Chapter Six
Daxton felt the burning in his arm and knew he’d been hit, but such was his fear for Willa and his rage against the man who threatened her, he kept going. The gunman could no longer shoot her, but Dax wouldn’t let him touch so much as a hair on her head again.
A look of appalled terror crossed the man’s face, quickly followed by panic, and then Dax struck him hard in the jaw. The empty pistol clattered to the floor.
“Dax!” Willa cried. “You’re bleeding!”
Dax didn’t care. He drew back his arm once more, but she caught it and clung on. “Dax, wait,” she pleaded. “It’s a mix-up. He thinks you abducted Clara and debauched her, or some such—”
The gunman let out a cry of distress.
Dax scowled. “Who the devil’s Clara?”
“The girl we met on the road, remember? We’re pretending she’s my maid?”
“Well, what the devil is it to him?” Dax demanded, clenching his fist once more. Willa clasped it in both of hers, distracting him, because even in this fraught situation, her touch was sweet.
“I think he must be Jem,” she said, as if he should know who in hell that was. “Clara’s original suitor.”
“I certainly am not!” the erstwhile gunman exclaimed, affronted. “My name is Daniel Doone.”
“Dan!” Willa exclaimed. “Really? Oh well, either way, he seems to believe you are the villain of the piece and are holding poor Clara against her will.”
“Holding her against…” Dax stared at Daniel Doone. “Even for me, that’s a trifle rum, especially with my wife in the next room!”
“Wife?” Daniel repeated in an appalled kind of voice. “Oh God.”
“He thought I was your procuress,” Willa explained. “Whatever that is.”
Daxton’s jaw dropped. “How many procuresses do you know? Be careful,” he added dangerously.
“None,” Daniel admitted.
“Well, for future reference, none of them look anything like my wife!”
“Dax, sit down,” Willa pleaded. “Your arm is bleeding. He shot you!”
“So he did.” Dax glanced at his sleeve where a dark red stain was spreading against the pristine white of his shirt. Impatiently, he ripped the beautiful linen with his teeth and exposed the wound. “It’s as well he—or his antiquated firearm—shoots like a cow, because he’s only winged me. Pretty sure the ball isn’t even in there.”
Willa took him by the good arm, all but forcing him onto the sofa. She looked rather white and her hand on his shoulder trembled as she held him down. “You,” she said severely to Daniel Doone. “Go and fetch a doctor. Now.”
Daniel, as white-faced as Willa, muttered, “Yes, m’lady,” and fled, abandoning his pistol without apparent thought.
“Last we’ll see of him,” Dax opined.
“I won’t mind that,” Willa said shakily, “providing he sends the doctor before he flees to the hills.”
Dax scowled. “What do we want with a damned quack? The ball barely grazed me.”
“But didn’t you see he had a pistol?”
Dax opened his mouth to say something flippant, but at the last moment, he caught Willa’s gaze and realized the truth. Her fear, her trembling, were for him. Her talk of doctors wasn’t mere feminine fussing. She was afraid he would die.
He was her husband, her provider, her protector. He’d brought on himself all those responsibilities he’d never wanted. But it came to him now that it wasn’t the provider she was so terrified of losing. It was him. Her friend.
Well, no one would have taken him on if they hadn’t cared a little. And he liked that she cared. He found himself smiling at her, which at least brought the color back to her cheeks. Without warning, she whisked herself away into her own bedchamber and emerged a moment later with her washing bowl.
He tried to stand. “Good grief, Willa, let Carson do that! Where is the scoundrel?”
“Sit,” she commanded. “And I have no idea where Carson is.” She set the large bowl down at his feet and knelt beside it, frowning as she concentrated on his arm.
His impatient words died in his throat. His arm stung and throbbed, and as she cleaned the wound he couldn’t deny her ministrations hurt more. But the acknowledgement of those things seemed to be only at the back of his mind. The front was focused on her face, on her bottom lip clamped between her teeth as she worked, on the gentle yet sure touch of her hands.
