Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(36)

Dear God, she’d lost her mind, her balance, and her morals, and she no longer cared. She wanted to be free again, to feel without thought or horrible memory. She wanted to be born anew, pure and without sin. She ran her hands up his arms, squeezing, testing the hard muscles beneath until she reached his shoulders, then—

“Damnation!” The word was a groan as Lord Caire ripped his mouth from hers.

“Oh!” She’d forgotten his injured shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’ve hurt you.”

She reached for him, not sure what she could do, perhaps only wanting to offer comfort.

But he shook his head, beads of sweat on his upper lip. “Don’t worry yourself, Mrs. Dews.”

He straightened from where he’d leaned against the settee back, but then swayed.

“You need to sit,” Temperance said.

“Don’t fuss,” he murmured irritably, but his voice was weak. Something dark stained the shoulder of his coat.

Temperance felt a thrill of fear. His face was too red, the heat of his body too hot. She swallowed, keeping her voice calm. In her experience, gentlemen never wanted to admit weakness. “I… I find myself weary. Would you mind terribly if we left?”

To her relief, he didn’t argue over her obvious stratagem. Instead, Lord Caire straightened and offered her his arm. He led her back to the musicale room. There he made his way far too leisurely through the guests, pausing to exchange banter with other gentlemen, before making his excuses for his early departure to the hostess. All the while, Temperance watched him anxiously, aware that sweat slicked his brow. By the time they retrieved her wrap, he was leaning heavily on her. She wasn’t even sure he was conscious of it or not.

“Tell the coachman to drive to Lord Caire’s town house,” she told the footman as he helped Lord Caire up the steps to the carriage. “Tell him to hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the footman said, and slammed the carriage door.

“Such drama, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled. His head lolled against the squabs, his eyes closed. “Don’t you want to return to your foundling home?”

“I think it best that we get you to your home as soon as possible.”

“You worry too much.”

“Yes.” Temperance braced as the carriage swung hard around a corner. “Yes, I do.”

She bit her lip. Because despite her light words, she knew her worry was well founded. She very much feared Lord Caire’s wound was infected.

And infection could kill a man.

Chapter Seven

At Meg’s words, all within the room gasped.

“Nonsense!” the king roared. “I am beloved by my people. Everyone tells me this is so.”

Meg shrugged. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but they have lied to you. You may be feared but you are not loved.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “I will prove to you that I am loved by my people, and when I have done so, I will have your head to decorate my palace gates. Until then, you may reside in my dungeons.”

And with a wave of his hand, Meg was dragged away….

—from King Lockedheart

Infection could kill within days—hours if the wound turned putrid rapidly.

Temperance couldn’t keep the morbid thought from her mind as Lord Caire’s carriage rumbled through the dark London streets. She didn’t even know where he lived or if they had a long ride or one of only minutes. Perhaps she should’ve insisted he stay at Lady Beckinhall’s town house, despite his obvious desire to conceal his illness.

“You’re very quiet, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire said slowly from across the carriage. “I vow, it makes me nervous. What plots have you worked for me in that Puritanical mind of yours?”

“I only wondered how soon we would arrive at your house.”

He rolled his head, squinting out the window as night lights flashed by. After a bit, he closed his eyes again. “I can’t tell where we are. Halfway to Bath, for all I know. But never fear, my coachman is a humorless man. He’ll see us safely home.”

“Of course.”

“D’you like dancing as well?” he asked suddenly.

Was he delirious? “I don’t dance.”

“Naturally not,” he murmured. “Martyrs dance only upon crosses. I’m surprised you let yourself enjoy even something as innocent as piano music.”

“I used to have a spinet as a young girl,” she said absently. Surely they must be nearly there?

“And you played.”

“Yes.” She remembered suddenly the feel of the smooth, cool piano keys beneath her fingers, the sheer joy of producing music. That time seemed so innocent and far away now.

His eyes cracked lazily. “But you no longer play?”

“I sold the spinet after my husband’s death.” She waited for him to make a cutting remark about Benjamin again.

“Why?”

The simple question startled her enough that she glanced at him. He was watching her through slitted eyes, the blue of his irises glittering even in the dim carriage.

“Why what?”

“Why sell the piano you so obviously treasured? Did you fear you’d be tempted by the small pleasure of the music? Or was it something else?”

Temperance clenched her hands together in her lap, but her voice was calm as she replied with a half-truth. “We needed the money for the home.”