chapter 5
“What are you doing, Mrs. Broadhurst?” Lord Tremont demanded. He stood in front of her with arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
“I should think it obvious,” Caroline choked out. Heat flooded her face, and she couldn’t resist wiping the back of her hand across her lips. Only after she had done it did she realize how insulting wiping away his kiss had been. And how base, as if she had taken on her husband’s worst habits.
Lord Tremont’s nostrils flared. “What is obvious is that you find this encounter distasteful. What game are you playing?”
Caroline stared at her would-be lover and swallowed hard. She shook her head. “I did want to be . . . alone with you.”
“But you don’t now. You find me distasteful.”
Oh God, she would never get what she needed from him if she had botched it so badly. “No. I’m sorry. Truly, you are not distasteful . . . to me.”
Even to her own ears, her warbling protest sounded full of deceit.
He took three steps down the hall, pivoted, strode back and halted in right in front of her. “Tell me what this is about. Your brother invites a dozen bachelors—not his closest friends, mind you—to a hunting party at your home. You are the only woman here. And”—his gaze raked over her—“you have been hanging on my sleeve—literally—half the evening. I am not an imbecile, Mrs. Broadhurst.”
Her thoughts tripped over each other as she considered the ramifications of telling him the truth. But would he go along with her plan? His jaw ticked. She opened her mouth hardly knowing what was likely to come out. She almost hoped for a ceiling cave-in so she didn’t have to say anything.
“What? Is your husband dying, Mrs. Broadhurst? Have you decided to buy a titled gentleman for your next husband with all the wealth you will inherit?”
Her eyebrows drew together. She tried to connect the dots to what Lord Tremont was saying. “My husband isn’t dying. He is advanced in years, but still quite fit.” He better be fit enough to claim a child as his own.
Lord Tremont continued as if she’d said nothing. “I suppose as an earl I must meet the qualifications to be your next husband. And Langley will one day be a marquis. Berkley is likely to inherit his uncle’s Scottish earldom. Not a single man who will end as a commoner among us—could you not locate a prince to consider?”
She was still trying to consider his last point. Mr. Broadhurst was not the man he had been five years earlier. His robust frame had shrunk, his firm stride had withered to a shuffle, and the bedroom problems had followed. Had he pushed her into this unholy bargain because his health was failing? Was that why he wanted an heir now?
“Caroline, you are a passably pretty woman. I am sure if you are seeking a nobleman to enter into an agreement to marry you for your husband’s wealth, you will find one. But not me.”
“That was not my intent.” She stared helplessly at Lord Tremont. Marriage to a titled man would mean moving to London every year while Parliament was in session. It would mean balls, dinners, salons, and the end to her quiet life. It would mean giving up control of the mill and giving a man the right to use her body at will. She shuddered.
How had he arrived at the conclusion that she wanted to marry him—after Mr. Broadhurst was dead and buried presumably? Stars above, she hoped she would be free of a husband and master then.
“When I marry, if I marry, I should imagine I want an heir, a son—”
“I want that too,” she gushed. Perhaps all was not lost.
He touched her neck, and she flinched.
The corner of his moustache lifted. “And a woman who welcomes my touch.”
Caroline dropped her eyes. “Forgive me. My nerves are a-jangle. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
His voice softened. “I suppose an alliance with your family would be quite advantageous. Your brother is a viscount and may yet get that earldom he’s petitioned the crown for. But I don’t like to be tricked into anything.”
“It was not a trick,” mumbled Caroline. She wished the wall behind her would open up and she could escape. She should tell Lord Tremont she simply wanted an affair. “I just wanted to . . .” But the words were like lead in her mouth and too heavy to push out.
“To emulate your sisters?” He searched her face. “Why, when you find Amelia’s behavior so shocking?”
It was not lost on her that he had used her sister’s first name. Was he one of Amy’s castoffs? Her cheeks burned with humiliation and not a little anger.
He answered himself. “No, I don’t believe so. There is a deeper game afoot.”