“I should be shot more often,” he said stupidly, because he tended to speak—and act—before he thought.
Her eyes flew to his face. But at that moment, the door crashed open and Daniel Doone strode back in with a saturnine, plainly dressed gentleman somewhere between thirty and forty years old.
“Good God,” Daxton said. “Never tell me you’re the doctor.”
“There would be no point since you’ve guessed it, My name’s Lampton.”
“Daxton.” He was disappointed that Willa made way for the doctor, who examined his arm without shock or disapproval.
“This young man says he shot you.”
“He did.”
“Hmmmm.”
A tentative knock on the half open door heralded the arrival of a young woman in a plain dress and cap. No one but Dax seemed to see her.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t even mean to fire it!” Daniel Doone exclaimed. “And I realize I’ve misunderstood everything, but if you could only tell me where Clara is—”
“I’m right here,” the young woman at the door said wrathfully. “And you’d better stay away from me, Daniel Doone.”
Far from staying away from her, Doone charged toward her. “Clara! Thank God!”
Clara fended him off with both hands. “Thank her ladyship, rather, but keep your distance!”
Dan, his expression somewhat ludicrously mixed between dismay and relief, stopped dead.
“This him, is it?” Carson said, laconically, wandering into the room. “Want me to knock him down for you.”
Daniel bridled. “Who’s this?” he demanded.
“I’m his lordship’s valet and—” He broke off, his attention distracted by his master’s bleeding arm. “What happened to you?”
“I shot him,” Doone said, miserably.
Carson strode forward, his arm swinging back with unmistakable intent.
“Carson!” Willa snapped. “It was a mistake. He brought the doctor.”
Surprisingly, if grudgingly, Carson dropped his arm. “Suppose it explains why all the hotel staff and several nobby guests are flapping about and calling for the Watch. Should have known the gunshot was in here.” Carson came closer, peering at Dax uneasily. “You ain’t going to peg it, are you?”
“Of course I’m not,” Daxton scoffed.
“Is he?” Carson demanded of Dr. Lampton, who was delving into his bag.
“No. Not if he does as he’s told.” The doctor emerged from his bag with a large jar of vile looking ointment which he hefted admiringly in one hand. “It’s a lucky day for both of us,” he told Dax. “You are the first patient I’ve had the chance to use this on, but I’m told the results are miraculous.”
“Told by whom?” Willa demanded.
“Another physician of my acquaintance. Don’t look so worried, my lady. I know exactly what’s in it. It should prevent corruption and speed the healing.”
Willa still looked doubtful, but Dax was already bored with the whole process.
“Slap it on,” he invited cheerfully. “Why are you all standing around gawping? Carson, I’ll need my coat. You, Clara, is it? If you’re going to be my lady’s maid, go and find her bonnet.”
“What do I want with my bonnet?” Willa asked, bewildered.
“It’s customary when one goes out.”
“Why am I going out?” she inquired.
“To buy dancing slippers. And whatever other fripperies one needs for a ball.”
Alarm crossed her face as she understood. “You can’t accompany me! You’re shot!”
“Grazed,” he corrected. “I’ve had worse during a night in—” He broke off in the nick of time. “In lots of places,” he finished hurriedly.
“Doctor Lampton, please tell him he can’t do such a thing,” Willa pleaded.
To Daxton’s surprise, the doctor shrugged and, having applied the evil ointment, rummaged in his bag for a bandage. “That is between you and his lordship, ma’am. He hasn’t lost a lot of blood, so I see no reason to confine him to his bed. On the other hand, sir, use the arm as little as possible to give it the chance to heal. No riding, driving your own carriage, boxing, or other sports. No long, bumpy journeys.”
Daxton frowned at the last. “You needn’t think I’m going to stay here just to drink the damned waters.”
“Between you and I, the waters are immaterial,” the doctor said, efficiently binding the wound. “But if you didn’t want to stop here, you shouldn’t have got shot.”
