was a carriage accident on the road a few miles this side of town,” Royal explained. “Miss Caulfield was tossed out of the vehicle. Send someone to fetch the physician.” Greaves scurried toward a footman who stood at the back of the entry, one of only fifteen servants in the house, all that were left of the eighty-five men and women the household had once employed.
The footman bolted for the door while Greaves dispatched orders to various other servants, including instructions to fetch the lady’s trunks from the overturned rig. Royal didn’t slow, just continued up the wide, carved mahogany staircase, the lady nestled against his chest, her rose-velvet skirts draped over his arm.
“She needs someone to attend her,” he said as Greaves hurried to catch up with him. “Has Aunt Agatha arrived yet?”
“She sent word ahead. She should be here within the hour.”
He nodded, looked down at his future wife. “Which room is to be hers?”
“The duchess’s suite, Your Grace. It was the nicest in the house.”
Because his father couldn’t bear to sell the elegant furnishings in his beloved wife’s bedroom. Though it wasn’t quite the thing to ensconce a duke’s future bride in a room adjoining his before they were married, it was probably the right decision.
Royal turned the silver handle on the door and kicked it open with his boot. Greaves raced ahead to turn back the covers on the big four-poster bed, then headed for the windows to draw back the heavy damask curtains. The chamber was done in a soft, sea-foam green with lovely rosewood furniture, a room his mother had loved.
He wondered if Jocelyn would approve, looked down at her as he laid her on the bed, and realized her eyes were open and that they were the exact soft green hue as the chamber.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. Pulling off his gloves, he reached down to take hold of her hand. It was icy cold and he realized she was shivering.
“The fire, Greaves. The lady needs warming.” But the old man had already set to the task and low flames were even now beginning to lick the hearth. A soft knock sounded and, with his permission, the door swung open to admit one of the chambermaids, who carried a longhandled warming pan hot from the kitchen. Another
maid appeared to help remove the lady’s gown and get her settled beneath the heated sheets.
“I’ll come back once you are at rest,” he promised, stepping impatiently into the hall to wait. He could hear the maid chattering away while she warmed the sheets and found himself smiling at Jocelyn’s sigh of pleasure as she settled into the deep feather mattress.
Another maid appeared. “I’ve a heated brick, Your Grace.”
He nodded his approval and she disappeared into the room to place the warm brick beneath the lady’s feet.
“It feels wonderful,” Jocelyn said to the women as they quietly fled the room. “Thank you all so much.”
Royal didn’t wait for the door to close, just eased it open and walked back into the room. He smiled down at the woman in his mother’s bed and tried not to think that once they were wed, she would be spending most of her nights in his. “I hope you are feeling a little better.”
Jocelyn smiled up at him. “My head still hurts, but now that I am warm, I am feeling a good deal more myself.”
“The physician should be here soon, and my aunt is due to arrive at any moment, so you will be properly chaperoned.”
“I look forward to meeting Lady Tavistock.”
“As she looks forward to meeting you.”
She moved to sit up a little and winced.
“Are you certain you are well enough to sit?”
“I need to get my bearings.”
He reached over and helped her adjust the pillows.
“Thank you. I appreciate your care of me, Your Grace. When the highwaymen attacked, I wasn’t sure I would ever reach this place alive.”
Instead of leaving as he had planned, he sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Tell me what happened.”
Jocelyn nibbled her lush bottom lip and Royal felt a stirring in his loins it was far too soon to feel.
“I am not completely certain. It all happened so quickly. The coach was rolling toward the house and of a sudden I heard men shouting, then the sound of galloping horses.”
“Go on,” he gently urged.
“I leaned out the window and saw them. They were pounding down on us, four men, each wearing a cloth tied over his nose and mouth. They had almost reached us when the carriage hit a patch of ice. I remember the coach tipping sideways. I remember seeing the doors fly open. That is the last I recall.”
He squeezed her hand. “It is over now. Do not think of it anymore. Just try to get some rest.”
She smiled at him so sweetly his chest tightened. “I’m immensely grateful you came along when you did. If you hadn’t, I should probably still be lying out there, frozen utterly stiff by now.”
He smiled. “But I found you and now you are safe.”
She gave him a last soft smile and her eyes slowly closed. Royal resisted an urge to lean over and press his lips against her forehead. “Sleep well, Miss Caulfield.”
Her lovely pale green eyes popped open. “Oh, I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Your Grace. But you see, I am not Miss Caulfield. I am her cousin—Miss Lily Moran.”
Royal stalked down the hall toward his study. He shoved open the door and walked straight to the sideboard, dragged the crystal stopper out of a decanter of brandy and poured himself a liberal drink.
Upending the glass, he swallowed the burning liquid in one big gulp, hissed out a breath and poured another, then turned and started toward the fire blazing in the hearth.
“As you rarely imbibe before nightfall and not much even then, I take it your day has not got off to a very promising start.”
Royal’s head jerked toward the sound of his best friend’s voice. Sheridan Knowles, Viscount Wellesley, lounged in a deep leather chair in front of the fire.
“So far, it’s been a rotter.”
“I heard about the brigands. Greaves says your lady was in the carriage that was attacked. I hope she is all right.”
“The lady is going to be fine. Unfortunately, she is not mine.”
Sherry sat forward in his chair, a tall man with light brown hair and a slightly long, aristocratic nose. His eyes were green, but a far more brilliant shade than the soft color belonging to the woman upstairs.
One of Sherry’s finely arched eyebrows went up. “An interesting statement. Care to explain?”
Royal sighed. “The woman in the carriage was not Jocelyn Caulfield. Her name is Lily Moran
