The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters

despite her misgivings, Alex put her ear to the door.

      Now the thumping sounded more like banging. Something hitting the wall, again and again. Not just banging, but intermittent grunting.

      She shouldn’t be listening to this, but she couldn’t pry her ear from the door. The sense of sordid fascination was irresistible.

      All went quiet once again. She pressed her ear tightly to the door and held her breath, eliminating the distracting sound of her own inhalation. Then:

       Bang-bang-bang.

       Crash.

      And a deep, harsh sound that was part growl, part barbaric shout.

      She clapped a hand to her mouth. She was so absorbed by the struggle not to laugh, she didn’t notice the heavy footfalls until they were just on the other side of the door. The door latch turned.

      No time for escape.

      The door swung open.

      She jumped back, clapping both hands over her eyes. “I didn’t see anything.”

      “I swear it,” she said. “I didn’t see anything at all.”

      Chase stared at his governess. She stood there with a finger-blindfold clamped over her eyes, dressed in a simple shift. Shadows skimmed contours of the form beneath it. “I should think snooping is beneath you, Miss Mountbatten.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said, still covering her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I only came down for a drink of water, I promise.”

      “Pressing one’s ear to a door would seem an ineffective way to quench thirst.”

      Her shoulders wilted. “I didn’t mean to intrude. And I didn’t see anything, hand to my heart. I’ll be going to my chamber straightaway.” She covered both eyes with one hand and groped comically with the other. “Turn me around, if you would?”

      “Are we playing blindman’s buff?”

      “No.” Her throat flushed red. “Turn me the other direction. Toward the door. Point me back the way I came, and I’ll go up to bed.”

      Chase went to the basin and worked the pump handle. The scene was so absurd, he’d nearly forgotten the throbbing pain in his hand. “I can’t send you to bed yet. I’m in need of your assistance.”

      She swallowed audibly. “Assistance?”

      “I can’t deal with this one-handed.”

      She reeled a step in retreat, colliding with a shelf of copper butter molds, setting them a-rattle. Even though she’d backed herself into a corner, she still wouldn’t lower her hands from her eyes. “Can’t your . . . your guest provide you some relief?”

       His guest?

      “I don’t have a guest.”

      A single finger peeled away from her face. He caught a glimpse of dark eyelashes through the gap.

      “I thought you were entertaining a visitor,” she said.

      He looked at the door to his retreat, then back to her. “Why would you think that?”

      “I heard . . .” She swallowed and whispered faintly, “. . . banging. And groaning.”

      Good God.

      He chuckled. “If you hoped to hear something salacious, I’ll have to disappoint you. I was hanging paneling. On the wall. With a hammer and nails. And I seem to have sliced my thumb. Hence the groaning.”

      “Oh.” She lowered her hands and gave a nervous laugh. “Thank heavens. What a relief. I mean, I’m not relieved about your wound, of course. I’m sorry about that. I’m just glad you’re not—”

      “Bare to my skin and covered in well-earned sweat?”

      “Erm . . . yes.”

      He gritted his teeth. He would have loved to draw out the amusement, but his thumb wouldn’t be ignored any longer. “The cook keeps a bit of plaster up there.” He jutted his chin toward a high shelf atop the cupboard. “If you’d kindly fetch it for me.”

      She didn’t do as he asked, but approached him and had a look at his wound. “You can’t just smear plaster over this.”

      “It’s a small wound.”

      “But a deep one. It must be cleaned thoroughly.”

      “It’s fine.”

      “I’ve seen wounds like this one fester. Bigger and stronger men have succumbed to less.”

      “It’s truly none of your concern,” he said, growing testy at the suggestion of her tending the wounds of bigger and stronger men.

      “It is my concern. If you die of gangrene or lockjaw, I’ll never be paid.”

      Fair enough. He offered her his hand for dressing.

      She washed the wound thoroughly with boiled water from the kettle and strong lye scullery soap. He winced. Damn, bugger, blast.

      Then she slipped the flask from his waistcoat pocket. “May I?” Having uncapped it, she lifted it to his lips. To his quizzical expression, she replied, “You’re going to want it. This will hurt.”

      Chase took a sip. He wasn’t about to admit any pain, but he wouldn’t refuse a swallow of good brandy.

      As he watched, she poured a stream of amber spirits directly into his wound, letting it trickle until it overflowed. Then she pressed the wound to purge more blood and did it again.

      On the outside, Chase was determined to look manful and impervious to pain.

      On the inside . . . Christ.

      When she capped the brandy and set the flask aside, he exhaled with relief.

      She turned to search the kitchen stores. “Now for some vinegar.”

       Bloody hell.

      He winced as she began her fresh round of torture. “How are the girls’ lessons coming along?”

      “Slowly. I’ve been attempting to earn their confidence, but they have the sort of wounds that won’t be easily healed. How long ago did their parents die?”

      “I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “I don’t even know if they’re orphans. They could be illegitimate.”

      “They’re not . . . ?” She broke off, abandoning the query.

      “Mine?” He shuddered at the suggestion. “I would still have been at school when Rosamund was born. It’s true that I possess a natural talent for seduction, but I wasn’t that precocious. All I know is that their father never claimed them, and the woman they called mother died three years ago, and they’ve been passed around relations and schools ever since.”

      She clucked her tongue. “Despite all their mischief, I pity them.”

      You ought to be pitying me, he thought.

      Having a woman this enticing living under the same roof was a constant temptation. And Chase battled temptation with approximately the same success as a seagull battling the Royal Navy.

      Out of sight was not out of mind. At night, he found himself thinking of her. Upstairs, alone, in the dark. But worse by far were the mornings. For God’s sake, he began each day holding her hand. That, and trying like hell to make her laugh. He hadn’t managed it quite yet, but most days he wrangled a reluctant smile. That alone was worth four flights of stairs.

      Just yesterday, Rosamund had woken him with a single word: “Tapeworms.” He’d all but leapt to his feet with delight.

      It wasn’t entirely desire, but it was partly desire. He knew an innocent outward appearance often concealed a tightly