“I am not looking for my next husband.”
His arched eyebrow said he doubted her words. The first time she had given him a truth, and he didn’t believe it. She bit her lip. She should just blurt out she wanted a baby.
“Perhaps you should just have Robert approach your next choice with a proposal—after he makes sure that the man will not object to a barren wife.”
She felt as though she’d been slapped. How had this exchange gone so horribly wrong? “I’m not . . .”
“No?” Again he lifted an eyebrow. “You have been married at least a dozen years without issue. I certainly would not gamble with those odds.”
She should tell him the fault lay with her husband, but it felt so disloyal to speak of such a thing. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing, while heat rose in her face. Her tongue had never been nimble and it was wooden and mute now.
He took a step back. “Surely you realize I cannot help your brother with his petition.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.
He rolled his eyes. “I shall return to the drawing room and let it be known you have stayed with your patient. I wouldn’t want to impede your chances with your next mark.” He smoothed his jacket as if it had been disturbed in their exchange. “The next time I accept an invitation to a hunt, I shall make quite sure I am not the prey.”
Her ears burned as she watched him walk away without a glance back. Her nose tickled and her eyes stung. To top that off, he had called her passably pretty.
Jack had done much better, although to be fair, it was likely her fine feathers. A lowly millworker wouldn’t be familiar with fashionable evening gowns, while Lord Tremont saw the like on a regular basis in London. Still, he could have done better.
She’d picked Lord Tremont because Robert had insinuated he would be the easiest, but he had scorned her. She didn’t have Amelia’s coyness or Sarah’s charm. Even the twins found it easy to tease men.
As Caroline marched to her room, determined to be free of the ridiculous gown, she thought of a dozen retorts, a half-dozen suggestive comments that might have smoothed the way. She could have told him that she longed to know what relations were like with a man her own age—or at least one not older than her father. She could have told him some nonsense about finding him manly or dashed handsome—he was probably used to such tripe.
But none of those rejoinders had occurred to her when they would have been useful. She yanked open her door, determined to shed her London gown and have done with seduction attempts this evening. Perhaps she shouldn’t kiss a man in the hallway.
She kicked her train out of the way as she closed the door.
“You are not done so soon.” Her husband’s voice grated like machinery needing oil.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Choosing a most ungentlemanly way of sitting, he crossed one ankle over his knee. “Making sure you don’t leave the company early. I should hate to think you weren’t putting your best effort into this.”
“I was just chilled,” she improvised. “I came to get a shawl.”
Mr. Broadhurst lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Really? For you look quite flushed.”
She bit her lip, rather than blurt out she was returning to the drawing room. It would have smacked of protesting too much.
She marched across the room to her wardrobe and threw open the doors. Mr. Broadhurst’s eyes followed her. The stupid box containing the negligee fell out. Caroline shoved it back inside, searching for a wrap that wouldn’t clash with her dress.
She grabbed a brown and green paisley shawl. Deuce take it. What difference would it make if she were unstylish?
“Need I remind you that you agreed to—”
“No.” Caroline whirled. “You needn’t. I have done as I said I would and have begun a flirtation.” It was hardly her fault if the gentleman had ended it before it came to fruition. All right, it was a bit her fault for being so poor an actress, but pretending to want such a despicable thing was nearly impossible. Her hands shook, her whole body shook. “I will honor my word.”
But she didn’t know if she could. She had bargained for Mr. Applegate to remain in the house long enough to heal and to get the youngest of the children out of the mill. And she wanted to answer only to herself in the future—not a husband, not a brother, just herself with the power of the mill and the money it generated behind her. That was worth submitting to a man for a few weeks.
She had to conceive a child.
She lifted her chin and headed out the door. But as her steps took her down the stairs and closer to the drawing room, her heart thumped erratically. Her whole body trembled. Fearing she might be ill, she paused. She did not want to face Lord Tremont, but Mr. Broadhurst had followed her as if she couldn’t be trusted to return on her own.
