The Duke's Hidden Desire (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 2) Page 8

  "Would you?" asked Holly, clutching her hand. "Would you really?"

  "Of course, if that's what you want." Anna wet her handkerchief in her father's basin of clean water and used it to wipe Holly's eyes. "No more tears, now. You must think of your baby, and stay calm and happy."

  "I'll do my best," Holly said.

  Anna, not wishing to face Gilbert again, asked her father to tell him she had been called away. She and Holly put on their gloves and hats and set out across Loxton.

  Even if Anna did not know that Sam Digby had taken up highway robbery, she would not have been surprised when Holly's steps turned towards the tavern. Sam had been one of the men hoping for a job in harvest season, but the spring's poor weather had put paid to that hope for too many. The tavern had sadly become their natural habitat.

  They were just crossing the high street when a breathless young farmhand came barrelling into them, nearly knocking Holly to the ground. Anna steadied her at the last minute and turned to the boy, ready to issue a sharp reprimand.

  The terror in his face silenced her.

  "Miss Hawkins!" he gasped, leaning his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Miss Hawkins, you must come at once!"

  "What on earth for?" asked Anna. "What has happened?"

  Holly took the boy's arm and led him to a pile of boxes outside the greengrocer's. "Come and sit down," she said. "Catch your breath. Don't frighten Miss Hawkins like that – tearing up and down the street like a mad thing!"

  The boy took a few deep breaths and eventually stammered out, "The – the Duke of Beaumont!"

  "What?"

  It was the last name Anna wanted to hear, and the only name guaranteed to send a shiver of joy down her spine.

  "All this prattling of dukes!" said Holly sternly. "Talk plain!"

  "He has fallen from his horse on Farmer Carter's land," said the boy. "He's hit his head, Miss, and we can't get no sense out of him except 'Miss Hawkins'. That's what he keeps saying – ‘take me to Miss Hawkins.’ So old Carter and the lads are carrying him to your house."

  Holly's eyes were wide as saucers. "What does a duke want with you, Miss?"

  "He must be confused," said Anna. She hardly knew what she was saying; the words appeared in the air as though someone else had spoken them. "He means my father, of course."

  She staggered suddenly, clutching at Holly for balance. The world had suddenly lurched under her. If Beaumont was hurt... If Beaumont should die...

  "You're deathly pale, Miss," said Holly. "Better you should go home, I think, and if I may I'll call on you tomorrow for that help you were giving me?"

  "Home?" asked Anna. "No – no, I must go to him. I must go and help him."

  Holly's confused face brought her back to reality. Anna shook her head, willing her nerves to calm. "I misspoke," she said. "I must go home and tell my father what has happened."

  "I'll walk with you, Miss," said Holly. "Pardon me for saying, but you don't look well."

  Anna let out a burst of near-hysterical laughter. "You should go home and rest," she said. "Tell your parents my father said you mustn't do any chores today. I – I must go." She looked around in distraction, as though the duke might appear from the cobblestones. "I must go!"

  Anna hardly knew how she made it home. She barely understood the explanation that she gave to her father. She felt as though she had fallen into an icy river, and all she could do was keep her head above water and remember to keep breathing.

  "I will go out to meet them," said her father, putting on his hat. "Anna, you know what to do. Prepare everything for a patient with a severe head wound. We must be ready for the worst."

  Gilbert stood half-in and half-out of the drawing room, twisting his hands together. "A calamity!" he said faintly. "A disaster! Must he really be brought here? What if the duke should die in your house? Dreadful! Dreadful!"

  "Mr Jackson," said Anna breathlessly, coming down the stairs at a run with an armful of clean linen, "I'm afraid the duke will not desire an audience."

  "Quite right!" exclaimed Gilbert, fumbling with his hat. "Quite right! Good luck, my dear. I'll see myself out."

  Anna barely heard him. She was too busy directing Mrs Pierce to heat water, making up the bed in the little consultation room, fetching bandages, drawing the curtains to dim the light, and pumping out a bucket of fresh water to cool the cloths for the duke's injured head.

  Now that she had a task to perform, her panic was replaced with cool concentration. Her father was right. She did know what to do.