Dax rather liked the doctor, who glanced up from his work with raised eyebrows. “Do you want the magistrate?” he asked bluntly.
Daxton glanced at the pale, anxious young man who’d shot him. “He seems sorry enough already. I believe it was a misunderstanding. My wife’s fault,” he added provokingly.
His wife narrowed her eyes and he smiled at her until a breath of laughter escaped her lips. Making her smile seemed to be becoming an obsession with him.
*
The ache in his arm was less than he’d imagined it would be—thanks, no doubt, to whatever was in the muck Dr. Lampton had slathered over the wound. Coupled with the rare clear-headedness of a morning after a night of very little drinking, Dax felt, on the whole, pretty pleased with his world.
After a light luncheon taken in their own sitting room, Willa asked if he would mind very much practicing some dance steps with her.
“Did you never get to go to parties with the Shelbys, then?” he asked, frowning.
“No, but I didn’t mind.”
“Not even their parties?”
“Occasionally, but not to dance, more to look after Lady Shelby or my cousins.”
He grunted and stood up. Everything he heard about her life with the Shelbys reinforced his dislike of the whole family. On the other hand, he’d never imagined practicing dance steps could be quite so much fun.
Since she wouldn’t let him move his injured arm, they merely walked through the country dances to the sole accompaniment of his voice. He sang nonsense, some of it in rhyme, until she joined in with her own efforts. The result was often hilarious, although he wasn’t sure it improved her dance steps. She seemed to get muddled as to which hand to offer and which way to turn, but she possessed a natural grace that would carry her through.
“You’ll do,” he pronounced, “Though we haven’t waltzed yet.”
For a change, he began to whistle a popular waltz tune, and she instinctively lifted her arms like a mirror image of his. She flushed, withdrawing her hand from his waist before she’d quite touched him. Taking her hand, he placed it on his shoulder, swept his good arm around her waist, and took her other hand in his, keeping it lower than usual to avoid opening his wound.
Having whistled the introductory bars, he moved into the main theme with enthusiasm, and suddenly found himself driven backward, sideways, and turned. It was hard to whistle and laugh at the same time, but he did his best for several moments before the laughter took over.
“Oh dear,” she said, quite prepared to join in. “Am I as bad as all that?”
“No, no, you’re graceful, enthusiastic…decisive! Only it’s customary for the man to lead.”
“Oh.” She flushed, quite adorably. “In the only dancing lessons I’ve had, I usually took the man’s part with Elvira and my younger cousins. I suppose I have to throw off the habit.”
“I don’t mind following you,” he assured her. “Only, I’ll forget and we’ll end up both leading and either falling into each other or pulling in opposite directions. Besides, your other partners might not quite like it.”
“I suspect they wouldn’t,” she agreed.
“This time,” he said, taking her back into his arms. “You follow where I lead. Without looking at your feet.”
“Very well. And maybe I should sing this time? Then you can laugh more easily.”
He grinned. “We’ll both sing and see who laughs first.”
It was still funny, as she fought with her natural inclination to go her own way, but she was happy enough to laugh at herself, and after a few minutes, singing in perfect if breathless harmony with him, she relaxed into the dance.
Dax found it unexpectedly sweet to hold her, this only erratically remembered childhood friend who’d grown into such a lovely young woman. Her eyes smiled in between bouts of endearing concentration, and she felt soft and supple in his arms. Moreover, she was his wife. He could hold her improperly close if he wanted to—and he did, only refraining out of respect for her. For he was a very physical man, and his desire was obvious enough to scare her into a hasty divorce.
More than that, though, his memory of the night they’d bolted to Gretna Green was returning in flashes. And the upsurge of inconvenient lust for his new wife inspired another sudden recollection. Her sweet lips yielding to his, kissing him back with a naive, melting eagerness that had inflamed him then and still did. He could remember the soft curve of her breast under his mouth and the warmth of her smooth skin.
