Chapter Eleven
Panic propelled another scream from her throat.
“Shh, love, it’s all right.” Hands gripped her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
Her mind wouldn’t function. Numbly, she stared up at the face whose lines were achingly familiar in the moonlight. “A-Andrew?” she said uncomprehendingly.
“Yes, sunshine. What’s happened? I heard you scream…”
He trailed off, his gaze suddenly shifting to the figure beside her on the bed. The unmoving form whose blank eyes had greeted her when she’d suddenly come awake. A buffle-headed feeling swathed her. Perhaps this was all a dream… oh, please, please, please…
“What’s amiss, sir?” A man wearing a sleeping cap—the innkeeper, she recognized—peered around Andrew, his lamp casting a bright glow. “Holy Mother of God, is he—”
“What happened, Primrose? Tell me,” Andrew commanded.
This wasn’t a dream, then. Nausea surged, and she swallowed thickly.
“I don’t know. When I w-woke up a few minutes ago, he was like this.” She was so cold… and shaking. She couldn’t seem to stop. “H-he was fine when I f-fell asleep…”
“I understand.” Andrew removed his jacket, placed it over her shoulders. “I’ll take care of everything.”
She drew the warm, spice-scented wool closer around her. Gathered her wits enough to ask, “Wh-what are you doing here? H-how did you find me?”
“I’ll explain everything later.” He turned to the innkeeper. “McCready, send for a maid to escort Miss Kent to a new room. Have food and brandy brought as well.” His mouth was a grim line. “It’s going to be a long night.”
~~~
Later that morning, he found Primrose in her new suite. Fully dressed, she sat in a chair by the window, her arms hugging her raised knees. A pang struck his chest: as a little girl, she’d often curled up just that way. A posture both innocent and guarded. Her head turned as he approached, and there was no mistaking that she was a woman now. The eyes that met his held too much worldly knowledge.
Pain that he was powerless to erase.
Insides clenching, he noted the untouched glass next to her. “You didn’t have the brandy.”
“I didn’t want any. I’m muddled enough as it is.” She lowered her feet to the ground, sitting up straight. “What did you do with Daltry?”
“The undertaker is preparing his remains. I’ve arranged transport of the body back to London.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He gave a gruff nod. “How are you faring?”
“It feels like a dream… a nightmare. This cannot possibly be happening.” She rose, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “We weren’t even married for a full day.”
“I know.” He’d gotten all the details from the innkeeper. In fact, he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for.
I’ve seen it before, the innkeeper had confided. Older gent elopes with a young thing, thinks he’s won the prize. But then the business proceeds and the sod’s old ticker can’t handle the excitement. Mark my word, sir: wedding nights can be dangerous.
“And now Daltry’s dead. I’m a widow.” Her voice hitched.
Swiftly, he went to her. Held her as the tears began. The shock was wearing off, reality wracking her slim body with sobs. He stroked her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense until she calmed. Her fragrance curled into his nostrils: Pears soap, feminine sweetness, temptation itself. He was acutely aware of how well she fit against him. The perfection of her curves nestling against his own hard edges… which were getting harder by the moment.
It was wrong, of course. Yet of their own accord, his fingers tangled in her silken tresses.
“Once we return to London,” he said hoarsely, “your family can get you an annulment.”
She stilled. A heartbeat later, she pushed at him.
It took everything he had to let her go.
“Why would I want one?” Her voice quivered, her gaze remaining steady.
“Because…” He caught himself in time. “Because you were only married a matter of hours. You could argue that the consummation didn’t take place. You would be a free woman.”
“And why would I want to be free?”
He couldn’t look away from the vulnerable gold swirling in those pure green depths. His lungs strained. He knew what she was asking.
What you can’t give her, you bastard.
“Because you are young and have a whole life ahead of you,” he forced himself to say.
Her bottom lip trembled. “What place do you have in this plan for my lifelong happiness?”
“I want what’s best for you, Primrose.”
“And that is not you?”
“No.” A single syllable—and it killed him to say it.
She drew herself up. “Well, then, thank you for your help. I can take things from here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said shortly. “I’m escorting you home.”
“If you don’t want me, why won’t you just leave me be?” she cried.
“What I want is irrelevant,”—he shoved a hand through his hair—“because I cannot give you what you need. Hell, I can’t even keep you out of trouble.”
“I’m not your relation, pet, or property, sir, and, therefore, not your responsibility.” In a blink, she transformed from vulnerable girl to outraged siren. Her eyes glinted like gilded emeralds, her full bosom surging with passion. “What I do—and who I do it with—are not your concern. But it does beg the question: how did you find me?”
He reckoned this wasn’t the time to tell her that Odette worked for him. “I have contacts.”
“What are you—some kind of a spy?” she said with derision.
“No. But in my business I have access to a great deal of information.” Not a lie, certainly.
“What business are you in?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she folded her arms over her chest. “Let me guess: it’s better for me not to know.”
“You’re catching on,” he muttered.
“And you’re insufferable, do you know that?” She looked ready to stomp her foot in frustration, and his lips twitched despite his bleak mood. Her next words, however, chased away all traces of humor. “Well, Mr. Andrew Whoever-You- Are, I want you to stay out of my life from here on in. As the Countess of Daltry, I do not need the services of some stranger who fancies himself a knight-errant.”
“Are you the Countess of Daltry?” he said curtly.
After a moment, her chin angled up. “Yes.”
The affirmation punched him in the gut. After the undertaker had removed the earl’s body, Andrew had checked the sheets. No blood—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. As a pimp, he had an insider’s knowledge of just how fragile virginity could be. Horseback riding, for instance, could divest a female of her maidenhead. And the reverse was also true: he knew wenches who’d managed to successfully auction off their virginity half a dozen times.
But hearing Primrose admit the truth stirred a myriad of emotions. Jealousy, possessiveness… anger at himself for being a bloody fool.
“I see,” he said quietly.
“I see, my lady.”
Irritation joined the fray. “Then I suggest you pack up, my lady,” he said coolly, “and we head on our way. No doubt your family will be beside themselves. Having lost you once before, your mama—”
“What did you just say?” Her eyes widened.
Instantly, he recognized his mistake.
“How do you know that my mama lost me? Only my family knows that,” she said in low tones. “Everyone else thinks Mama placed me with country folk until she married Papa and he adopted me.”
Faced with her scrutiny, he faltered. “I meant only that your parents must be worried—”
“That is not what you said.” He could almost see the gears turning in her head. “We knew each other in the past, didn’t we? That’s why you’ve always seemed… familiar.”
He didn’t want to lie to her. Nor did he want to tell her the sordid truth. “Primrose, I—”
The rapid approach of footsteps made him whip around. A fist pounded on the door.
“Rosie, are you in there?” a man’s voice bellowed. “Open this door at once!”
“Papa,” she breathed.
She dashed over to the door, threw it open. Two men stormed in, and she flung herself into the arms of the first. “Oh, Papa!”
“Poppet—thank God. We’ve been looking all over for you!” Ambrose Kent enfolded his daughter in a fierce embrace. “Are you all right?”
The second man looked over at Andrew.
“By Jove,” the Earl of Revelstoke said. “What the devil are you doing here, Corbett?”