“I have never deceived you,” he told her, willing her to trust him, to read the honesty in his eyes, his expression. It was more than could be said for the man she had married.
“I need time, Northwich. You cannot expect an answer now. Leave me to my misery in peace.”
“Of course not. You may have all the time you require.” Within reason.Hell.Essentially, within the day. Because he would be damned before he allowed anything else to befall her. “I will go to my chamber now, but I am not going anywhere.”
With that warning, he took up the pillow and bedclothes he had dragged from his guest chamber and threw the lot over his shoulder.
* * *
Marriage.
To the Duke of Northwich.
Pippa could scarcely credit it.
But the steady ache in her head was a reminder of the danger she had faced the night before. Of the danger that could return. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Duke of Northwich could protect her or Charlotte.
She rose from bed tentatively, her bare feet sliding over the Axminster as she went to the bellpull to ring for her lady’s maid. The room still smelled faintly of his scent, and the carpets were warm where he had lain and slept the night. Little tangible reminders of him were everywhere.
Most of all in the unsettled way he made her feel. His concern left her suffused with warmth. His protectiveness too. And his blazing regard…he looked at her as if he wanted to claim her. To make her his.
Where once, the notion would have been anathema to her, recent revelations had left her wondering. They had shaken her resolve. As had the sudden attack upon her and the invasions of her private territory by unknown, mysterious—and threatening —strangers.
She jerked the bellpull with more force than the movement required.
She could not truly be considering marriage again. And to the duke. To the one man she had vowed to never forgive…
But that had been a different time.
And in a sense, she had been a different woman.
Now, she no longer had herself alone as a concern. She had Char-char. And if anything were to happen to her daughter because of George, or because of Pippa’s refusal of aid from Northwich, she would never forgiveherself.
Perhaps that was where she needed to begin.
Her lady’s maid, Primrose, arrived, looking as effortlessly handsome as ever. Nary a wrinkle in her gown, nor a hair out of place. Pippa, in contrast, was certain she looked as disheveled as if she had been dragged behind a carriage. Her head most certainly felt as if she may have been.
“How are you feeling this morning, madam?” Primrose asked, her countenance as worried as her voice.
She was petite, red-haired, and had a lovely disposition. Primrose had been her lady’s maid since before she had married George and had loyally remained by her side during all the years of her marriage. Regardless of how many times Pippa had requested Primrose refer to her as the more familiarPippa, the lady’s maid staunchly refused. And so they had remainedmadamandPrimroseall this time. Friends, despite the formality, Pippa thought. Her lady’s maid was only one year her elder.
“As expected.” She attempted a bright smile which only served to turn into a wince as her abominable headache crashed through her skull.
“Shall I fetch some tea for you? Mayhap a poultice from Mrs. Keene?”
Mrs. Keene was the cook. A dear lady, who had replaced the French chef George had insisted upon until Pippa had discovered how dear the man’s salary was following her husband’s death. The chef had been talented indeed, but given Pippa’s reduced circumstances—no husband, no intention of hosting guests—Monsieur Oiseau’s culinary acumen had seemed wasted.
“I do not think a poultice will be sufficient to solve my problems, Primrose,” she said weakly. “Nor tea.”
“I am thankful the villains did not do you more harm.” Primrose shook her head, her expression turning stern. “If I had been about when they had dared attack you, I would have boxed their ears.”
The notion of her diminutive lady’s maid as fierce defending warrior, boxing the ears of whomever had hit Pippa over the head was enough to summon a smile.
“Oh, Primrose. You are a dear. I would not wish to face you were I them.”
Her lady’s maid bustled about, setting out fresh undergarments. “I would not scare them, I fear. The Duke of Northwich, however…”
Yes, his tall wall of muscle would be more than enough to dissuade most men from proceeding, she was certain.