Who was she fooling? She had no desire to return to the drawing room tonight. He knew it. She knew it, but what else could she do?
Steeling herself, she reached for the door handle and twisted. She walked through the room, ignoring Tremont, while she ascertained if anyone needed anything—like a good hostess.
When sufficient time had passed for her husband to have gone back to his room, she made her excuses. After making a gracious exit, she headed down the servants’ stairs to sit with Jack for a few hours. She would be safe there. Mr. Broadhurst would suspect she’d gone off with one of the gentlemen, and none of the guests would bother her.
Maybe when Jack was not in so much pain, she could seduce—
She missed a step. Was that the reason she’d had him brought to the house? Her heart hammered in her chest. He, at least, wouldn’t think she wanted to marry him or was using him to form a political alliance.
But would he even be willing? Could he want her?
Jack woke to a cool hand on his forehead. For a second he wanted to believe that his mother was soothing him through a childhood illness. But his long gone mother had never made him feel like Mrs. Broadhurst did. Besides, he couldn’t forget where he was or why he was here when his lower leg shrieked with pain.
He sluggishly reached to push her hand away or still the tremble—he wasn’t certain—but her fingers pushed his hair back. She removed her hand, leaving him yearning for her touch. But why had her hand shook?
“He ate a bit of the soup and drank all the orange water,” said the stout woman who’d been sitting with him. “Gave him his dose of laudanum at eight. Been sleeping in fits and starts, poor thing.”
“Would you see to it one of the servants is assigned to take my place long about midnight?”
The stout woman agreed as her chair creaked.
After what he thought was a few seconds, he blinked his eyes open. In spite of the fire the room seemed dark, but he was only interested in seeing Mrs. Broadhurst. She stood at the foot of the bed and clutched a leather volume as if it were a lifeline.
Curiosity fought through the haze of the medicine. Had he taken a turn for the worse and wasn’t aware yet?
She gathered a spotted shawl around her. It covered her creamy shoulders and breast, which he would have liked to see again. Her attention was over her shoulder on the door, as if she feared an intrusion. If she were freshly concerned over his condition, she would most likely be focused on him. Besides, the housekeeper’s report hadn’t sounded dire. Jack breathed deeply.
Mrs. Broadhurst turned and offered a half smile. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He shook his head and tried to ask what she was reading, but his words came out as a rusty croak. His mouth was drier than dirt.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
“Yes,” he rasped out.
She rustled as she moved through the room. Her gown was not of the material made in her husband’s mills. No, it was finer stuff probably imported from the Orient. His clothes, made of rejected cloth with dropped threads or knots in the weave, had been cut off and taken away. He supposed the cotton undergarments and nightshirt he now wore were made from mill cloth, but it was one of the higher grades of fabric and most likely belonged to Mr. Broadhurst.
She poured a glass of water, and the sound of liquid made Jack shiver. Earlier, he’d drunk an entire pitcher of the sweet drink she ordered for him. Perhaps drinking more was a mistake, but his mouth was so dry.
She paused beside the bed holding the glass. Her forehead furled.
He struggled to his elbows. The room spun and tilted. His head wobbled as if it were barely attached to his neck.
Mrs. Broadhurst sat on the bed beside him. God, how many times had he dreamed of having her in his bed, but not like this, never as his nurse. It was just plain wrong. And he had to get out of here before he slipped up and caressed her.
She pressed the glass to his lips.
He pulled his head back. “I can do it.” Once he got himself propped up. His mewling weakness irritated him.
“You would like to sit, then?” she asked calmly.
“Yes.” Risking jarring his leg, he pushed back. Pain flared like a rocket up and down his leg. He barely bit off an obscenity mid-word.
“Sorry.” His apology hardly sounded contrite, but he couldn’t call it back.
“No, it is all right. The surgeon said there would be a lot of pain for the first few days. I imagine it is hard to feel helpless.” The look of pity in her eyes was the worst thing of all.
His arms shook and a thin layer of sweat broke out all over his body, as he managed to half prop his back against the curved headboard. Exhausted by the Herculean effort, he leaned back and breathed deeply.
