Free In Love With a Wicked Man by Liz Carlyle

like that?”
    Jasper’s eyes widened. “I’m sure I’d not know, sir.”
    Edward hardened his jaw. “It’s like this, Jasper,” he said. “She’s got me wrapped in cotton wool, but I must have a bath. And a proper shave. Could you arrange such a thing, do you imagine?”
    Jasper’s eyes widened further as he declared he did not know.
    “Isn’t drawing a bath something you would ordinarily do at the request of any houseguest?” Edward suggested. “Moreover, have you been forbidden to draw me a bath?”
    Jasper shook his head. “Not . . . exactly.”
    “Then kindly do so at once,” said Edward. “I know you fear Lady d’Allenay will scold you, and if she does, I’ll make it plain I gave you no choice. I’m done with being washed in a saucer of warm water.”
    Jasper’s eyes just shot to the door, as if looking for assistance.
    “Damn it, man, I’ve lain in that bed hours unending, and I’m fit company for neither man nor beast,” he said. “Now take yourself downstairs and come back with some hot water whilst I pull out that old slipper tub.”
    At that, Jasper leapt into action. “No, sir,” he said firmly. “You just sit yourself back on that bed, sir. I’ll pull out the tub.”
    K ATE WAS ENJOYING tea with Nancy, Mrs. Burnham, and the wife of a local squire when Mrs. Peppin began to hover outside the wide double doors. The entire conversation had centered around the identity of Bellecombe’s mysterious guest.
    Mrs. Cockram, the squire’s wife, opined as how he might be a French spy come creeping up from the Channel. The facts that Bellecombe was too far inland to be worth reconnoitering, and that the entire nation of France was still occupied with the aftermath of their most recent revolution could not dissuade the good lady from this theory.
    Mrs. Burnham, herself a vicar’s widow, suggested that this was an uncharitable view of a gentleman too ill to defend himself. Kate didn’t imagine her houseguest to be remotely incapable of defending himself, but she held her tongue and began to worry more about the urgent look on the housekeeper’s face.
    She was somehow sure that look had to do with her obstinate patient, and rose with a rueful smile.
    “I believe our guest must require my attention,” she said, not entirely disappointed to be called away. “I beg you will excuse me. Nancy, do pour again.”
    But the ladies both rose with her, declaring that it looked like rain, and that they had overstayed their welcome—which was not quite true.
    “Still, it is such a distressing thing,” said Mrs. Cockram, drifting toward the drawing room door, “that two unwed ladies must harbor a man of unknown character. I vow, I wonder if you oughtn’t send him to Mr. Cockram and me at the Hall?”
    “Well, if anyone is to have the poor gentleman,” interjected the rector’s mother, “he must come to the rectory. Would that not be the very thing?”
    “It would not.” Kate folded her hands firmly before her. “Thank you, ladies, but I assure you we are managing perfectly well. And he cannot be moved from his bed. He’s extremely frail.”
    “Then Richard must come again to minister to his spiritual nee—”
    Mrs. Burnham let her words fall away, for a massive shadow had just fallen across the threshold. As Mrs. Cockram’s eyes widened almost comically, Kate slowly turned, praying she was not about to see what she very much feared.
    But it was precisely what she feared. Her wayward houseguest stood bracketed in the doorway attired in his elegant black coat and a burgundy brocade waistcoat that practically sculpted the lean turn of his waist. And he was much taller—and altogether too male—seen standing, as opposed to lying in a heap, or reclining on a pile of pillows.
    “Edward!” she managed. “What on earth—?”
    Freshly shaved—and smelling very unlike a man at death’s door—he was dressed for riding in his tall boots and snug breeches. Then again, Kate remembered, he had