He wasn’t entirely sure she’d told the truth that he’d only gone to sleep. He might well have ravished her in his drunken stupor. He only hoped he hadn’t hurt her. At least she didn’t appear to be afraid of him, although from her heightened color and occasional breathlessness, she wasn’t quite comfortable being so close to him.
Nevertheless, he was reluctant to let her go, and only did so when the tea tray was brought in—not by Carson or even Clara, but by Daniel Doone, the other two following behind.
Dax supposed he should feel embarrassed at being discovered dancing with his own wife in the middle of the day, while singing with her, too. However, his chief emotion was irritation at being interrupted. As a result of which, dropping his hands from Willa, he scowled at Doone.
“You don’t work for me.”
“I don’t know what else to do to apologize,” the man said miserably. “Mr. Carson suggested I carry the tray.”
“Carson’s an idle opportunist. Put it down on the table and go away.”
“What have you got there?” Willa asked Clara, who was clutching a large box.
“It was delivered from Madame Monique,” Clara explained. “So I brought it up with me.”
“Oh goodness, another gown,” Willa said, awed. “Do you suppose it’s the turquoise silk?”
“Yes,” said Dax, who’d sent word to Monique to that effect.
He found it rather fun to look after Willa, and in a novel kind of way. Of course, he’d been known to dance somewhat erratic attendance on his mistresses, but it had always been in return for favors, whether explicit or understood. With Willa, he had nothing to gain but her happiness. Perhaps it had begun as responsibility, because he’d put her in this impossible situation, but he’d discovered he liked it.
*
After tea, Dax left Willa preparing for a bath, with both Carson and Doone vying to carry the hot water for her. Dax suspected it was a ruse on Carson’s part, to get Doone to do most of the work. Nevertheless, for someone who’d spent all her life pandering to other people’s unreasonable whims, Willa did seem to have the knack of inspiring devotion in those around her.
Dax strolled downstairs to the foyer, which was quiet at this hour and, discovering a young man he recognized at reception, he asked him about Shelby’s purse.
“The lady gave it to me for Miss Haines,” the boy said nervously. “Lady Shelby’s maid.”
“Yes, I remember that. And did you give it to Miss Haines?”
“First thing in the morning, sir, just before I went off-duty. Did I do wrong?”
Daxton regarded him. He could have been lying. But he’d have to have been pretty stupid to steal the purse, knowing he’d be the first suspect when it went missing. “No, you did exactly what was asked of you,” Dax said carelessly. “Someone else has mislaid it.”
Deep in thought, Dax sauntered off to explore the seedier parts of town. Here, he became distracted by an elaborately out-of-place building with Greek columns flanking its vast, pink front door. Curtains of fine black velvet hung in the nearest window.
“Might have known I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice, and Dax turned to find Lord Tamar at his side, The down-at-heels artist carried what looked like several canvasses wrapped in cloth under one arm.
“Where is here?” Daxton inquired. “Because if I didn’t know better—”
“You do, dear boy, you do. It’s precisely what you think, and a rather fine example, too. Unexpected in Blackhaven, but there you are. I’ll introduce you, if you like.”
It was tempting, particularly given his recent unrequited lusts, but Dax only grinned and shook his head. “How big a cad do you think I am? I’ve only been married five minutes.”
“Five minutes, five years, don’t see that it makes any difference,” Tamar said, reasonably enough, though he walked on without any further attempts at persuasion. “Your marriage does seem to have taken the world by surprise.”
“None of the world’s business,” Dax said repressively.
“Perfectly true, but you can’t blame it for being interested. The newspapers have followed your exploits for years.”
“Mostly lies,” Dax said, from habit.
“So, what brought the world’s wickedest bachelor to marriage at last?”
Daxton scowled. “I like her.”
“Suspect you liked lots of others before her, too. Didn’t marry any of ’em, did you?”