She pushed the glass into his hand and moved off the bed. “You lost a lot of blood. You’ll be very weak and likely light-headed for some time.”
If he hadn’t been such an ungrateful lout, perhaps she’d still be seated beside him on the narrow mattress.
Once his heartbeat slowed to normal, Jack would lift the glass and just wet his mouth. At least the room had stopped spinning, but he was all too aware that he would need to relieve himself soon. How he’d manage that feat without help, he didn’t know.
“But I have always heard impatience is sign of improvement in an invalid.”
“Or just a bad-tempered patient,” he offered. He needed to curb his frustration. Lifting the glass to take a sip, he ended up gulping the cool liquid down his parched throat.
She watched him silently, and he stopped to breathe. “Thank you for all that you are doing for me.”
She picked up her book and sat in the chair. “Would you like me to read to you? I have here A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. But I could fetch another book, if you read it last year when it was released in serial form.”
As if he could have read a novel released in serial form. Her earnest face suggested her question was sincere. “I have not read it. I would be glad to hear it.”
She opened the volume and adjusted her chair so the light from the fire fell on the book. After flipping through several pages, she began, “ ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was . . .’ ”
Jack let her voice flow over him. It was not so much melodic as even with understated inflections. He rather liked how she read, not as if he were a child, needing a narrator to create excitement. And the words were apropos. It was the best of dreams to be closeted in a room with her late in the evening, but a nightmare under the circumstances.
He watched her lips move and her hands as she turned the page. At times he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain. He would have fallen back asleep, except for the discomfort of his full bladder. Of all the ways he wanted to spend time alone with Mrs. Broadhurst, this was not it. Nor did he want to appear as an uncouth lout, but there was no hope for it.
He pushed himself up to sit and swung his legs over the side of the bed. One foot felt the cold floorboards, and as soon as the other touched down, pain exploded through his lower leg. He gasped. The warnings of the doctor echoed in his head. He couldn’t put his right foot down at all.
His head spun and he had no idea how he would get about.
“What is wrong?” she asked. “You should be laying down.”
Fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied being upright, he said, “I need to piss.”
“Oh.” Her chair screeched back as she stood. Red stained her cheeks. “Of course.”
He should have considered his words. He could have made his need known in a less blunt way. “Is there a chamber pot?”
She leaned and looked under the bed and came up frowning as she glanced around the room. “I should have thought . . . we should have . . .” She moved over to the cord by the door and gave it a couple of good yanks. “The water closet . . .” Her voice kept trailing off.
“I can’t wait.” He gripped the sheets on either side of him, the dizziness fading away. The urge to relieve himself was making his legs cramp. He really had waited too long.
She gave another yank on the cord, then opened the door and looked out into a dimly lit hall. Her anxious frown was a pretty good indication none of the servants were standing about to help.
“Just one minute,” she said, slipping out the door.
He didn’t have a minute. The front door that Jack had been carried through hours before was just across the tiled expanse. He could at least try to make it outside rather than making water on the floor. Using the chair she’d been sitting in, he pushed to stand on his good leg.
He winced, trying to figure out how he could make it to the front door. Picking up the chair, he plopped it down a foot in front of him and hopped closer.
The jolt shot pain through him. He paused trying to gather his strength, determined not to humiliate himself. Only he felt dangerously off balance and on the edge of losing control.
Mrs. Broadhurst swung back through the door. She had a walking stick with a carved handle in her hand. “I don’t know why no one is coming, but the water closet is just under the stairs. With my support and this, we can get you there.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she handed the ivory-topped cane to him and moved to his side.
She pulled his arm over her shoulders, letting the shawl drop to the floor and slipping her hand around his waist.
He shivered at her embrace. His throbbing leg got lost in the folds of her skirt as he lurched forward. She staggered under his weight, but Jack was determined to make it to the necessary. Yet, he was aware of the woman at his side. This was not how or why he wanted to wrap an arm around her.
