Midnight Bride (5 page)

"Do something about it then. It is not too late. Ask if she will see you. Tell her you wish to apologize," Hartley urged.

Charles brightened. Then his face fell. "Never agree.
Said some terrible things."
He sighed disconsolately.

"Try.
Sent Jeffries or her maid to ask her."

Finally Charles agreed and sent a footman on his way to find his sister's maid. He looked at the bottle of brandy beside him and reached for it. "Drink to celebrate."

"Just the thing.
Take some wine up to share with your sister." Hartley held up the bottle of Madeira he had kept beside him.

"Brandy."

"Here's Jeffries with your answer. We will ask him to decide."

"What she say, Jeff—Jeff—Jeffries?"
Charles finally managed to get out.

"She will see you, sir." He stood back, his face impassive though his eyes were disapproving.

"Mr.
Beckworth
wishes to share a drink with his sister, Jeffries.
Which do you recommend—brandy or Madeira?"
Hartley
asked,
his face carefully unconcerned.

"Madeira, sir."
Charles shrugged his shoulder.

"Get a tray and glasses. Here's a bottle of Madeira I just opened. You take them. I'll see to Mr.
Beckworth
." Hartley watched as the butler arranged the bottle and glasses on a tray and then helped his friend up. Slowly but steadily they climbed the stairs.

"That's the one," Charles said, pointing to the door. Hartley glanced at Jeffries, who nodded disapprovingly.

"You go on in now and apologize. You don't need me at a time like this," Hartley said encouragingly. For a moment Jeffries allowed his approval to show. Then his face was impassive again.

As soon as Charles entered the room, both Hartley and Jeffries headed back downstairs. When he entered the card room, Hartley glanced at the table where Dunstan and the others sat. Picking up a bottle of brandy, he made his way over to them. "Who is winning?" he
asked,
his face only mildly curious.

"Dunstan," the others groaned. Hartley glanced at the notes in front of the man in the dark blue coat, and his eyes narrowed. "That calls for a drink." The others pushed back their chairs.

"None for us.
Fm for bed."
The other nodded and yawned. Dunstan, already awash in more brandy than he usually drank, tried to refuse, too, but Hartley would not hear of it.

"We are celebrating your winning. Wouldn't be the same if you did not take part," he explained, laughing.

"One more hand. Then just one glass," Dunstan said, slurring his words more than he had intended to do. The hand won, he tossed down his drink and stood up, weaving slightly.

"I am ready for bed. I will walk with you upstairs," Hartley offered. He waved away a footman who stood ready to help. "See to the others."

The morning sunlight was still only pale streaks on the horizon when Elizabeth awoke the next morning. A faint uneasiness plagued her. She shoved it aside, enjoying the cozy warmth of her bed, her headache still faintly nagging at her. After a while her maid would be there, ready to help her dress for another day. She breathed deeply. At least she and Charles had settled their differences the evening before. She smiled sleepily as she remembered how worried he had been about her forgiveness. If he only knew, she had never been able to maintain her anger with him for longer than an evening. Still, he had made a sweet apology.

However, the longer she thought of the previous evening, the more distressed she grew. Even at ten o'clock, her brother's speech had been slurred, his walk unsteady, and his breath strong with brandy. Reminding him of his promise to curb his drinking would do no good. She would have to write another letter to her stepmother. Charles needed something worthwhile to do with his life before he became so comfortable with his role of drinking and gambling that nothing would save him. If she could only convince her stepmother to let him do as he wished and join the army.

She sighed and closed her eyes once more, still
drowsy even after the peaceful night's sleep in her own bed. Enjoying the cozy warmth, she snuggled farther down in the feather mattress. Then all her sleepiness forgotten, she crouched at the head of the bed, the covers drawn tightly around her, her eyes wide, and her mouth open in a silent scream.

There was someone in bed with her. Her breath came in gasps. Her chest heaved. Once more she tried to scream but couldn't. Then she noticed the bare arm covered with a light dusting of brown hair. Creeping even farther up in the bed, as close to the edge as she could possibly get, she gulped and pulled even more covers around her. The move was a bad one. The covers now around her had been hiding more than an arm. She could see two long legs also dusted with hair poking out of the covers. Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing so that she could call for help.

She was in bed with a man. Or was he in bed with her?

She opened her eyes. This was her room. The man groaned and turned slightly. Hastily Elizabeth closed her eyes, but that did not erase the vision of a hairy chest and a shock of brown hair.

Controlling her fear, she opened her mouth to scream and then shut it hastily. She considered her choices. If she screamed, someone would come running. Picturing the turmoil that would cause made her blanch with fear. She had been through one miserable scandal in her life and once was enough. She opened one eye for a peek and then shut it quickly. Only the edge of a sheet, vividly white against his skin, had kept her from her first look at an unclothed adult male. Still breathing irregularly, she opened her eyes again, telling herself she needed more information before she could decide what to do. Just then, the man, chilled in the cool air of the spring morning, turned again and reached for the covers.