  When Mr Floyd appeared, back from his morning visits, he was amazed to find Anna standing in the centre of the consultation room, hands trembling only slightly, and looking around to check that everything was ready.

  “Not another gunfight?” he groaned, seeing the expression on Anna’s face.

  “Far from it," she said faintly. "We are expecting the Duke of Beaumont."

  The sound of men approaching the house sent her thrusting Mr Floyd aside to open the front door.

  A group of farm hands were holding the corners of a battered barn door that had been torn from its hinges. Lying prone on the makeshift stretcher, his legs lolling nervelessly off the end, was Beaumont.

  Anna rushed to him, one hand outstretched, but caught herself in time. Her father was walking behind the men, grave-faced.

  "Get him into the house," he said. "Out of the way now, Anna. You cannot help us yet. We must lift him onto the bed as gently as we can."

  Mr Floyd ran to assist with one end of the stretcher, and Anna could do nothing but stand aside and hold the door open as they manoeuvred the duke through. She made a quick study of his face as they went past. His skin, usually so healthy and unfashionably tanned, had a grey pallor. His eyes were closed, though his lips moved a little as though he were trying to speak. A dark trickle of blood had made its way down his forehead. Anna thought she spotted a glistening mass of blood in his black hair, but he was carried away before she could be sure.

  "The last words I spoke to him were so cruel," she murmured, as Mrs Pierce appeared with her bucket of cold water.

  "What was that, Miss Hawkins?"

  "Nothing," said Anna, wiping away the hair which had fallen into her forehead. "Let me take that in, Mrs Pierce."

  Mr Floyd was ushering the farm hands from the room. He made to take the pan from Anna's hands.

  "Let me," said Anna. "Please. I'd like to help."

  Mr Floyd hesitated. He was always careful not to criticise Dr Hawkins's penchant for letting his daughter work, but Anna knew how unusual it was, and that Mr Floyd might not approve. "We will need a quiet room," he said, at last.

  "I won't make a sound." Anna walked through the door Mr Floyd was still holding open, head held high.

  Her father was examining the cut on Beaumont's head. He glanced up in faint surprise to see Anna standing there.

  "Put the pan down over there," he instructed. "Floyd, find the scissors from my bag, if you will. I doubt he'll thank me for it, but His Grace must lose a chunk of hair."

  When Anna did not leave the room, her father frowned. "Are you intent on staying? A duke's cracked head is no different from any other."

  "Let me help," said Anna, praying that her father would not ask why.

  She need not have worried. Dr Hawkins gave no more than an absent-minded shrug and directed her to dip a cloth in the bucket of cold water and apply it to Beaumont's forehead.

  "He was falling in and out of sleep on the way here," he said. "See if you can bring him back to us by talking quietly."

  Anna found herself gnawing on the inside of her lip as she considered what she could possibly say to Beaumont in front of her father. "Good afternoon, Your Grace," she began, hesitantly. "You need not be alarmed. You are in very safe hands."

  Two words, barely louder than a breath, emerged from the Duke of Beaumont's lips.

  "Anna Hawkins."

  Anna had taken his hand without thinking about it. She squeezed it tightly, lea
ning closer to Beaumont's ear. "Yes, it is me. My father is taking care of you. All will be well."

  His mouth slackened as he drifted into unconsciousness once more. Anna could not bear to lift her eyes to her father's face. She had no doubt that Beaumont had been asking for her all the time the farm hands carried him back.

  "Floyd, go and fetch Mrs Pierce," said Dr Hawkins, as he finished snipping away the bloodstained tufts of hair. "It seems Anna has an affinity with our patient and must sit with him awhile."

  When Mr Floyd had gone, Dr Hawkins busied himself with threading his needle. Anna was grateful. It meant that she did not have to see his expression.

  "I trust you have been honest with me about your acquaintance with this man," said Dr Hawkins mildly.

  "I have not lied to you, Papa," she said. She realised that her fingers were still interlocked with Beaumont's. She set his hand down gently on his chest and finally looked up to find her father regarding her gravely.

  "Then I will not ask you any questions which might induce you to start lying now," he said.

