Everything I Ever Wanted, page 13
"Yes," he said after a long moment. "As I will." He came to his feet and held out his hand. "Come. I would have you naked now."
* * *
The headache that was forming behind India's eyes was quite real. Mrs. Garrety glanced at her with concern. "A megrim, is it?" the dresser asked.
It hurt to nod. India did it anyway.
"Let me turn down the lamps." Mrs. Garrety moved quickly about the dressing room, turning back the wicks on each of the oil lamps and removing one out of the reflective line of the mirror. "There. Better, isn't it? Shall I pour a spoonful of laudanum for you?"
"No. I want to go home."
"In a moment. I have but a few things to finish—"
"I want to leave now."
The dresser's wiry brows jumped nearly to her graying hairline. The mole on her cheek twitched. "I'll flag a cab for ye."
"Please." India did not turn as Mrs. Garrety fled the dressing room. She sat very still on the stool, her head in her hands, and watched the glaze of pain shutter her expression until she was unrecognizable to herself. The eyes that stared back at her were Margrave's.
India drew back sharply, unnerved by what she glimpsed in the mirror. She was unaware that any sound had escaped her lips, until Doobin, always hovering nearby, appeared in the open doorway.
"Is everything all right, miss?" he asked. "I saw Mrs. Garrety hurry away."
"She's getting a hack for me."
"Then she'll be going home with ye tonight?"
"Yes. I have a megrim."
Doobin nodded. "Is there naught that I—"
"Leave," she said curtly.
The boy was too young to hide his hurt. He stared at her dumbly, eyes wide.
"For God's sake, take yourself off." India's voice rose in pitch. The taste of of her tone was like acid on her tongue. "Away!" Out of the corner of her eye she saw him take flight. Her eyes burned and her throat ached. She deserved a moment's respite, some peace from all the eyes that watched her. Hadn't she earned this small thing? "Ah, Doobin," she whispered, allowing her eyelids to flutter closed. "You are too easily wounded."
By the time Mrs. Garrety returned, India was standing, her heavy velvet pelisse in hand. The dresser helped her into it, fussing over the brass buttons first, then the fit of the simple velvet hat that complimented the dark emerald coat.
"You will not credit what I have just learned," Mrs. Garrety said.
India was in no mood to guess and did not attempt to do so.
"Mr. Kent has only this minute past informed me of a most interesting occurrence. The Duke of Westphal has curled up his toes this evening."
"Dukes die, don't they?" India asked wearily. She bent to pick up her reticule, feeling lightheaded and a bit wobbly as she did so. "Surely they cannot be so high in the instep they think an exception will be made."
Mrs. Garrety made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Aren't you just the one?" She wound her arm through India's and let the younger woman lean against her. "This way. The hack's here for you."
India merely murmured her understanding.
"Poor dearie." Mrs. Garrety patted India's hand. "It was the footlamps tonight, was it not? They make fearsome fumes when the oil is poor quality. I shall speak to Mr. Kent about it directly and see that it's changed. He won't be thankin' us if ye pass out on the stage at yer next performance. And 'im with pockets as deep as the North Sea, thanks to you." The dresser kept up her monologue all the way to where the cab was waiting at the theatre exit.
The driver stepped lively at India's approach, peeling himself away from where he lounged against the wheel of the hack. He opened the door, assisted her entry, and accepted the directions offered by Mrs. Garrety.
India roused herself to peer out the carriage window. "You're not coming with me?"
"I'll be along directly."
Had India's pounding head not dulled her wits, she would have wondered at this change in their routine. She only knew that she was not entirely relieved by it and could not fathom the reason this should be so. Pressing her hand to her temple, she nodded agreement before she leaned back in her seat. The cab rocked as the driver quickly ascended, and then they were rolling forward. India closed her eyes and prayed that sleep would overtake her before sickness did.
* * *
The inn at King's Crossing was owned by a warmhearted and expansive fellow named Thaddeus Brinker. It was managed by his more practical and, some would say, tightfisted daughter. Mr. Brinker met the carriages and coaches. Miss Brinker oversaw everything else.
