Chapter Twenty-One
How one evening could keep getting worse, Trem was not sure.
He had been anticipating a quick tumble with his fiancée in a carriage, to wedge himself between her perfect thighs and remind her why she had agreed to marry him. But instead he had discovered that she had disappeared.
And now, while he had found the woman herself and they had had their carriage ride, he had not only been maimed by a bullet in the process, but now also by his own conscience. While the pain of his arm had helped him stay his lust, it had still taken all his willpower to not take her anyway, pain be damned.
But it had dawned on him with an alarming clarity that, since the relationship between him and Henrietta had changed forever, they had yet to have a private conversation without it leading to vigorous erotic activity. And even he wasn’t so much of a rake to not see a problem with that. He wanted to know Henrietta and have her be his partner in all things. He didn’t want her to feel like—what was the word Catherine had used? ah, yes—like a toy, a plaything for him to use.
He was happy that she had trusted him with the secret of her parentage. He had been briefly stunned by the knowledge, but then, upon further contemplation, found that he was hardly surprised. It certainly clarified why the late duke had thought it worth risking sixty thousand pounds on John bringing about a rapprochement between his family and Mary Forster.
Her illegitimacy meant nothing to him outside of what it might mean to her. Perhaps, if he’d had parents or a family of his own watching his marriage, it could have caused some sort of tension, but as he was only accountable to himself, it could not have mattered less. Many aristocratic women had affairs and produced children that were not their husband’s—as long as the heir was trueborn, the ton tolerated such offspring as a fact of life.
Right now, the most pressing problem he had was that his arm hurt like the devil. He banged on the door of the inn with his good hand. Henrietta supported him on his weak side and that blithering idiot Percy waited with the coach. He had stayed at the Craven Arms many an evening over the years and he prayed that Mrs. Bercine would have a vacancy and a giant bottle of whiskey.
After a few minutes of knocking, the door lurched open. The countenance of Mrs. Bercine appeared, looking sleepy and disgruntled. Her cheeks looked much more pallid than usual—an effect, no doubt, of having been woken up in the middle of the night and thus having to forego her favored rouge. Still, even with such deficits, Tremberley suspected she would still live up to her reputation as the comeliest innkeeper in England. She had never particularly stirred his blood, but she was nevertheless well known for her beauty.
“I warn you,” she pronounced into the dark, “if you’re here to rob the place, I am armed.”
Then, the innkeeper caught sight of his countenance.
“Lord Tremberley! At this hour? Come in.” She held the door open for him and he stumbled across the threshold. His shoulder was really smarting now. In the carriage, the pain had felt manageable, but somewhere between the carriage and the doorway it had become much less so.
“My lord, not again,” Mrs. Bercine exclaimed, as she took account of his pallor and injured arm. “Not another duel, I hope.”
“You’ve been shot before?” Henrietta cried.
“Wasn’t me last time,” Trem corrected Mrs. Bercine. He was disconcerted to discover that the words appeared to cost him quite a bit of effort. “Montaigne.”
“Montaigne was shot?” Henrietta said.
“Duel. Well, sort of,” Trem said, finding it difficult to explain the circumstance in his condition. “Ages ago.”
Really, he felt light-headed. He touched his arm and realized that blood had run from his arm down his shirt sleeve, despite the pressure of the jacket. He held up his hand and watched the red drops fall from his fingertips and onto the floor.
“Trem,” Henrietta said, her voice reaching a new level of alarm. “Please,” she said, turning to Mrs. Bercine, “we need a bed and a doctor.”
God bless the woman, she nodded. “Yes. Right this way. Can you manage the stairs?”
If you had asked him ten minutes ago, he would have been insulted by the question. Now the wooden steps up to the second floor of the inn looked like a nearly insurmountable challenge.
“I’ll help him,” Henrietta said, taking his good arm.
Trem forced himself to take each stair, the pain in his arm nearly blinding. He tried to remember when Montaigne had been shot. It was so long ago—and so much alcohol had been involved—that his memory of the events were cloudy. Given how much pain he was in now, he most likely hadn’t been sympathetic enough to his friend’s plight.
When they reached the top of the stairs and were led into a neat, comfortable room, he turned to Mrs. Bercine. “Whiskey. Now.”
“Right away,” she said, turning on her heel.
“You need to undress,” Henrietta said to him, once she was gone.
“Always so eager to see me undressed.” He tried to smile and found it made his head swim.
Henrietta scoffed and helped him take off his boots. Soon, she had him stripped down to his smalls, except for his shirt and the jacket still tied around his arm.
“Lie down,” she said, tugging him over to the bed. He managed to wedge his body into the space, the bed feeling comfortable but also disorienting. Stars filled his vision and for a moment he couldn’t see her.
When his vision returned to normal, Henrietta was sitting next to him on the bed.