  Mrs Pierce tiptoed into the room with such exaggerated softness that Anna wondered how sternly Mr Floyd had warned her to be quiet.

  "Well, here is your chaperone," said Dr Hawkins. "Take up his hand again, Anna. It may give him some comfort as I fix this hole in his head."

  He began stitching with the expert swiftness Anna had always so admired.

  She obeyed her father and laced her fingers through Beaumont's once more. She pressed them firmly, hoping against hope for some answering pressure.

  There came none.

  13

  Voices. Cool hands. Fleeting scraps of sunlight that pierced through his closed lids like hot brands.

  Perhaps he had fallen into the river, and was being pulled along by its heavy undercurrent?

  Perhaps he might drown.

  The thoughts flickered in and out of his mind as he broke gently into consciousness and back again.

  The voices were fainter, now. There was a cold pressure on his forehead. It was dark.

  The Duke of Beaumont succumbed to the heavy waters clinging to his limbs and let himself sleep.

  He was aware of almost nothing for some time, for hours or perhaps days of drifting grey half-sleep, until the soothing waters began slowly to recede. The light grew brighter. The pain in his head sharpened.

  Beaumont broke water, eyes flickering open.

  His first clear thought was that he had never in his life been so abominably drunk as he must have been the night before.

  He flung out a hand to take up the glass of water his valet always left by his bedside, and was amazed to find that same hand seized by something soft and warm.

  He tried to jerk away, but found he lacked the strength.

  His eyes focused on a face of such surpassing loveliness that for one delirious moment he did not know whether he still walked the face of the earth.

  "You're awake," she said softly, and the voices which had echoed in Beaumont's dreams coalesced into this one, sweet, familiar voice.

  "Miss Hawkins?" he asked. Though his head hurt terribly, he forced a smile. "Am I still dreaming?"

  What on earth was Anna Hawkins doing in his bedchamber? Had she succumbed to him at last? Had he finally conquered that proud spirit?

  No, he would remember such a moment. The sight of Anna in his arms would surely have seared itself into his memory for all eternity.

  He became slowly aware that his surroundings were not, in fact, his chamber at Scarcliffe Hall. Nor did they resemble his suite of rooms in Beaumont Castle, or his London residence, or any of the numerous other properties he owned.

  He was lying on quite an uncomfortable bed in a dowdy little room with the most peculiar furnishings. There was no furniture save a wooden cabinet, which held all manner of horrifying metal implements and jars of mysterious substances.

  From one corner, which Beaumont could not see without twisting his aching head, a ruminant snoring tainted the air. A chaperone! This was a sure indication that he and Anna had not spent the night alone.

  "A pity," he murmured, and blinked in surprise when he realised he had spoken aloud. "Ah – forgive me, Miss Hawkins, I do not seem to be – that is, I find myself –"

  "Hush," she said, lifting the damp cloth which Beaumont was amazed to find on his head. She replaced it with another, blessedly cool. He closed his eyes and sighed gratefully. "You are in my house, Your Grace," Anna continued. "You were brought here after falling from your horse. Do you remember?"

  "Remember?" Images flickered behind Beaumont's closed eyes. The wind whipping his stallion's mane. The rolling fields of the Loxwell estates below him. The soaring sensation as he jumped a fence. "Ridiculous," he managed. "I never fall from my horse. I am an excellent rider."

  "I'm sure you are," said Anna, sounding faintly amused. "Nevertheless, you fell."

  Beaumont shifted up onto his elbows, only slightly discouraged by the cautionary pressure of Anna's hand on his chest. He examined what he could see of his body above the bed sheets. He did seem to be in riding clothes. The hard weight of a book pressed into his side from his coat pocket.

  Yes, that was right. He’d had something on his mind - he’d had Anna on his mind - and, unable to shake his mood, he had decided to ride off to a quiet spot and indulge in reading a bit of poetry. "But why bring me here?" he asked, baffled.

  The tender light faded from Anna's eyes. Beaumont could not imagine why, but it was the wrong question to ask.

  "I must fetch my father," she said, getting to her feet and brushing off her skirts. "He will want to examine you. Lie still, Your Grace."