Her skin was silky and he thought in a few more minutes his urgency might be staved off by wanting to touch her more. The crown of her head was just a little above his shoulder, and she fit perfectly against him. Her fingers dug into his ribs as she steadied him.
He grunted. Each step or hop was like a mountain climb, and it was all he could do to keep moving forward. As if the air were thin, he panted heavily.
“Only a little farther,” she encouraged.
Planting the cane, he leaned as much weight as he could on it rather than put the full burden of his weight on her. The ivory carved head bit into his hand and his arm shook.
An open door under the stairs led into a tiny room with a basin attached to the wall. A gaslight had been turned up inside, and with a few more lurches he was inside the door frame.
His head spun.
Mrs. Broadhurst let go of him, and he listed to the side, crashing into the wall.
Then from behind, her arms banded around his heaving chest. She pulled him upright. Planting his hand against the wall, he tried to stay balanced and not overset the both of them. Unable to use his injured leg, he was off-kilter, tilted in a way that couldn’t be corrected. Now that he stood in front of the commode, he struggled to lift the nightshirt that suddenly seemed made of a thousand yards of material.
“Here, let me help you,” she said. She shifted closer until he could feel her pressed against his back. Without loosening her arms from around him, she bunched the nightshirt in her crossed hands, drawing it upward.
He aimed and nothing happened. “Bloody hell.”
She shifted against him and reached. A loud squeak was followed by the tinkle of running water in the basin by his side.
It was what he needed.
The relief was heavenly. He sighed as his stream hit the porcelain bowl.
Her forehead pressed in between his shoulder blades, but she didn’t waver in holding him steady, even though he was weaving like a drunken man.
After he finished he hung his head and tried to catch his breath. He was humiliated, but what must helping a mere laborer to piss be like for the blue-blooded daughter of a lord?
Reaching around him, she batted about until she found the cord on the tank in front of him. She yanked. Water swirled around the bowl and down.
“If you turn a little, you can reach the soap.” She let the nightshirt drop and then shifted, almost as if she would carry him back to the room.
Jack shuffled his foot around and hopped to face the basin with the water running down a hole in the center. He was far too aware of rubbing against her body as he jerked about. “I’m sorry. That had to be horrible for you.”
“No,” she said slowly. “It wasn’t even the most unpleasant thing I’ve had to experience in the last hour.”
He wanted to twist and see her, but he might topple like Humpty Dumpty. Instead he stuck his hands under the running water. “I had no idea reading out loud to me was so unpleasant.”
She started against his back. “It wasn’t. I en—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “You were upset before you sat down beside me.”
It wasn’t his place to pry into her affairs, but anything was better than acknowledging he’d needed her help for the most basic of human functions. That she’d helped without the disdain he expected from a woman in her position surprised him. “If it is my presence causing problems between you and Mr. Broadhurst”—he couldn’t bring himself to call Mr. Broadhurst her husband—“I will be gone as quickly as I can.”
“I do not think you can control the rate of your healing, Mr. Applegate. Besides, I find being with my guests stressful, not the time I spend with you.”
“In that case, I shall take my time.” That was a lie. He needed to be out of here as soon as he could manage it. He had an appointment to keep in the city. And nothing was going to stop him from getting there, not even his futile hope of something happening between her and him.
Caroline wasn’t expecting Jack to have a sense of humor, not on the day he’d suffered a terrible break in his leg. Nor had she expected to see to his personal needs, but it wasn’t as if Mr. Broadhurst had ever spared her. After the water closets were installed, she’d banned chamber pots.
Mr. Broadhurst might grumble that he had to traipse down the hall at night, but at least she no longer had to witness him voiding.
She drew in a deep breath and looked over Jack’s shoulder to meet his eyes in the small mirror. His chin dipped and his gaze slid away. Having to rely on a woman for help with a bodily need had undoubtedly upset him. The situation had the unreal feel of an impossible situation. Never in a thousand years would she have expected to be helping a man from the mill use the necessary, and not just any man, but Jack.
