Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(37)

“No doubt you did,” he murmured, “but I don’t think that’s why you sold your spinet. You enjoy punishing yourself.”

“What a nasty thing to say.” She turned her face away from him, feeling the heat in her cheeks. Prayed he couldn’t see her in the dim carriage.

“Yet you don’t deny the accusation.” He grunted in pain as the carriage rocked.

She glanced swiftly at him, only to inhale as she met his sharp gaze. Even in his weakened state, she felt as if she were pinned by a predator.

“What imagined sin do you punish yourself for?” he asked softly. “Did you covet another female’s bonnet once as a child? Gorge yourself on sweetmeats? Felt a naughty thrill at a lout brushing up against you in the street?”

Raw rage, sharp and unexpected, washed over her, making Temperance shake. She restrained herself from shouting a retort only with difficulty. Instead, she breathed deeply, staring at her fists in her lap. To let herself speak now would be the height of stupidity. She’d say too much, reveal too much. He was perilously close to her secret shame as it was.

“Or,” Lord Caire’s obnoxiously calm voice drawled, “perhaps the sin was more grave than those I cite.”

She remembered that long-ago thrill when she’d catch sight of a certain man, his crooked smile making her heart leap so unbearably. The memories were shadows of her ancient emotions and desires, still lurking long after their progenitor had died.

Temperance lifted her head, staring into his wicked blue eyes, her jaw clenched. A slight smile played about his wide mouth, sensuous and seductive. Did he torture her out of curiosity? Did he enjoy her pain?

The carriage halted and Lord Caire broke their stare. “Ah. We’ve arrived. Thank you for accompanying me home, Mrs. Dews. Once I alight, the coachman will take you to your own home. I bid you good night.”

She was terribly tempted to simply leave him here. He’d taunted and prodded her like a little boy poking sticks at a caged monkey, purely for his own amusement. And yet when he stood and swayed, half slumping against the carriage doorway, she jumped up.

“I loathe you, Lord Caire,” Temperance said through gritted teeth as she took his arm.

“So you’ve informed me already.”

“I am not finished.” She staggered as he leaned heavily against her. A young footman opened the carriage door, and he immediately took Lord Caire’s other arm to help him down. “You’re an impossibly rude man, without morals or even manners, as far as I can see.”

“Oh, stop, I beg you, Mrs. Dews.” Lord Caire grunted. “You’ll turn my head with this flattery.”

“And,” Temperance continued, ignoring his words, “you’ve behaved abominably to me since the moment we met—when you broke into my home, might I remind you.”

Lord Caire had made it to the street, where he paused, panting, his hand on the shoulder of the young footman who gaped at the two of them. “Is there a point to this diatribe, or are you merely venting your spleen?”

“I have a point,” Temperance said as she helped him up the steps to his imposing town house. “Despite your treatment of me and your own foul personality, I intend to stay with you until a doctor sees to you.”

“Flattered though I am by your martyrish impulses, Mrs. Dews, I have no need of your help. Bed and a brandy will no doubt see me right.”

“Really?” Temperance eyed the idiot man, swaying on his own doorstep. Sweat dripped down his reddened face, the hair at his temples was plastered to his head, and he literally shook against her.

In one swift move, Temperance elbowed him in his wounded shoulder.

“God’s blood!” Lord Caire doubled over, choking.

“Send for a doctor,” Temperance ordered the butler, who was standing wide-eyed at the door next to another footman. “Lord Caire is ill. And you two”—she jerked her chin at the footmen—“help Lord Caire to his bedroom.”

“You,” gasped Lord Caire, “are a vindictive harpy, madam.”

“No need to thank me,” Temperance said sweetly. “I’m merely doing my Christian duty.”

The sound he made at her words might’ve been either a laugh or a grunt of pain; it was hard to tell. In any case, Lord Caire made no more argument as the footmen helped him up the stairs to his room.

Temperance followed behind, and although her motives for making sure that Lord Caire was properly seen to were almost entirely altruistic, she still couldn’t help herself from noting his home. The staircase they mounted was marble, but even more grand than the one at Lady Beckinhall’s town house. It curved elegantly into the upper floor. Huge portraits of men in armor and haughty women in fabulous jewels lined the walls, their eyes seeming to examine with disapproval her intrusion into this home. Beneath her feet, a lush crimson carpet lined the stairs, cushioning their footsteps. In the upper hallway, life-sized marble statues peered eerily out of niches along the walls. Tall double doors were thrown wide as their procession neared. A slight servant of middling years stood anxiously by as they entered Lord Caire’s rooms.

Temperance turned to him as the footmen took Lord Caire to the massive bed in the center of the room. “You’re Lord Caire’s valet?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked between her and Lord Caire. “My name is Small.”