“No. She’s quoting m—” Another spoonful was shoved in his mouth before he could finish.
“I don’t need to know about your private affairs, Astley.”
“You don’t want to hear the stories of my exploits?” It wasn’t just Charlotte who ate up his legendary tales as if they were the nectar of life. Everyone wanted to hear about his debauchery from the first seductive glance to the climax of the century. Footmen leaned forward from their posts, maids dusted items three times over, lords and ladies openly flirted and brushed and petted for the chance to join in the depravity. They all wanted a piece of theexoticAstley with his naturally sun-kissed golden skin and his bold, expression-filled dark eyes with the type of long lashes all the women craved. He’d even had a few ladies request he kiss their quims with the blink of his eyelashes. That had drawn several eyerolls from his former partner in crime, the Duke of Ross.
“No. I don’t.”
The clank of the spoon warned him of an imminent spoonful. He took it before replying, “You’re the first.”
“And probably the last.”
Yes, she probably was. He wondered about the stories that would be told at his funeral.Dear God, they wouldn’t subject his mother to the tales, would they?
“Stroke it hard, Sweet,” Charlotte mocked.
“Charlotte, shut?—”
Another spoonful shut him up. By the speed in which it had descended upon him, he was quite certain the woman was punishing him for Charlotte’s filthy mouth. He supposed he deserved that.
“Before you shove that last bite in my mouth, I must insist you obtain pen and paper.” And give him a chance to digest the disgusting broth before he gave it back to her in a display of abysmal proportions.
“Take the broth first.”
He sealed his lips and shook his head.
“You look like a two-year-old refusing to take his medicine.”
He shrugged. There were six children whose futures depended on him delivering this message.
She huffed, her warm breath on his cheek making him realize she’d been closer than he’d imagined.
“Please, it’s important.” His plea was met by silence. He suspected she was gauging the sincerity and the lucidity of his claim.
“Very well.” He heard her move across the room and set his dishes upon the sideboard. The next thing he became aware of was the scrape of a chair and her skirts swishing at his side. He hadn’t been aware of falling asleep until the crinkle of paper made him realize she had pen and paper.
“Are you ready?” He asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Harder, my lord,” his parrot squawked.
“Shut up, Charlotte,” they said in unison and for the first time in months, he smiled.
Three
Dear Sir Robert Williamson,
It was no accident. His last meeting was with Viscount Pembrock. Then six children were orphaned.
Astley
—A letter penned by Caillen Griffith, Baroness Bredlebane to Sir Robert Williamson, War Office, London, England, from the deathbed of Simon Clark, Earl of Astley.
Caillen sighed as she set the cup of tea laced with laudanum next to the bedside table and looked down at the sleeping earl. His battered face and body looked nothing like the day they had met. At the time, she’d thought a man of the ton couldn’t look more disreputable. Now, she knew otherwise.
Gingerly, she dabbed at his perspiring forehead as she said a silent prayer for his recovery. Perhaps this was her purpose, the reason she had survived. Perhaps she was meant to care for her husband’s children and Astley. Maybe there were more peoplewho would turn to her in their time of need and she would be the caretaker she never wanted to be.
She closed her eyes and prayed that was not her destiny. “Lord, I am not that good of a person.” She knew that much about herself. She was not meant to be a nursemaid. She hadn’t the patience for the sick, or dying, or the crying, or for that matter, obstinate men. She’d known this before her marriage, and yet, somehow when she’d fallen in love with William, she’d completely discounted her lack of ability to endure whining. It was her one major character flaw. The worst failing a wife or mother could have.
