A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(95)

At least the Riverchase staff had been warned by the postilion that their master was in the neighborhood. The entire house had been thrown into readiness. When Colin rode up in the drive, the front door opened and a bevy of servants sallied forth.

Colin slid from the horse first, then helped Minerva drop into his arms. Sliding one arm about her back and lashing the other beneath her thighs, he carried her up the fourteen granite stairs and through the main entry.

The old, familiar housekeeper, Mrs. Hammond, hurried to greet him. It must have been almost two years since he’d seen her, but he cut the salutations short.

“Have you laid a fire?” he asked.

“In the drawing room, my lord.”

Shifting Minerva’s weight in his arms, he strode past the housekeeper and turned directly into the drawing room. He laid Minerva’s sodden, shivering form on a plush divan and pushed the entire thing—furniture and woman—forward, until it sat a few feet from the hearth. The fire was young and blazing. Scorching flames leaped and danced.

“This is a lovely room,” Minerva said weakly. “I’m so gl-glad to—” Her teeth chattered. “To have this chance to see your home.”

“Shush. Don’t try to talk. You can have the grand tour later.”

“All right.”

Her thin, quivering attempt at a smile made him want to howl with anguish. It should not be this way. He slipped the spectacles from her face, wiped them dry, and replaced them on her nose.

Mrs. Hammond stood in the doorway.

“Bring blankets,” he ordered. “A clean shift, I don’t care whose. Hot tea immediately, and other refreshment as you’re able.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once the woman disappeared, Colin set about the work of removing Minerva’s soaked clothing. She tried to help him, but her fingers were shaking too hard.

“Be still, pet. Allow me.”

In the end he gave up on the buttons and hooks and drew the folding knife from his boot, using it to slice her gown at the seams. He peeled the drenched fabric from her body, tossing her garments into a heap by the fire. As he hacked away at the sweet, gauzy muslin, he wanted to weep.

A week ago had he harbored some vague concern that he might ruin this girl? Taint her reputation beyond repair? Or, horrors—steal her virtue?

She should have been so lucky.

Look at her now. Curled up, shivering uncontrollably. Skin pale, lips blue, gown in rags. Dreams left shattered and strewn on a country road, and all her hopes for the future vanished. As he undressed her, he found a horrific bruise swelling on her shoulder.

This went beyond social ruin. This was complete and total devastation he’d wrought upon her.

The deep, eviscerating pain Colin felt at that moment told him two things, both equally tragic.

He loved her, beyond anything.

And she was lost to him, forever.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Amazing, what an hour’s rest, a warm fire, and a spot of doctored tea could do for a girl’s constitution. As she snuggled into her warm nest of blankets, Minerva decided fleecy quilts were her new favorite attire.

And she’d yet to have the promised grand tour, but judging by what little she’d glimpsed thus far, Riverchase was the finest home Minerva had ever dripped inside.

If only Colin would abandon his post by the hearth and come sit next to her, she would feel completely restored. He looked so miserable. She started to rise and go to him. But he stayed her with an outstretched hand and single, harsh word.

“Don’t.”

His voice and his eyes were so cold. Minerva shrank back into the divan.

He stared into the fire. “I’m sending you back to London. Tomorrow.”

“You’re . . .” Her breath caught painfully. “You’re sending me to London? Not taking me.”

Now that Scotland was no longer their destination, she supposed it made sense that they would turn back. But tomorrow? Separately?

He nodded. “It’s safer that way. And more expedient. Naturally, you’ll have outriders for your security. Mrs. Hammond, my housekeeper, will travel as your companion.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll ride ahead to warn Bram, so he’ll be expecting you.”

“Lord Rycliff? But what will you tell him?”

“The truth.” He gestured vaguely. “Some version of it. That we left Spindle Cove with plans to go to Scotland, but it didn’t work out. And that I’m asking his and Susanna’s help in salvaging your reputation. We’ll tell everyone you never traveled past London. That you fell ill that first night, and you’ve been staying with them the whole week.”

The prospect of so much deceit made Minerva’s stomach churn. “Susanna is my friend. I don’t want her to lie for me.”

“Such things are done all the time.”

Minerva knew this much was true. More than one of the young ladies she’d met in Spindle Cove had been sent there to weather a scandal or indiscretion. As the village’s erstwhile patroness, Susanna kept a great many secrets. And society at large owed her a great many favors of discretion, no doubt.

But it would be one thing to conceal this journey from public notice, and another thing to banish it from their own memories. He spoke as if they would be strangers to each other, from this point forward.