Mary Balogh - Slightly Wicked

And then there was a commotion from the direction of the tea tray. Judith Law had apparently been pouring a cup of tea when someone—it was Horace Effingham, Rannulf could see—must have jogged her elbow. The tea had spilled all down her front, darkening the gray of her dress, making it half transparent, and molding it to her bosom. She had cried out, and Effingham had produced a handkerchief and was attempting to mop her down with it. She was pushing his hand away with one of hers while with the other she was attempting to pluck the wet fabric away from her bosom.

“Judith!” Lady Effingham cried in awful tones. “You awkward, clumsy girl! Remove yourself immediately.”

“No, no, it was all my fault, Stepmama,” Effingham called. “Allow me to wipe you dry, Cousin.”

There was laughter in his eyes, Rannulf saw—lascivious laughter.

“Oh dear,” Miss Effingham murmured, “Judith is making such a cake of herself.”

Rannulf found himself clenching his teeth and striding across the room to grab the shawl from under Mrs.

Law’s elbow. He hurried toward the tea tray and tossed the garment about Judith Law’s shoulders from behind without actually touching her. She looked around, startled and grateful, even as her hands grasped the ends and drew it protectively about her.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

Rannulf bowed curtly. “Are you burned, ma’am?” he asked. Had no one considered the fact that it was hot tea she had spilled down herself?

“Only a little scalded,” she said. “No, really, nothing.” She turned to hurry from the room, but he could see that she was biting her lower lip hard.

Rannulf found himself eye to eye with Horace Effingham, whose leering expression came very close to a wink.

“How gallant,” he said, “to find a shawl to hide the lady’s, er, embarrassment .”

It had been deliberate, Rannulf realized suddenly, narrowing his gaze on the other man. By God, it had been deliberate.

“She might have been badly burned,” he said curtly. “It would be advisable to be more careful around tea trays in future.”

And then Effingham did wink as he murmured very low. “I am burned, even if she is not,” he said. “As are you too, Bedwyn, I’ll wager. Quick witted of you to find an excuse to hurry closer.”

But Lady Effingham had raised her voice again, though now she was laughing and pleasant. “Carry on as before, everyone,” she said. “I do apologize for that unfortunate and undignified interruption. My niece is unaccustomed to mingling in polite society and has become all thumbs, I am afraid.”

“Oh, I say, Aunt,” young Law said, “Jude has never been clumsy. It was just an accident.”

“Lord Rannulf.” Mrs. Law tweaked his sleeve, and he could see when he turned toward her that the incident had upset her. “Thank you so very much for being the only one with the presence of mind to help Judith and to save her some embarrassment. I must hurry upstairs to see how badly hurt she is.”

She set two plump hands on the arms of her chair to support herself.

“Allow me, ma’am,” he said, offering his hand.

“You are most kind.” She leaned heavily on him as she hoisted herself to her feet. “I believe it must be the summer heat that has caused my ankles to swell and that is making me so breathless all the time.”

He thought it was more likely to be all the cream cakes she seemed to consume and her generally indolent lifestyle.

“Allow me to escort you, ma’am,” he said.

“Well, I will if it is not too much trouble,” she said. “I did not even really want that cup of tea, you know, but I wanted Judith to move from my side and mingle with the guests. She is very shy and even insisted upon taking her dinner with me tonight since I was too weary to come down to the dining room. I thought perhaps someone would engage her in conversation and all would be well. I am vexed with Louisa for forgetting to introduce her to the guests after dinner. I daresay she has too much else on her mind.”

Rannulf did not intend to take her farther than the top of the stairs. But she leaned so heavily on him that he took her all the way to her room. At least, he assumed it was her room until she raised one heavily ringed hand and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, and Rannulf was trapped by the burden on his arm. Judith had removed both her dress and her cap. Her hair, still pinned up, had nevertheless pulled loose in several places so that long locks of bright red hair hung over her shoulders and temples. She was wearing a loose dressing gown, which she was holding closed with one hand. Even so, a large V of bare flesh was visible from her shoulders to the top of her cleavage. For a few inches above the latter her skin was a fiery red.

