Unmasking the Duke's Mistress (Gentlemen of Disrepute #1)(31)

‘It’s the master, ma’am.’

‘Dominic is here?’ The thought had not even entered her head. Even though it was his house. And she was his mistress.


‘His Grace has had a bit of an…accident.’

‘An accident?’ Arabella’s stomach dropped to the soles of her feet. Her heart was thumping a fast frenzied tattoo of dread.

The footman lowered his voice even more. ‘Not the best of sights for a lady to see, but he won’t let me fetch a doctor, ma’am.’

A chill of foreboding shivered right through her. She pushed past James into the drawing room.

Three branches of candles had been lit, yet still their warm flickering glow did not reach to the shadows of the room, nor barely touched the tall dark figure that stood near to the cold fireplace. He had his back to her, but he appeared to be as he ever was, smartly dressed in dark tailcoat and pantaloons, with the air of authority and arrogance that he carried with him. He seemed well enough. She could smell the damp night air that emanated from his still figure. One hand hung loose by his side, the other looked to be tucked into the inner breast pocket of his tailcoat.

‘I should not have come,’ he said without looking round. ‘I had not realised that the hour was so late.’

‘James said you met with an accident.’

‘James exaggerates. I did not mean to wake you. You should go back to bed.’ Still he did not move. And the apprehension that had faded on her first sight of him was back as if it had never left.

‘What has happened, Dominic?’ she asked carefully.

He turned then, and still nothing appeared out of place, except that his right hand remained tucked beneath the left breast of his tailcoat.

‘A minor altercation. Nothing of concern. As I said, go back to bed.’

And then she caught sight of the dark ominous stains upon the white cuff that protruded beneath the dark woollen sleeve of his coat and, lifting the closest candelabrum, she walked towards him.

‘Arabella,’ he said, holding out his exposed hand as if to stay her. But she kept on closing the distance between them, for she had a horrible fear of just what those stains were.

‘This is not for your eyes.’

She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. Her body felt stiff and heavy with dread. ‘Take off your coat.’

‘Arabella…’ One last warning.

She ignored him and took hold of his lapel, pulling back the left breast of his tailcoat.

She gasped at the sight that met her eyes. His white shirt and waistcoat were sodden with blood. She froze, and in that single moment everything changed in her world.

‘Dominic!’ she whispered.

His hand took hers, his grip strong and reassuring. But she felt that it was wet and when she looked she could see the blood that stained it glisten in the candlelight.

‘Oh, my God!’

‘It is but a scratch that bleeds too much.’

But there was blood everywhere, and all of it was his.

‘Go. James will help me.’

She took a deep breath and raised her gaze to his. Their eyes held for a fraction of a second, a heartbeat in which everything she had told herself she felt about him these years past was revealed as a lie.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I will help you.’ And then she glanced round at the footman and prepared to do what she knew must be done.

Dominic watched as Arabella shifted from shock to take charge of the situation. She sent the maid for clean linen and a glass, and instructed the footman with equal calm proficiency, directing James to help divest him of his upper clothing while she half-filled the glass with brandy.

Only once he sat on the sofa wearing only his pantaloons did she pass him the glass. ‘Drink it.’ Her voice was calm, but brooked no refusal.

He did not argue, just did as she directed, downing the contents in one go.

As he drank she rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, tore a strip off the linen and dowsed both it and her hands in brandy.

Then she sat down by his side, eased him back a little against the sofa.

Her gaze met his. ‘This is going to sting,’ she warned. And her eyes held a concern that Dominic had never thought to see there again. It touched his heart much more than he could ever have imagined.

‘Do your worst,’ he murmured.

He could not prevent himself flinching from the initial touch of the brandy to the wound and saw the pain mirrored in Arabella’s eyes. Yet she did not hesitate, or weaken from her purpose.

Her touch was gentle, her movements reassuring. She worked methodically and with a calmness that seemed to stroke away his tension despite the pain. With strip by patient strip of brandy-soaked linen she cleansed the blood away until all that remained was a thin red line against the paleness of his skin.

‘We should send for the doctor. He may wish to stitch the wound.’ She had not looked at him, not once, since she had taken control of the situation.

‘No doctor,’ he said. ‘The cut is shallow. A week of binding and the skin will knit together well enough.’

‘Dominic—’

‘No doctor,’ he said again.

‘Very well.’ She laid a pad of linen against the wound, then bound it in place. And then she got to her feet, passed the tray of bloodied rags to James.

‘Thank you, James, Anne. You may leave us now.’