“Where does the water come from?” Jack turned the faucet off and then back on as if marveling at running water. He was probably just trying to distract them from the reason they were in the water closet.
“A cistern on the roof.” She turned off the water and handed him the towel, all without meeting his eyes. Of course she still stood behind him, her arms against his sides just in case he pitched sideways again.
“Rainwater?” he questioned, but the words seemed a little forced, and he was panting hard.
“The servants pump the tank full with well water if the rain isn’t enough.”
He would not have experienced any of the modern conveniences either in the mill or in his home. Running water was hardly a new thing, and in places like London common. Not for the first time, she wondered how mean the laborers’ lives were. They worked ten to twelve hour days, six days a week. They lived in two-room cottages at best. Luxuries like books, running water, or travel were out of their reach. He had cast her a skeptical look when she’d asked if he’d read A Tale of Two Cities.
Her mother made a point to visit all the tenants’ homes, but it was different when the villagers were her husband’s employees. She really didn’t know much about how the millworkers lived inside their small houses, and they reacted to her as if she were a spy or intruder when she’d made a few halfhearted efforts to look in on them.
If she had better social skills, she might have persisted, but she’d never been as outgoing as Sarah or Amelia. Even Robert had grown more sociable since inheriting the viscountcy and taking his seat in Parliament.
“Shall we get you back to bed?”
Jack leaned against the sink. “Yes.”
She eased beside him, as much as the tiny space would allow. She pulled his arm across her shoulders. His warm fingers slid across her bare skin and a shudder traveled down her spine. But she wouldn’t think too much about his touch because he needed her help right now.
She maneuvered Jack through the doorway and took a couple of small steps toward the breakfast room. He quivered as if the exertion was too much for him. She pulled him tighter against her side. If he collapsed, she might not be able to prevent a fall. His nightshirt was damp and the gaslight reflected off a sheen of perspiration on his face.
Mrs. Burns opened the baize-covered door leading to the bowels of the house. A voluminous wrapper enfolded her from head to toe, and a sleeping cap covered her gray curls. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t hear the bell. It goes to the kitchen and the scullery maid heard it but wasn’t sure if she should wake me.”
“If you could help me get Mr. Applegate back to bed,” Caroline said.
“Jack,” he whispered into her ear.
A frisson ran down her spine. It was of course the response to the puff of air in such a sensitive organ. Not that she liked his breath in her ear.
“Yes, of course, ma’am,” said the housekeeper, crossing the expanse of the hall.
Caroline hoped the older woman hadn’t noted her shiver. She cast a glance toward Jack. He had. He was regarding her with pain-laced curiosity. Heat stole up her cheeks. He would most likely think her a complete ninny.
Her arm around him made her notice he was a fit man. Would relations be as unpleasant with a man like Jack?
Mrs. Burns took Jack’s other arm, and between the two of them they got him back to the bed.
He collapsed against the sheets, his brow knit with pain. His hand slid across Caroline’s shoulders, and she was left with the oddest sensation that he meant it as a tender sort of touch. Her heart hammered. Was he interested in her that way?
She wrapped her hands under his knee and gingerly lifted his injured leg onto the bed. Aware that Mrs. Burns was near, Caroline surreptitiously slid her palm from his knee to the inside of his thigh and deliberately brushed his flesh with her thumb before reaching to pull the covers over him. Her insides coiled and tightened, leaving her feeling not quite herself.
He screwed his eyes shut, his hands fisting in the covers.
Disappointment burned in her, and she turned to thank and dismiss the housekeeper.
Jack was probably in too much pain to even notice what she did, and her thoughts were running rampant on what kind of lovers the men in her house were. There must be men who made congress enjoyable enough for a woman to want to be with them. Was Jack that sort of man?
He would never think of so much as kissing her. He was just a millworker, and she was the owner’s wife. Their stations were eons apart. Probably the only reason she could tolerate touching Jack Applegate was because she was completely safe from advances from him.