Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (good romance books to read TXT) 📗

“It’s been three days since our duel.” She stared at him, unwilling to believe him. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“I remember stabbing my foil into the ground. It was hard to do because the ground was frozen. I remember so much pain I wanted to die. Three days? My father, dear God, my father. What will he have done? Oh God, what’s he thinking?” His hands left her shoulders. She stared up at him. Carefully, slowly, as if she were afraid of further betrayal by her body, she let her fingers gently trail down to her side. She felt the bulky strips of linen binding about her waist, and remembered with sickening clarity the dizzying pain and the huge pool of blood like splayed red fingers pressing her shirt against her body. She looked at her hand. She realized she wasn’t wearing her own nightgown, for the material didn’t fasten at her wrist with tiny pearl buttons, but rather flopped over the ends of her fingertips.

“My father,” she said again.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

She turned her head slightly, carefully avoiding any sudden movement, and regarded the marquess’s face above her. She remembered for a brief instant the raging fever, then he’d wiped her down over and over with the damp cool cloth, soothing away the fever. She trembled at the memory of the bitter frigid cold that had frozen her from within. Then the soothing, giving warmth it had been him. He’d held her against him, pressed her against the length of his body. Stroked his hands over her back.

“Is this your nightshirt?”

“Actually you should thank my great-aunt Agnes, for it is her tenacious needlework that’s kept you clothed. Yes, it’s my nightshirt.”

“Where is the doctor? Millie? I know I heard her voice. Has she taken care of me?”

“Hush now and ease yourself. You’ve asked me a great many things. Would you like a drink of water?”

She drank avidly, choking. He lifted her gently, patting her back. It seemed a normal thing for him to do.

“I told you you’ve been with me here for three days. It’s been three days since you’ve eaten. Are you hungry?”

She realized suddenly that she could devour anything that called itself food. “Oh yes, please. Anything at all will do, just bring it now.”

He grinned down at her. “I’m glad you’re hungry. I’ve had all sorts of broths made for you daily in hopes you’d come about.”

He tugged the bell cord. At the soft knock on his bedchamber door, he walked quickly to the door. As he’d done since he’d brought her here, he stood in the doorway to shield her from the servants. She looked so much like a young girl that he couldn’t imagine anyone else seeing her any differently.

She felt light-headed. She supposed it was because she was so very hungry. Yes, that was it. As soon as she ate, she would deal with this man. He was still the same. He was still evil and ruthless and didn’t care about anyone except himself. Even though she hadn’t killed him, he’d still killed Damien and she would make him pay for it. Just not yet. But as soon as she was better, then she’d think of something and he would pay for what he’d done, he’d pay dearly.

Had he really taken care of her since he’d wounded her? She couldn’t bear that thought.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Croft stood owl-eyed and quite sober, amazingly alert to receive his master’s orders. The marquess grinned, hoping this transformation would last, though he doubted it would. Croft would be back to the wine cellar the moment the marquess left Thurston Hall. He rapped out his orders and shut the door.

He turned and walked back to Hetty. He thought she looked rather flushed, and in that instant dreaded the onset of another fever. As he reached out his hand to touch her forehead, she jerked away, her back stiff against the headboard of his bed.

“Good God, what is this?” He’d forgotten for the moment that although he knew her body almost as thoroughly as was possible, she, on the other hand, was unaccustomed to either him or to any intimacy from him. Also, she hated his guts. Well, for the moment, it was too bad.

“Look, Hetty, I merely want to see if you’ve another fever. Don’t be afraid of me. I have no intention of assaulting you or trying to hurt you.”

She just stared up at him and tried to inch away toward the center of the large bed, but another sharp pain in her side held her rigid. She closed her eyes tightly. “None of this makes any sense at all. I don’t have a fever, damn you, but I suppose since you’re the stronger then you’ll have your way.”

He did, lightly laying his palm on her forehead. Thankfully, her skin was cool to the touch. “You’re fine, thank God. Now, I imagine you’re ready to eat your water glass. It shouldn’t be much longer now, Hetty.”

“My name is Miss Rolland.”

He looked faintly amused. “Het Miss Rolland, I believe that I know you well enough to dispense with such formality.”

“You don’t begin to know me, your grace. But I know you, I know all about you.”

“Do you also know that I’ve taken care of you? There’s been no doctor. I see you don’t like that at all. Well, just remember, Miss Rolland, I fought a duel with Lord Harry. Lord Harry you must remain if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that I personally wouldn’t want to have to live through. I’ve really done quite well by you, you know. You’ll live. You’ll have a scar on your side, but you’re alive and soon you’ll even be eating.”

He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Her eyes darkened and narrowed. He wondered if she had a pistol she’d shoot him. She’d had so much to adjust to that her hatred of him had been momentarily forgotten. He wondered with amused irony