though the farmer had used up most of last year's crop of hay over the winter. Though there was enough, still, piled up against the far wall, to provide them with a reasonably soft bed for the night.

Clearly Prudence thought so, because she made straight for it, sat down, and eased off her shoes with a little moan of relief.

His own progress across the barn was much slower. She was too tempting—in so many ways.

‘Miss Carstairs...' he said.

Yes, that was a good beginning. He must not call her Prudence. That had probably been where he'd gone wrong just now. He'd called her Prudence when he'd thought she was crying, and then he'd started trying to think of ways to make her smile, rather than ignoring her poor mood. He had to preserve a proper distance between them, now more than ever, or who knew how it would end? With him flinging himself down on top of her and ravishing her on that pile of hay, like as not. Because he was too aware that she had nothing on beneath her gown. That her breasts were easily accessible.

He'd tell her that he had her stays in his valise and beg her to put them back on in the morning—that was what he would do.

Though that would still leave her legs bare. From her ankles all the way up to her... Up to her... He swallowed. All the way up. Whenever he'd caught a brief glimpse of her ankles today that was all he'd been able to think of. Those bare legs. And what awaited at the top of them.

Now that she'd removed her shoes, her feet were bare, too. Whatever he did, he must not look at her toes. If thoughts of her breasts and glimpses of her ankles had managed to work him up into such a lather, then seeing her toes might well tip him over the edge. There was something incredibly improper about toes. A woman's toes, at any rate. Probably because a man only ever saw them if he'd taken her to bed. And not always then. Some women preferred to keep their stockings on.

Just as he was thinking about the feel of a woman's stockinged leg, rubbing up and down his bare calves, Prudence flung herself back in the hay with a little whimper. And shut her eyes.

All his good resolutions flew out of the door. He strode to her bed of hay. Ran his eyes along the whole length of her. Not stopping when he reached the hem of her gown. His heart pounding, and sweat breaking out on his forehead, he breached all the barriers he'd sworn he would stay rigidly behind. And looked at her naked toes.

‘Good God!'

Her feet—the very ones he'd been getting into such a lather about—were rubbed raw in several places. Bleeding. Oozing. He dropped to his knees. Stretched out a penitent hand.

‘Don't touch them!'

He whipped his hand back.

‘No, no, of course I won't. They must be agonisingly painful.' Yet she hadn't uttered one word of complaint. ‘Why didn't you tell me you were getting blisters, you foolish woman?'

‘Because...because...' She covered her face with her hands and moaned. ‘I was too proud,' she muttered from behind her fingers. ‘It was my idea to walk wherever it is we are going. When I haven't walked further than a mile or so since I was sent to England. And I
boasted
about being young and healthy. And I
taunted
you for not thinking of it. So how could I admit I wasn't coping?'

‘Prudence,' he said gently, immediately forgetting his earlier vow to address her only as Miss Carstairs, and removing her hands so that he could look into her woebegone little face. ‘You would have struggled to get this far even if you'd had stockings to cushion your skin. Those shoes weren't designed for walking across rough ground. It would have been different if you had been wearing stout boots and thick stockings, but you weren't. You should have said something sooner. We could have...'

‘What? What could we possibly have done?'

He lowered his gaze to her poor abused feet again. And sucked in a sharp breath. ‘I don't know, precisely. I...' It seemed as good a time as any to explain about the stocking she'd found in his pocket. ‘If I'd had both your stockings I could have given them to you. But I didn't. There was only the one this morning...'

She looked up at him as though she had no idea what he was talking about. He'd been trying to explain that he wasn't the kind of man who kept women's underthings about his person as some kind of trophy. It made him even more aware of the immense gulf separating them. Of his vast experience compared to her complete innocence.

Though not the kind of experience that would be of any use to her now. He had no experience of nursing anyone's blisters. Of nursing anyone for any ailment. ‘They probably need ointment, or something,' he mused.

‘Do you
have
any ointment?' she asked dryly. ‘No, of course you don't.'

‘We could at least bathe them,' he said, suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘There was a stream in the dip between this field and the next. I noticed it before, and thought it would come in handy for drinking water. But if it is cool that might be soothing, might it not?'

‘I am not going to walk another step,' she said in a voice that was half-sob. ‘Not even if the stream is running with ice-cold lemonade and the banks are decked with bowls of ointment and dishes of strawberries.'

He took her meaning. She was not only exhausted and in pain, but hungry, too.

‘I will go,' he said.

‘And fetch water how?'

He put his hand to his neck. ‘My neckcloth. I can soak it in the water. Tear it in half,' he said, ripping it from his throat. ‘Half for each foot.'

She shook her head. ‘No. If you're going to rip your neckcloth in two, I'd much rather we used the halves to wrap round my feet tomorrow. To stop my shoes rubbing these sores even worse.'

She was so practical. So damned practical.
He
should have thought of that.

‘I have another neckcloth in my valise,' he retorted. See? He could be practical, too. ‘And a shirt.' Though it was blood-spattered and sweat-soaked from his exploits at Wragley's. He shook his head. How he detested not having clean linen every day. ‘Plenty of things we can tear up to bind your feet.'

As well as her stays.

He swallowed.

‘Why on earth didn't you say so earlier?'

‘I would have done if only you'd admitted you were having problems with your shoes. I could have bound your feet miles ago, and then they wouldn't have ended up in that state,' he snapped, furious that she'd been hurt so badly and he hadn't even noticed when he was supposed to be protecting her.

Though how was he to have guessed, when she hadn't said a word? She had to be the most provoking female it had ever been his misfortune to encounter.

‘You weren't even limping,' he said accusingly.

‘Well, both feet hurt equally badly. So it was hard to choose which one to favour.'

