Free Lady Scandal by Shannon Donnelly

pointed the
wicked long barrel at Alexandria.
    With a smothered shout, eyes snapping wide,
his heart pounding, Paxten woke. He tried to sit up, managed to
lift his head, and that exhausted him. The world spun, so he closed
his eyes and fell back against a feather pillow that smelled
faintly musty.
    Silk rustled. He reached toward the sound,
and his fingers closed over a slim wrist. "Andria?"
    "Hush—my aunt is resting in the chair by the
fire. You have had us worried, Mr. Marsett."
    Prying open his eyes, he glanced up into the
face of a golden-haired beauty. Blue eyes, a rounded, stubborn
chin, and soft cheeks. Frowning, he stared at her. Who was she?
Memories drifted back—fleeing Paris, the maid, the carriage ride,
and they had reached an inn, had they not?
    Shutting his eyes, he muttered, "The niece
with the edge to her pretty cots. Dovecotes. A sweet dove. Where's
Andria?"
    "You are babbling. But the doctor said we
should expect as much. Your fever got dreadfully high. Here, can
you drink this? It is nearly dawn, but you and my aunt would both
be better for a few hours more sleep."
    An arm slid under his head and a glass
pressed to his lips. Liquid—cool and faintly bitter slipped into
his mouth. He drank it, greedy for anything wet. He managed two
swallows before he pushed her hand and the glass away.
    "What is it?" he asked, and he heard the
slurring in his words.
    "An opiate and something else—broth of some
sort. Chicken or oxtail."
    He made a face. "A tail to tell. Throw it
out and bring me water—or tea. Strong tea. I dislike the dreams
that gives me."
    Cool fingers touched his face again.
Twisting his head, he opened his eyes and stared at her. She
smiled—Mother Mary, what a beauty. Far more so than her aunt. But
that smile brought out a family resemblance. The girl's mouth was
not as wide, but something about how the brows arched, and how the
expression lit her face from within reminded him of Andria.
    Or of how she had once been. Could she still
smile like that, with such innocence and life?
    His glance slid to the fireside.
    Alexandria had fallen asleep in an enormous
wing chair, its brocade upholstery worn into shades of brown. Her
long legs stretched out to the dying embers in the fireplace, and
her skirts had ridden up so he could see a pair of trim ankles. She
had always had lovely ankles, slim and set off by calves made
shapely from her love of walking. They had once walked miles
together. Her head had tipped to the side, and her arm dangled over
the chair, loose with sleep.
    Something tightened in his chest.
    Closing his eyes, he turned away. "She still
snores."
    "I beg your pardon! My aunt is too refined
for that. She is—well, that is merely the deep breathing of one
fast asleep. And she has earned her rest. She was up most of the
night with you—you are not a good patient, you know. Twice we had
to call in the landlord to keep you in bed. You were raving."
    Lead weights now hung from his eyelids, but
he pulled open his eyes to stare at the girl. "I was? About
what?"
    "Just nonsense." Relieved, he closed his
eyes again, but she added, "You did go on and on about a Lisette.
Who is she?"
    "Ah, ma petite fille , the opiate must be
clouding my mind—did you ask something?"
    "I did. And if you do not answer, I suppose
I can have my aunt ask you tomorrow."
    His mouth twisted. "A
threat, ma fille ?
Never wise—it makes you no friends and tells an enemy your
plan."
    "We are not enemies, I hope. And that was
not a threat—a threat would be to say that I shall give you some of
the other noxious concoctions the doctor left for you, which smells
vial, and is made with watered wine and a raw egg."
    She spoke with such loathing that Paxten
gave a dry chuckle. He winced at the dull throb of pain along his
side.
    He heard a scrape of a chair on the wooden
floor and more rustling fabric. And a voice, deliciously low and
soft, begged, "Well, if you will not tell me about Lisette, then
why do you not tell me how