  Beaumont had little choice but to obey. The world was spinning around him in the most inconvenient fashion.

  Within moments, the face of Dr Hawkins appeared above him. At least, that was who Beaumont thought it was. He struggled to focus on it, gaining nothing but a vague impression of salt and pepper hair and an aura of calm.

  "Good morning, Your Grace," said the doctor, speaking in a low, soothing tone. "You have had a fall. Do you remember?"

  "Nothing," Beaumont managed. "I remember nothing." Not true. But he was awake enough to realise he could not tell the doctor that thoughts of Anna had distracted him enough to make him fall as his horse jumped a fence.

  "That is nothing to worry about. It is quite normal after such an injury. You are in my house in Loxton, where you must remain until you are well enough to travel."

  Though Beaumont's tongue was growing thick and heavy, he managed to venture something along the lines of "couldn't possibly impose –"

  "I'm afraid I insist, Your Grace," said the doctor, and Beaumont had time to register the pinch of surprise at the ridiculousness of a mere doctor insisting to a duke, before black sleep overwhelmed him once more.

  The next thing he was aware of was an increase in the chaperone's rambunctious snoring. Though the sound hurt his head, he was pleased. It meant Anna was still nearby.

  "Miss Hawkins?" he murmured, without opening his eyes.

  "I'm here, Your Grace."

  "Might I trouble you for a glass of water?"

  Much to his embarrassment, Anna had to help him up into a sitting position. She arranged the pillows behind him with a nurse's expertise. Beaumont was starting to think that even his feather bed in Beaumont Castle was no comparison to a pillow plumped by Anna Hawkins.

  He insisted on holding the water to his own lips, and she insisted on steadying his hand. Someone had removed his riding gloves. It felt wildly improper for Anna's delicate silk sewing glove to touch his bare skin.

  Beaumont almost laughed at himself. Only a few weeks earlier, he'd come to this house with the very intention of having Anna touch a great deal more than that – gloves off, moreover.

  He wondered whether the change in attitude towards her might be lasting.

  No. Nonsense. It was the effect of the head wound, that was all.

  "What time is it?" he asked, sinking
back into the pillows with a sigh. "And how long have I been here?"

  "It is noon," she answered, "the day after your fall."

  "Then I was not out for long?"

  "Long enough to worry my father," she said. "Your valet has arrived from Scarcliffe Hall, Your Grace. We have made up a bed for him in the drawing room. I'm afraid there was no other space."

  "Ah, Jones. Good man."

  "He has brought a set of nightclothes for you, and a banyan, if you wish to change." Anna hesitated. "Though I am not sure I would advise you to stand up at present."

  This sounded like a trap to Beaumont. "And how do you expect me to woo the fair lady dressed in a banyan?"

  His eyes flew open. "I apologise," he said immediately. "I did not mean –"

  To his relief, Anna's eyes were sparkling with amusement. "Do you mean to tell me, Your Grace, that you flung yourself from your horse, landed headfirst on a rock, and demanded to be brought to – to my father, all for the purpose of returning to my good graces?"

  "I would rather believe that than think I fell by mistake," said Beaumont. Anna laughed, pressing a hand to her lips to keep the sound low.

  "I promise that I will continue to attend you, even if you are dressed in a banyan. Mrs Pierce will make no objection under the circumstances, I'm sure."

  Beaumont glanced in the direction of the snoring. "Mrs Pierce is exactly the sort of chaperone I prefer."

  If Beaumont had not already learned to appreciate Anna's calmness, his gratitude was magnified sevenfold by its comparison to the anxious effusions of his valet. Jones was a very gifted man when it came to choosing a tailcoat or mending a button, but his tendency to grow attached to his employer was, in this instance, less than ideal. Beaumont found that the trauma of struggling to his feet and removing his soiled shirt was only made worse by the sight of Jones's trembling lip, and his constant worry that His Grace had better lie back down.

  By the time he was comfortably dressed in a fresh shirt and a deep blue silk banyan, and after Jones had assured him that he did not look half as unfit for a lady's company as he felt, Beaumont was even pleased to see the nervous Mrs Pierce making her return.