‘Prudence!' He gazed for a moment into her brave, tortured little face. And then found himself pulling her into his arms and hugging her.

Hugging
her? When had he ever wanted to hug anyone? Male or female?

Never. He wasn't the kind of man who went in for hugging.

But people gained comfort from hugging, so he'd heard. And since he couldn't strangle her, nor ease his frustration the only other way that occurred to him, he supposed hugging was the sensible, middling course to take. At least he could get his hands on her without either killing or debauching her.

Perhaps there was something to be said for hugging after all.

* * *

Prudence let her head fall wearily against his chest. Just for a moment she could let him take her weight, and with it all her woes—couldn't she? Where was the harm in that?

‘You've been so brave,' he murmured into her hair.

‘No, not brave,' she protested into his shirtfront. ‘Stubborn and proud is what I've been. And stupid. And impractical—'

‘No! I won't have you berate yourself this way. You may be a touch proud, but you are most definitely the bravest person I've ever met. I don't know anyone who would have gone through what you have today without uttering a word of complaint.'

‘But—'

‘No. Listen to me. If anyone is guilty of being stupidly proud it is I. I should have swallowed my pride at the outset and pawned the watch. I should have done everything in my power to liberate that horse and gig from the stable so you wouldn't have to walk. I will never forgive myself for putting you through this.'

‘It isn't your fault.'

‘Yes, it is. Oh, good grief—this isn't a contest, Prudence! Stop trying to outdo me.'

‘I'm not.'

‘Yes, you are. Even when I admit to a fault,' he said, as though it was an immense concession to admit any such thing, ‘
you
have to insist your fault is greater.'

‘But I
feel
at fault,' she confessed.

It was easy to maintain her pride when he was being grumpy and aloof, but so much harder when he was trying to be kind.

‘It was my fault you lost all your money.' She'd known it from the start, but had been so angry when he hadn't scrupled to accuse her of carelessness that she'd refused to admit it. ‘It was my fault you got into this...this escapade at all. If my aunt and her new husband, whom I refuse to call my uncle, hadn't decided to steal my inheritance...or if you hadn't had a room up on our landing...'

‘Then we would never have met,' he said firmly. ‘And I'm
glad
we have met, Miss Prudence Carstairs.'

Her heart performed a somersault inside her ribcage. She became very aware of his arms enfolding her with such strength, and yet such gentleness. Remembered that he'd put them round her of his own volition.

And then he looked at her lips. In a way that put thoughts of kissing in her head.

‘Because before I met you,' he said, with a sort of intensity that convinced her he meant every word, ‘I have never admired or respected any female—not really.'

What would she do if he tried to kiss her? She had to think of something to say—quickly! Before one of them gave in to the temptation to close the gap that separated their faces and taste the other.

What had he just said? Something about never admiring a female before? Well, that was just plain absurd.

‘But...you were married.'

He let go of her. Pulled away. All expression wiped from his face. Heavens, but the mention of his late wife had acted upon him like a dousing from a bucket of ice water. Which was a
good
thing. If she'd let him kiss her or, even worse, started kissing him, who knew how it would have ended? A girl couldn't go kissing a man in a secluded barn, on a bed of sweet-smelling hay, without it ending badly.

‘Instead of sitting here debating irrelevancies, I would be better employed going to that stream and soaking my neckcloth in it,' he said in a clipped voice. Then got to his feet and strode from the barn without looking back.

A little shiver ran down her spine as she watched him go. It was just as well she'd mentioned his wife. It had been as effective at cooling his ardour as slapping his face.

It was something to remember. If he ever did look as though he was going to cross the line again she need only mention his late wife and he'd pull away from her with a look on his face as though he'd been sucking a lemon.

Had he been very much in love? And was he still mourning her? No, that surely didn't tie in with what he'd just said about not respecting or admiring any female before. It sounded more as though the marriage had been an unhappy one.

Gingerly, she wiggled her toes. Welcomed the pain of real, physical injury. Because thinking about him being unhappily married made her very sad. It was a shame if he hadn't got on with his wife. He deserved a wife who made him happy. A wife who appreciated all his finer points. Because, villainous though he looked, he was the most decent man she'd ever met. He hadn't once tried to take advantage of her. And he had been full of remorse when he'd seen what her pride had cost her toes. And when she thought of how swiftly he'd made those bucks who'd been about to torment her disperse...

She heaved a great sigh and sank back into the hay, her eyes closing. He might have admitted to breaking into a building, but that didn't make him a burglar. On the contrary, he'd only broken the law in an attempt to redress a greater wrong. He might not have the strict moral code of the men of the congregation of Stoketown, and her aunt would most definitely stigmatise him as a villain because of it, but his kind of villainy suited her notion of how a real man should behave.

She must have dozed off, in spite of the pain in her feet, because the next thing she knew he was kneeling over her, shaking her shoulder gently.

‘You're exhausted, I know,' he said, with such gentle concern that she heaved another sigh while her insides went all gooey. ‘But I must tend to your feet before we turn in for the night. We should eat some supper, too.'

She struggled to sit up, pushing her hair from her face as it flopped into her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. He knelt at her feet, holding a wet handkerchief just above the surface of her skin, as though loath to cause her pain.

And though he looked nothing like a hero out of a fairytale, though he had no armour and had put his horse up for security, at that moment she had the strange fancy that he was very like a knight in shining armour, kneeling at the feet of his lady.

Which just went to show how tired and out of sorts she was.

‘Don't worry about hurting me,' she said. ‘I shall grit my teeth and think of— Oh! Ow!'

‘Sorry, sorry,' he said, over and over again as he dabbed at her blisters.

‘I wish I had a comb,' she said, through teeth suitably gritted. ‘Then I could tidy my hair.'

‘You are bothered about your
hair
? When your feet are in this state?'