“Oh.” Soon her cheeks matched the scald mark. “I—I thought it was someone bringing the salve I asked to be sent up.” She focused her gaze on Mrs. Law, but Rannulf knew she was very aware of him.

Her hand clutched the robe closer.

“You are burned, Judith, my love,” Mrs. Law cried, relinquishing her hold on Rannulf’s arm and hurrying forward far faster than he had ever seen her move before. “Oh, my poor child.”

“It is nothing, Grandmama,” Judith said, biting her lip. But Rannulf saw tears spring to her eyes and knew she was in pain.

“Allow me,” he said, “to find the housekeeper and make sure the salve is sent up without further delay.

In the meantime, Miss Law, a cold wet cloth held against the burn may take away some of the sting.”

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his. For a moment their glances locked, and then she turned away and the old lady set an arm about her shoulders.

Rannulf hurried away, entertaining himself with pleasing visions of bathing Horace Effingham in something a great deal hotter than tea.

Judith remained in her own room for two days, nursing a painfully sore chest. Her grandmother, who forgot her own maladies now that there were someone else’s to occupy her mind, visited her often, bringing her books and bonbons and news from the rest of the house and admonitions to lie down and sleep if she could. And Tillie, on Grandmama’s orders, brought food trays to Judith’s room and came every few hours to apply more of the soothing salve.

Horace Effingham sent up a bouquet of flowers with Tillie and a note explaining that he had picked the blooms with his own hands and wishing her a speedy recovery.

Branwell came in person to see her.

“Are you enjoying the house party?” she asked him when he had inquired after her health.

“Oh, I am having the greatest good time,” he said. “We went riding to Clynebourne Abbey this morning.

There are just a few old ruins there, but it is very picturesque. We rode over to Grandmaison first to invite Bedwyn to join us. I think Julianne fancies him, but she is looking to have her heart broken, if you were to ask me. The Bedwyns are all enormously high in the instep. Bewcastle—the Duke of Bewcastle, that is, head of the family—is known as a thoroughly cold fish and would be very unlikely to approve of an alliance with the daughter of a mere baronet.”

“I am glad you enjoyed the ride.” Judith smiled. What would Branwell have to say, she wondered, if he knew that Lord Rannulf Bedwyn had offered to marry her just yesterday?

“I say, Jude.” He got up abruptly from the chair on which he had been seated and paced across to the window of her bedchamber to stand looking out, his back to her. “You would not be able to lend me a few pounds by any chance, would you? Maybe thirty?”

“No, I most certainly would not,” she said. “I doubt I could scrape together a shilling even if I were to turn my purse inside out and upside down and squeeze it. Why do you need thirty pounds?” It seemed like a vast sum to her.

He shrugged and turned to face her with a sheepish grin. “It is not important,” he said. “It is a trifling sum, and Effingham did tell me not to worry about it. But I hate to be in his debt. I hated to have him pay all the expenses of my journey, but Papa has turned remarkably tight-fisted lately. Is he sickening for something?”

“The journey here cost thirty pounds !” Judith asked, considerably shocked.

“You do not understand what it means to be a gentleman moving in the company of other gentlemen, Jude,” he said. “One has to keep up with them. One cannot look like a country bumpkin with ill-fitting coats and breeches and boots that look as if they were made by an apprentice to a country cobbler. And one needs fashionable digs and a decent horse to get about on. And unless one struts one’s stuff all alone, one must do what other gentlemen do and go where they go—the clubs, the races, Tattersall’s.”

“Bran,” she asked, not really sure she wanted to hear the answer, “do you owe other people money too?”

He waved a dismissive hand and grinned at her, though there was something sickly in the expression.

“Everyone owes money,” he said. “A gentleman would be thought queer in his attic if he did not owe half a fortune to his tailor and his bootmaker and his haberdasher.”

“And do you have gambling debts, too?” she asked before she could stop herself. She really did not want to know.

“Trifling ones.” Again he flashed her his sickly grin. “Nothing like some fellows, who owe thousands.

Some men lose whole estates, Jude, on one turn of a card. I never wager what I cannot afford to lose.”

She was too cowardly to ask him the extent of his gaming debts.

“Bran,” she asked, “when are you going to decide upon some career?”