Gemma fell against the barred door. Her heart pounded and her head throbbed. She couldn’t tell which was more disconcerting.
That man.
If she wasn’t careful she would once again fall for a handsome face. There had been a moment, when they were alone, when he’d sat so near to her she could detect the scent of horse and fresh air about him, when she could look into his eyes and see every shade of golden brown even in the candlelight, when she was tempted to reach out to him.
And true, earlier when he’d lifted her in his arms, she had never felt more safe. Never with Paul and not even as a child with her father. He was solid, strong, protective. She’d allowed herself to relax, and to momentarily trust.
Except, he was not her friend. She had no worse enemy in the world. He had just said as much. And she would bet all her possessions that he had some sort of role in the attack on her tonight. Oh, perhaps he didn’t plan it. He sounded genuinely surprised and quite angry at Fitz’s actions.
However, wittingly or unwittingly, he’d had a hand in it, or so she wanted to convince herself . . . because to think differently was dangerous.
Yes, she knew there was more to Ned Thurlowe than his looks. He was a man of substance. The villagers spoke of him with respect. Even Mrs. Warbler, who seemed to have a low opinion about everyone.
Furthermore, Gemma had seen his handiwork. He was a good doctor. A caring one. He was the sort of man she could admire, save for one glaring fact—he was also promised to another woman. A delightful woman who was eager to befriend her and had been kindness itself.
What sort of man looked at her the way he had when he was to marry someone as special as Clarissa Taylor?
So there it was, the truth. All men really were alike. Paul, his brother, Mr. Thurlowe. Even her beloved father had been capable of not being honest with her. Why else would her father have not told her he’d left everything to Paul in his will? He’d let her believe she would have some control over her own future.
Gemma had learned her lessons the hard way. And she’d best keep as far from Ned Thurlowe as she could. Lashing out at him accomplished that feat.
She pushed away from the door.
Chapter Eleven
The more Ned walked, the angrier he grew.
It didn’t help that lust still coursed through his veins. He was half-mad with it. His step was strong and hard, his breathing heavy with extra exertion, his muscles still so tense they felt like tightly coiled springs.
He stormed straight to the stables, thinking he would both unsaddle Hippocrates and put his fists repeatedly into the wood walls. Then maybe he’d cool the anger and satisfy the need for—what? Wishing he’d been able to choke off Gemma’s ugly accusations? Or pound sense into Winderton and his gang of barely literate locals—?
Ned didn’t know. He was on edge, annoyed, and bitter—
He came to a full-on stop.
Hippocrates had already been unsaddled and was too busy munching grain to even nicker a pleasant good-night. Not so with the other horses there. Royce’s animal was standing asleep, his back hoof cocked. However, Bruno, the Earl of Marsden’s animal, put his head forward and whinnied.
Mars was here.
Ned’s anger evaporated. A resolution to his quarrel with Mrs. Estep was at hand.
He charged to the house. Royce had been waiting for him and opened the door almost before Ned came into the lamplight.
“You brought him home,” Ned said in relief.
“It was a challenge,” Royce confessed in a low voice.
“Where did you find him?” Ned was afraid of the answer.
“Actually, he found me. I searched every wicked den I could find. I finally circled back to his house to let them know that I had failed. That is when I caught him returning home on the arm of a watchman. He insisted on coming with me but, well, he’s worn thin.” He nodded to the sitting room. “He is in there. He’s too wrapped around the axle to rest and more than a bit touchy to learn there is no port or brandy.”
“Wait until he discovers why.” Ned handed Royce his hat and coat and then inwardly braced himself before greeting his friend. Mars could be tricky even when he was feeling his best. Ned had nursed him the last time he’d needed to recover from his overindulgence. It had not been a pleasant experience. He entered the sitting room.
Mars was ensconced in Ned’s favorite upholstered chair before the fire. His stockinged feet rested on a footstool. He was coatless and without his neck cloth. What had once been a fine vest was unbuttoned and appeared as if it had been slept in then ridden in for several hours.
He’d rolled the sleeves of his lawn shirt up and his arms rested over the sides of the chair as he complained, “You have kept me waiting.” He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair the dusty color of winter wheat and eyes that could turn to ice when he was crossed. Right now they were red rimmed and a pale blue. “Who drank all the port?”
“Winderton.” Ned came around to sit in the identical chair next to Mars’s. “He’s back in Maidenshop. He is staying at the Dower House and he is an idiot.”
“He’s an idiot wherever he stays,” Mars answered. “Of course, he is young. Not ancient like you and I.”
Mars did look ancient and Ned forgot his argument over The Garland. It was suddenly unimportant in the face of his friend’s disheveled appearance. He angled his chair to face the earl and leaned forward. “Why, Mars? Why do you do this to yourself?”
“Why does a wild March hare run out in the open across a road?” The earl shrugged.
“You have everything any man could ever want. There is no need to lose yourself in opium.”
Mars looked away. For a few seconds there was silence and then he said, “What do you know of what I need?”
“Then tell me.”
“I do it because I wish to.”
“No, there is always a reason. Something deeper.”
Mars frowned as if he didn’t quite believe him, then said, “A reason. Such as watching my father shot and having no right or ability to make the man responsible pay?” He referred to Lord Dervil, a neighbor who spent most of his time in London. He’d dueled with Mars’s father over a property line and killed him dead. If Dervil had his way, he’d own the village. Only Mars stood in his way, and even though the earl had ascended to the title when he was fifteen, he’d stood up to the powerful lord then and he stood up to him now. He just couldn’t make him pay for his father’s death.
But Ned was not going to let his friend drift off in self-pity. “Many people see their father die and don’t turn to the pipe.”
The earl sat up and shook his head and shoulders as if stretching before pinning Ned with an aloof gaze, a nobleman’s stare. “I don’t do it often. At least, not anymore.”
Ned refused to have his concern dismissed. “And never on a whim, I imagine.”
His friend snorted his answer and settled back into the chair, any good humor gone. Here was the true man. Mars may smile and be genial in public but there was a dark side to him. “You don’t understand.”
Ned sat back. “Possibly. Then again, you never had to play witness to your mother’s entertaining. Or have your father shove you out of his life to please his lady wife. Your sire was an honorable man. Mine was a fool, his wife a disgrace to the word, and my natural mother a whore. You should also thank the Almighty that you are an only child instead of having half brothers and sisters who would adore to see you six feet under.”