Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford

      Later he lay on his hard bed in the sweltering heat of the barracks, too hot even for a sheet, hearing the whine of mosquitoes in the sultry air while the sweat trickled down his skin. When he shut his eyes he saw her face, the wonderful eyes filled with love and longing. Sometimes he dreamed she was there, bending over him, speaking softly and bathing his forehead with cool cloths. But he knew it was a dream because she was lost to him, given in marriage to the rajah of a neighbouring state, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

       ‘Lakshmi.’

      And then his brother was there, shaking his head.

       ‘Why the devil didn’t you take her away while you had the chance, you fool?’

      And he was right. Greville was always right. But the chance was gone now. Why had he not acted? He had broken his promise.

       ‘I’ll find a way, my love.’

      He had believed it too, then. They could have found a place somewhere; they could have carved out a future together. What matter if others looked askance; what matter if there was a scandal? He was no stranger to it. But the thought of what it might mean for her had stayed him for the news would have swept like fire through the length and breadth of the Indian continent. News travelled fast there. And while he hesitated, she was lost.

       ‘Lakshmi!’

      Claire wrung out the cloth in cool water and laid it on Eden’s forehead. His flesh so pale before was now flushed and hot to touch. Though his eyes were open they did not register her presence and when she spoke to him he did not hear her, but tossed in feverish dreams, speaking the names of people and places she had never heard of. Sometimes he spoke in a strange foreign language whose origin she could only guess at. Her own helplessness tormented her. What if he were to die? She owed him so much and yet knew so little about him. How had he come to be involved in that dreadful business on the moors? She had gleaned a little from the men who brought him to the house, but many questions remained unanswered.

      From the beginning she had insisted on doing her share of the nursing care, taking turns with Ellen when the doctor was from home dealing with his other patients. It was the least she could do and precious little at that. It was shocking to see so strong a man laid low. Yet half a dozen others had been hurt in this affair and seven killed. Five were Harlston’s men, the rest were wreckers. Yet death made no such distinctions. It mattered little whose hand fired the shot. She shivered. She knew it was illogical, but the uneasy feeling persisted that she was somehow to blame.

      Lifting the cloth from his brow again, she replaced it with a cooler one and rinsed out the first, using it to wipe the sweat from his face and neck and the hollow above the collarbone. For a brief moment her hand brushed the skin of his breast. Claire drew in a sharp breath. His flesh was fiery to the touch. Hastily she poured more cold water into the basin and rinsed the cloth again. Then she bathed his chest as far as the line of the bandage would permit, her gaze taking in each visible detail of the powerful torso. She had not thought a man’s body could be beautiful until now. Beautiful and disturbing, too, for it engendered other thoughts.

      She had fled her uncle’s house to avoid being married to a lecherous old man, but what of being married to a younger one, a man like this? If her suitor had looked and behaved like Eden, would she have fled? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her? Her own flesh grew warmer then for it took but a second to know the answer. Yet what mattered most was the freedom to choose. She had always thought that somewhere there existed the man for her, though she had no idea of the circumstances in which she might meet him. What had not occurred to her was the idea that someone else might wish to do the choosing for her. How could one find love through another’s eyes? Only the very deepest love would ever tempt her into matrimony, the kind of love her parents had shared. It was that or nothing and on this she knew there could be no compromise.

      Shocked by the tenor of her thoughts she tried to dismiss them, but it proved impossible while that powerful physique was before her demanding consideration. Her eyes returned to his breast, her hand travelling thence to his good shoulder, moving with smooth and gentle strokes down his arm. Beneath the fine-veined skin she could see every detail of the curved musculature beneath, the strong bone at elbow and wrist, the dark hair along his forearms, the sinews in his hands. She took his hand in hers and drew the damp cloth down his palm to the fingertips, then turned it over and repeated the process. His hands were big yet finely shaped with long tapering fingers; hands capable of knocking a man down, or supporting a woman in need. The recollection sent a frisson along her spine. Disturbed by the memory for all sorts of reasons she forced it to the back of her mind. Mark Eden was a stranger who had once come to her aid. She knew nothing more about him. Perhaps she never would.

      The thought was abruptly broken off by a hand closing round hers. Claire’s gaze returned at once to her patient’s face. His eyes were open now and apparently directed at her, though they shone with a strange inner fire.

      ‘Mr Eden?’

      He made no reply save to carry her hand to his lips. Feeling their hot imprint on her skin, she tried to extricate herself from his hold. It tightened instead and pulled her down towards the bed. She fell across him and suddenly his lips were on her neck and cheek, seeking her mouth. Claire turned her head aside, feeling the rasp of stubble and hot breath on her skin.

      ‘Mr Eden, please!’

      The words had no effect. His lips sought her ear instead and found it, his tongue exploring its curves. The touch sent a shiver through her whole body, awakening new and unexpected sensations.

      ‘Lakshmi,’ he murmured. ‘Lakshmi, my love.’

      Claire stiffened and pulled away, heart thumping, but Eden was no longer looking at her, his head tossing on the pillow, the grey eyes feverish and unfocussed. She realised then that he had not seen her at all, in all likelihood had no idea of her presence. In his disordered mind he was with a very different woman.

      The knowledge hit her with force. It was a timely reminder of how little she knew of this man or the events that had shaped him. Detaching herself from his slackened hold, she walked a little way from the bed and took several deep breaths to try and recover her composure, her thoughts awhirl with what she had heard. It raised so many questions. Questions she knew she would never dare to ask nor had any right to. Looking at her patient now, she thought he was an enigma in every way. She would swear he was not from the labouring class whatever his dress proclaimed. His speech, his whole manner, precluded it. And yet the men in Gartside obviously knew him and he them. However, he was as unlike them as fine wine was from vinegar. On the other hand many ex-soldiers, even of the educated officer class, were forced to look for alternative employment now that hostilities with France had ceased. No doubt Eden too had had to adapt to the circumstances in which he had found himself. Those circumstances would remove him from her sphere soon enough. It was a disagreeable thought, for she could not forget how his touch had made her feel, if only for a moment. Yet it was no use to dwell on it; another woman had his heart. She could only pray that when he was recovered he would recall nothing of what had just passed.

      Marcus had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the next time he came round it was still light and he was lying in a large comfortable bed between clean white sheets. For a moment his mind was blank. Then memory began to return. Turning his head, he saw a familiar figure at the bedside.

      ‘George?’

      ‘Welcome back.’

      ‘How long have I been here?’

      ‘Almost two weeks.’

      ‘Two weeks!’ He started up, only to feel a painful twinge in his shoulder.

      ‘Have a care. It’s mending, thanks to the efforts of my sister and Miss Davenport, but you’re not there yet.’

      Marcus lowered himself onto the pillows again. His friend was right; the savage pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache. Clean bandages covered his injured shoulder and breast.

      ‘Could