Silk And Seduction Bundle 2. Louise Allen
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She folded up the muddy skirts of her habit, carefully tucking them up round her thighs before kneeling on the floor at his feet. It was the only way she could think of to prevent her dirty clothes from ruining either the carpet or the upholstery.
‘I suppose your father feels the case is urgent,’ she mused. ‘My aunt told me he is not expected to live long…’
Monty let out a bark of laughter. ‘Does he look ill to you?’
She frowned. ‘No. And that has puzzled me from the first. But then he has a doctor always in attendance…so I suppose…’
‘He has had a doctor in attendance ever since I can remember. He has always kept them in a chamber close to his own, so that he can call on them any time of day or night. Along with the chaplain. So that they can minister to either his upset stomach or his troubled conscience. Dr Cottee has lasted longer than most, because he claims to be an expert on the kind of nervous disorders suffered by men of excess sensibility, such as my father.’
‘Nervous disorders?’
‘Oh, yes. Dr Cottee has had the cunning to prescribe an atmosphere of complete tranquillity. So that my father’s delicate nerves are not overset.’
She looked up at him, her head on one side, recalling the petulant cast about her father-in-law’s mouth. ‘You mean, nobody dares cross him, in case they make him ill?’
‘Clever girl,’ he said, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Does he really get ill if somebody opposes him?’
‘Well, my opinions on the way I should like to see this estate run give him a headache,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘On the one occasion we discussed politics, since I am diametrically opposed to his position, he had what looked like a genuine apoplectic fit.’ He grimaced. ‘And the fact that I am to be the next earl at all gives him lengthy bouts of insomnia.’
Her frown deepened. ‘Why does he not like you, Monty? I would have thought you are the kind of son any man would be proud of!’
The sardonic expression intensified.
‘I think—’ he sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees ‘—that whenever he looks at me, he sees my mother. You see, it was not a love match. His parents picked her out for him, and he was still so morose about losing his first wife, whom he really loved, he put up no resistance. But my mother had her pride. She was not the sort to stay about and listen to him wax lyrical about the woman who died giving birth to his heir. After giving birth to me, she took herself off to town pretty smartish and lived her own life.’
‘So…he sent you away and can feel no warmth for you because you are the son of a woman who defied him,’ she said, reaching out and tentatively touching his knee. She knew exactly what it felt like to be judged by who your mother was! ‘And the twins?’
‘Ah, yes, the twins,’ he said, sitting forward and taking her hand between his own. ‘Piers never liked my father’s third wife. He made her life as uncomfortable as only the spoiled heir to a fortune, who had the first place in his father’s affections, could. Before long, rumours about her affairs began to circulate in the district. Then she died bringing those boys into the world. With the result that my father positively hated them from the very start! Not only did he suspect they were not his, but he blamed them for robbing him of a wife that I think, from what I can remember, he did feel some genuine affection for. At least all he has ever felt for me is indifference. But those poor little beggars…hidden away here as though their very existence is shameful…’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘If we cannot do something to help them, Midge, they are going to end up turning into complete savages!’
‘Is he blind?’ Midge blurted. ‘I mean, it is perfectly obvious that they are his children. When I went through the portrait gallery I could see those green eyes and the dimpled determined chins they have on Claremonts going back centuries.’
‘Quite,’ he said dryly. ‘But as I said, whenever he looks at them, he sees their mother.’
‘Well, it is quite wrong of him to punish the children for their mother’s faults!’
The door opened then, and Pansy came in, leading a procession of maids with all the items they had requested.
‘I-I had better go and get changed,’ said Midge, standing up with regret. She resented the interruption to one of the most meaningful conversations she’d ever had with her husband. It had explained so much.
Pansy helped strip her out of her muddy habit, and as she settled into the warm, scented water, she thanked her lucky stars she had not complained about what she had perceived as his neglect of her so far that week. He had enough people making life hard for him without her pitching in!
‘What is taking you so long in there?’
She had heard Monty pacing up and down in the sitting room, but was startled to see him standing in the doorway, staring down at her. Her face flamed as his eyes roved over what he could see of her protruding above the soapy water.
‘Towel!’ she squeaked, flapping her hand in Pansy’s direction.
But Monty got to it first.
‘I can take over from here,’ he said, not taking his eyes from where Midge cowered, her hands now folded over her breasts.
With a giggle, Pansy scuttled from the room, pausing only to scoop up her mistress’s dirty clothing.
‘Come on, out you get,’ he said, invitingly spreading the towel out wide.
Somehow, without Pansy there, she felt less shy. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, her eyes drinking in the expression of naked desire on his face. He took a step forward, but rather than wrapping the towel round her, he painstakingly dried every inch of her. Then stooped, scooped up a handful of soapy water, and let it trickle over her breasts. So that he could dry them again.
Somehow his own clothes got wet and had to be removed too. By the time he tossed the towel to the floor and laid her down on it, Midge was on fire for him.
Afterwards, he rolled to one side and held her in his arms.
He had done that, once or twice, she observed drowsily. After making love with her, he sometimes held her until she fell asleep. Though he was never still with her in the morning.
‘What is that?’ she asked, idly running the tips of her fingers over a mass of knotted scar tissue on his shoulder.
‘Bullet wound,’ he replied, sitting up and reaching for his shirt.
She rolled onto her side, dragging the towel over herself. She felt shy again, now that he was finished with her. Especially since it was broad daylight! If she could see scars she had not been aware of before, what must he be able to see!
He glanced down at her, and seeing her concerned expression riveted on his scar, he said, ‘You knew I had been wounded. You sent me wishes for a speedy recovery.’
She sat up, and on a spurt of daring, kissed the scarred flesh just as he was thrusting his arms into his shirtsleeves.
‘Rick never told me how you got wounded. Or what the nature of your wounds were.’
‘Sniper,’ he said tersely, pulling the shirt over his head. ‘Officers make easy targets, perched up on their horses.’
When she gasped in shock, he turned to her, explaining ruefully, ‘It is a good strategy—to shoot officers from their horses—to attempt to reduce the ranks to chaos. War is a dirty business. Each side does whatever is expedient to beat the other. Come on—’ he grinned, getting to his feet ‘—our soup must be getting cold.’
He finished dressing, and strolled into the sitting room, where the table was now laid out with lunch for two.
It took Midge a few minutes to secure the towel successfully and stumble after him to the sitting room.
Monty