"Here, now," Brinker said as he held the carriage door open. "She's not feeling at all well, is she? Poor thing. Have a care with her, m'lord. You're bound to bump her head going about it in that fashion." Even as he said it, the emerald velvet hat was knocked askew and tumbled to the ground. Brinker swept it up and backed away, giving his lordship a wide berth with the young lady. "She's not drugged, is she? You wouldn't be taking advantage of her?" Brinker had seen the like before, and he wouldn't have it said that King's Crossing welcomed such goings on. "This isn't the road to Gretna, m'lord." His daughter might only care for the color of this man's coin, but Thaddeus Brinker was not such a fool that he didn't ask the important questions.
Southerton struggled with India's dead weight. She was not uncooperative in his arms, merely insensible of them. "No drugs," he said. "And no need for Gretna. The lady is my wife." He hoped that sidestepped the question as to whether he intended to take advantage of her. Once he maneuvered her through the carriage door and took the step to the ground, he was able to settle her more comfortably against his chest. Mr. Brinker hovered with his lantern in one hand and India's velvet hat in the other. "Lead on," South told him. "You would not have me take a graceless fall, would you? My man will see to our trunks."
From the driver's box, Darrow could be heard to mutter an oath, the exact nature of which could not be distinguished from the snuffling of the horses. Southerton had commandeered his valet to act as driver and attendant once the switch from hackney to South's own carriage was made. Darrow remained consistently disapproving of the scheme, though this was more from habit than from any moral, practical, or philosophical position. He never once considered actually refusing to take part in it, even if it meant doing things for which he was ill prepared or had little liking.
The innkeeper raised his lantern so a circle of light preceded Southerton and his lady into the inn. "Right this way," he encouraged as they passed through the door. There were only a few patrons at the tables at this late hour, all of them locals. They fell silent, in some cases with mouths slightly agape, as South crossed the room to the narrow stairs. They averted their eyes quickly when Brinker shot them a quelling look. "They ain't used to the likes of a lady such as you have there," he told South in an aside.
Southerton was uncertain of the exact meaning the innkeeper attached to his words, but he didn't ask for further explanation. The narrow, winding staircase and steep steps loomed in front of him, and India had not once stirred in his arms. He needed to save his breath for what was going to be a difficult climb. He knew of only one way to get her above stairs without banging her about and causing her injury. With no apology, South hefted India over his shoulder and began the ascent.
The room was small but clean. Mr. Brinker quickly turned down the bed, commenting that the sheets had been recently washed and the blankets aired. His daughter appeared with fresh water for the basin as South was setting India down. Miss Annie Brinker took in an eyeful of the scene but refrained from comment.
"She ain't dead or drugged," Brinker told his daughter. Though it was meant to be a whisper, Brinker had never mastered the way of it. His words were quite audible to Southerton. Even Darrow, who was struggling in the stairwell with one of the smaller trunks, heard him. "An' she's his wife."
Annie merely shrugged and placed the pitcher she carried on the nightstand. She stoked the fire in the hearth, added coals, and then inquired rather stiffly as to whether anything else was needed.
South wanted to see the last of them for the night, but he thought of what India might require upon regaining her senses. He asked that tea or a light broth be brought up and some repast prepared for his driver. Annie Brinker appeared as though she might object to this last request, but then Darrow entered the room, looking pitifully overburdened by the weight of a valise on his shoulder and the trunk he dragged behind him, and she relented with nothing more than a heavy, much put upon sigh.
"I believe you have made a conquest," South told his valet once the door was closed.
"What?" Darrow asked. "Do you mean the innkeeper's daughter?"
"Is she his daughter? I didn't know. It did not take you long to be apprised of the particulars. Now you only have to apply to her father for her hand."
Darrow's mouth flattened, unamused. He mumbled something about the locals giving him an earful before he applied himself to unpacking South's trunk and valise. He placed scented soap and a brush on the nightstand, along with other amenities his employer might find himself in want of during their brief stay at the inn.
South shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it over a chair. Darrow promptly hung it on a peg near the door and then waited patiently for Southerton to divest India of her velvet pelisse.
"Do you know," South asked in conversational accents, "I had expected some small skirmish from Miss Parr. As abductions go, this one is altogether unexceptional." He unfastened the brass buttons closing the bodice of her pelisse, unhooked the slim belt beneath her breasts and then parted the velvet over her shoulders. His fingers worked with economic efficiency.
Darrow's expression showed more interest than the coolly detached features of his employer. The realization that this was so was enough to edge the corners of the valet's mouth upward. "You have a great many abductions to your credit, then," Darrow said dryly. "I was unaware that such was the case."
"One hears stories," South said. He gingerly worked the sleeves of the pelisse off India's arms and pulled it out from under her. He held it out to Darrow for the taking. "And I have never heard of one that remarked on such a smooth beginning."
"The calm before the storm?"
"Perhaps." South laid the back of his hand against India's cheek. His palm appeared flushed with color compared to India's pale complexion. He touched her forehead with his fingertips, then the shallow pulse beating in her temple. Her skin was cool. Violet shadows filled the faint hollows beneath her eyes. Her lashes lay in a dark arc just above. They didn't so much as flutter as South shifted his own weight to bring the blankets across her and up to her shoulders.
Uncomfortable with the intimacy he observed, Darrow cleared his throat.
South glanced at him, one brow arched in question. "You have something to say?"
"A tickle." The valet cleared his throat a second time, pressing his forefinger against his Adam's apple to emphasize the offending passage. He turned away quickly and hung India's pelisse beside South's caped greatcoat.
Southerton did not press Darrow for his opinion. It was not that South had no respect for it, but that it was ultimately of no account. South was already set on the course he had determined was necessary.
The bed creaked as South came to his feet. He went to the basin, found a suitable cloth, and dampened it.
"Is she sickening for something?" Darrow asked.
Southerton shook his head. "Exhausted, I think." He had seen the like before, battle-weary sailors and officers in the service of His Majesty, bodies flung limply into hammocks, arms lying loosely at their sides or angled oddly across their sweat-and-smoke-stained shirts, no longer sensible of the roll of the ocean or the rock of the ship except as a comfort and a cradle. "She's been unconscionably used, Darrow. By Kent. By her public. Her suitors." Silently he added the colonel's name and his own.
"Then mayhap you have not abducted her," Darrow said.
"What do you mean?" Southerton sat down again and carefully applied the damp cloth to India's forehead. There was a streak of powder at her hairline, a hint of paint just below her right ear. South removed these with the gentleness of brushing velvet. "You're not suggesting she's going to thank me for this?"
Darrow shrugged. "Who's to say what notions a woman will take in her head? But it seems to me this is more a rescue that an abduction."
South's lips quirked. "I'll remember that in the event Miss Parr makes no such distinction."
"Humph."
"Wise counsel," South said. He glanced over his shoulder and observed that Darrow was close to finishing with his tasks. "Leave it. Seek your repast belowstairs. Seek the innkeeper's daughter, if you've a mind to. I am for bed and have no need of your help in getting there."
Darrow could have made a successful argument in pointing out that Southerton did not often deign to remove even his frock coat and stock without assistance, but the matter of South negotiating his own voluminous nightshirt left the valet quite without words.
"I know," South offered, his lips twisting sardonically. "It defies your imagination. Good evening, Darrow."
"Good evening, m'lord." He slipped out of the room, making sure the door clicked audibly into place behind him.
South braced one arm on the mattress beside India's shoulder and continued his ministrations. He pressed the damp cloth to either side of her jaw, loosened and then removed the ruffled betsy at her neck, and finally ran the cloth along the slender stem of her throat. "How long has it been since you slept?" he asked, his voice but a whisper in the quiet room. "Truly slept?" Southerton had no difficulty seeing India in a restless doze with a script in her lap and lines running through her head, or nodding off between acts while Mrs. Garrety reapplied paint to her cheeks and rice powder to her nose. She made herself available for fittings and rehearsals, suitors and patrons, for performances, and finally for her protector.