Elizabeth refused to give up her hold on them, clutching them even more tightly around her. Once again she closed her eyes, realizing the inevitable. She would have to wake him up. Then she heard the creak of the coal and wood hoist. The servants were up. Soon a maid would arrive and light a fire on the hearth.

Acting quickly, Elizabeth held on to the bedpost tightly and angled herself. She doubled up her feet and kicked, knocking the man to the floor.

"What the hell?" Dunstan groaned, not knowing whether to hold his head or his sore elbow.

Who was he? Elizabeth wondered, noting his handsome, sleepy face and deep blue eyes, still half closed. She knew his face. Then she remembered. She had met him yesterday. Using a few choice words she remembered from the last time she had heard Charles complaining in the stables, Elizabeth muttered under her breath.
Her miserable memory.
Realizing that knowing his name was not going to solve her problem, she said quickly, "Get under the bed!"

"Huh?"

"Get under the bed!" Elizabeth took a quick look to see if he was following her orders, but he was just sitting there as handsome as ever, holding a pillow in his lap, not a stitch of clothing on him. She closed her eyes again, gulping nervously. "The servants will be here at any moment! Get under the bed!
Now!"
This time her tone made an impression on him.

Dunstan looked at Elizabeth and then around the room, a room he had never seen before. His clothes were on the floor around him, just as he had left them since he was a small boy, to the despair of his nanny. Then they both heard the quiet conversation in the hall. Grabbing what clothes he could gather quickly, he yanked up the bed skirt and slid under the bed.

Elizabeth hopped out of bed and collected his coat and neck cloth and shoved them under the bed, too. Dunstan, entranced, wondered if he should tell her that bending over in a low-cut
nightrobe
could be revealing. But she was obviously not thinking of her clothing. Her robe was sheer and the morning sun, now shining more brightly, silhouetted her figure against the embroidered linen. Before he had a chance to say anything, Elizabeth was back in bed. Dunstan, now that his distraction was gone, lowered the bed skirt and plunged himself into darkness. He banged his head on the edge of the bed and groaned.

"Be quiet!" Elizabeth said, her voice trembling. Then they both heard the scratching at the door. Elizabeth burrowed under the covers, her heart pounding as her head had done earlier. Dunstan froze, hoping that he would not sneeze from the dust under the bed hangings. Elizabeth would have to check on her servants more carefully, he thought. Then realizing the absurdity of his thoughts, he almost chuckled.

Elizabeth? He had been in bed with his hostess! The thought made his heart stop for a moment. This could not be true; it could not be happening to him. This was an incident from his brother's life and not his own. He would wake up in his own room and find that he had simply dreamed the entire situation. Even though he tried hard to convince himself that he was right, he did not move or make a sound. What if it wasn't a dream?

In the few minutes that the servant spent making up the fire, time that seemed like hours to the two of them, Dunstan and Elizabeth each had ample opportunity to review the morning. Dunstan, his first memory of the morning an uncomfortable thump to the floor concentrated on his companion. Even the day before in her traveling gown, Elizabeth
Beckworth
had attracted him. If he were honest, he would have to admit that he had been attracted to her when she was in her second Season. But then he had been a mere second son— not a bad position in some families. But his father was a rakehell, a man heading down the path to ruin as fast as he could, impeded only by Dun-
stan's
grandfather's refusal to release additional income or to die and allow him to inherit the earldom.

Dunstan's presence as an extra man had been welcome at balls and other social events; he had known, however, that even though he had an impeccable reputation himself, no father would consider his suit, not with his father's and his brother's reputations for squandering vast sums of money. So he had watched Elizabeth at the balls and held his tongue.

Even later, there was no thought in his mind of an offer. Then she had disappeared. Honest with himself as he always tried to be, he had to admit that as attracted as he had been to her, when she left London,
his
attention was easily distracted. This time she would be harder to forget. The vision of her through her thin nightgown seemed burned in his mind. He thought of her lying in bed above him and almost groaned. The clank of the coal bucket reminded him of the situation. He held his breath for a moment.

What was he doing in her room? He began to review the events of the evening before.

As hard as she tried, Elizabeth could remember nothing after her talk with Charles. In fact, she could not even remember her brother leaving.

For Dunstan the evening had been much like those earlier in his visit. After the meal he had played a few hands of cards, winning most of them. He patted his coat pockets lightly. At the first rustle of vowels and clink of coins, he stopped and listened. The maid did not pause in her duties. He exhaled quietly. How had he gotten from gaming to his hostess's bedroom?

Minute by minute he tried to recall the details of the previous evening, but they were uncharacteristically fuzzy. Dunstan knew he had played a hand or two with almost everyone in the house party; the satisfyingly full pockets told him that he had, as usual, been lucky. Once again he was struck by the irony. He, who cared little for games of chance, won; his father, who had lived to gamble, had beggared himself with his losses. He chuckled ironically. Then he remembered where he was and froze, checking to see if the maid was going to react.