“They were married already,” Dax admitted. “Apart from the opera dancers.” It had, generally, been part of the attraction, even with the gorgeously adventurous Helena, his last mistress. “And don’t start lecturing me. It would be rich coming from a man so well known in the town’s only brothel!”
“That would be rich indeed,” Tamar agreed. “For anyone in my family. Forgive the nosiness. Are you taking Lady Dax to the ball tonight?”
“I have that honor,”
“Ask her to put me down for a waltz.”
“They’re all taken,” Dax said at once. “Have you been before? What’s it like? Horribly provincial?”
Tamar shrugged. “I suppose so. Don’t go to London much myself, so I’m no judge. There will be cards and dancing and champagne. Pretty women—even beautiful and interesting women. You’ll know some of them. Kate Grant, who used to be Lady Crowmore, and her eccentric vicar husband. Lady Arabella and Captain Alban, if you’re lucky. The Wickendens, of course, and their Spanish stepmother.”
“You like it here,” Dax accused.
“More than I expected, to,” Tamar admitted. “I expected to find only sick and spoiled people, just hoped they’d be self-absorbed enough to want their portraits painted! And have fond enough memories of the place to buy my landscapes. But the place sucks you in. You come for a month and stay for three.”
Dax, who had no intention of staying even three weeks, said nothing.
“This street leads back up to the harbor,” Tamar told him. “And here is the tavern from hell, where one can, nevertheless, buy exquisite brandy. Care to join me?”
Dax considered. “Not now,” he said at last. “After the ball.”
“Deal,” Tamar said, and swerved into the tavern. A miasma of smoke and noise drifted out into the street in the brief moments that the door was opened. It reminded Dax of many a convivial evening, but, curiously, he had no regrets about walking away.
*
A couple of hours later, Dax emerged from his bedchamber in his best black satin breeches and perfectly fitting coat. For once, he’d paid attention to his cravat and thought optimistically, that even Wickenden might approve of it. Not that he cared overmuch. He was still enjoying the novelty of impressing his wife if he could.
God knew that worked both ways. She spilled out of her own bedchamber, resplendent in the turquoise silk gown over the paler lace underdress, her hair dressed higher than usual, leaving a long, shining coil to fall to her creamy right shoulder.
“How do I look?” she asked, twirling for his benefit.
“Stunning,” he managed. For he’d never seen her look more beautiful. It wasn’t the dress, he thought. Or not just that. The new turquoise jewels winked in her ears, at her throat, and around her wrist, emphasizing the fine color of her eyes, but it wasn’t those either. They only reflected her beauty.
She was happy.
The realization made him smile. “You are beautiful and will outshine every woman present.”
She laughed. “I won’t. But I feel almost pretty. And elegant. Thank you, Dax. And I must say, you’re looking very smart yourself.”
It was almost like approaching a stranger. The lust of the afternoon hadn’t gone, it was only enhanced now by something very like awe. It was a heady combination. Perhaps she read something in his eyes, for her cheeks flushed slightly under his gaze, and she began fussing with her bracelet.
“I don’t think it’s properly fastened,” she murmured.
As she bent over her wrist, his gaze fell on the pale curve of her neck. He wanted to press his lips there.
“Let me,” he said.
Almost reluctantly, she let one hand fall away and offered him the other. He unfastened the bracelet, adjusted the clip, and refastened it. “There.”
Because he couldn’t help it, he bent over her wrist and softly kissed the skin by the bracelet. Her pulse galloped under his lips.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to his, and for the first time, he read something very like fear. And yet, she didn’t run or even pull away. He straightened, drawing her hand through his arm as though nothing had happened.
But something had. Something huge. He wanted his wife. And not just as he’d wanted various other women throughout his adult life. This was different, wrapped in care and wonder. He wanted to seduce her very badly, and he didn’t doubt that he could. But he wanted it to matter to her. For the first time in his life, he wanted to spend time courting and winning a woman. And he didn’t even know why.