South only wondered about the last. Was there truly such a person in her life, or had she created him to carve some few moments for herself? And had she come to be convinced of his existence when no evidence supported the claim, or was it simply that he could not find the evidence? Enough time had passed since the brief notice in the Times for her protector to come forward. In public she remained unattached save for Kent, Master Doobin, and that crusty old barnacle Mrs. Garrety. In private it appeared her company was much the same.
Southerton had not been able to find the source of the Times gossip. He had to consider India Parr had somehow managed to plant that seed herself. She had an entire alphabet of letters at her disposal, any of which could have fulfilled the attentive role of Lord—. The letter M might have no more significance than that it was one of twenty-six of its kind.
Strands of corn silk hair darkened at her temple where they were brushed by the wet cloth. South combed them back with his fingertips. The faint scent of lilac attached itself to his skin and made his nostrils flare. He stood abruptly, tossing the cloth aside in the same motion. It splashed heavily in the basin. Droplets of water spattered the floor.
After turning back the single lamp on the small bedside table, South removed his jacket and waistcoat and loosened the stock at his neck. Not for anything would he admit that Darrow's help would have been welcome in ridding himself of his riding boots. They thumped hard to the floor when he was finally divested of them. His stockings, breeches, and linen drawers he managed well enough. He exchanged his frilled muslin and stock for the calf-length nightshirt and did not lose himself long in the latter before he found the opening for his head.
He was on the point of turning his attentions to the matter of India's dress, or rather, to the contemplation of her undress, when the knock at the door announced the return of Miss Annie Brinker. South found his robe, loosely tied the sash, and padded barefoot to the door. He opened it only wide enough to take the wooden serving tray from her hands, blocking her attempts to see past his shoulder to where India lay. He thanked her brusquely and firmly closed the door with his toes.
The tray fit neatly on the seat of a ladder-back chair. South moved the chair closer to the fire to keep the contents of the pot warm for as long as possible. When he returned to India's side and sat down, he tapped her lightly on the cheek with the flat of his hand and spoke her name.
"Miss Parr? India?" She remained unresponsive. South tapped as lightly the second time, but his tone sharpened. "India." This time she tried to avoid the touch of his hand. A small crease appeared between her brows, and her dry lips parted. There was a flutter of movement behind her closed lids, then nothing. South gave up.
He drew back the blankets and turned India on her side so that he could unfasten the back of her dress. When he saw the complicated lacing he had to negotiate, he understood why Mrs. Garrety was attached, limpetlike, to her employer. Southerton was no stranger to a female's more intimate apparel, but playing lady's maid in preparation of the act of intimacy had always been done, well, by a lady's maid. For demanding women who were impatient for their pleasure, it required no particular skill to throw up their skirts and petticoats and have at it, but the particular garment India was wearing looked as if it had been knotted by a first rate bos'n.
South smiled to himself. Here was something else to be said for his time in the Royal Navy. He'd learned a thing or two about knots that would come in handy now.
Once having freed her of her gown, Southerton removed India's shoes, tights, and underskirt. He peeled away the slim corselet she wore around her midriff, and unthreaded the pink ribbon that kept the delicate batiste chemise fitted snugly just beneath her breasts. Finally, he removed the pins that anchored her splendid hair so tightly to her scalp, and deposited them on the table. When he turned to her again she was already on her side, knees drawn up, one hand beneath her pillow, the other resting in a loose fist against her mouth. Each one of her breaths was without sound, but there was a gentling to the rise and fall of her chest that had not been there before.
"The calm before the storm, indeed," Southerton said quietly. He turned back the lamp so the room's only light came from the fire, then raised the blankets, carefully crawled over India's curved body, and settled himself on the other side of her.
