Chapter 41

As Devorlane Hawley raised his head to check the time on the fob watch he'd flung on the bedside cabinet last night, his gaze was arrested by what was arrayed aroundthe top of it. Then it was arrested by what, or rather who, sat on the edge of the bed, in that damnable black peignoir, her hair cascading about her shoulders.
"Very well. So, you think you've found me out? Now, how about you put this little stash back where you got it? And go away again?"
In truth he had never felt more incensed. Or he might were his body not so exhausted by the latest fever to ravage it that his veins were limp as wet dusters. What was she doing in his drawer? Looking for jewels to pilfer? As for being confronted with his misdeeds? Great. He eased back against the bedrail. "It's hardly what you think."
"Then what is it exactly, pray tell, Lord Hawley?" Her voice, cool as the hand she'd placed on his brow last night, slid over him. At least he'd thought it was her hand. Charlie's palm wasn't soft like that. Skilled neither. But then, she was a thief. His ruination.
"It's nothing you need concern yourself with. I'm hardly an addict."
He wasn't, was he? He didn't use the stuff every day. Maybe every other one. Although he had sometimes felt that things were getting a little out of hand, he didn't have cravings. What he had was a tearing agony every time he moved his leg. Either that or a dull throbbing as if a rat relentlessly ate the bone, in some ways as bad. So yes, he took a little something. Why the hell not?
It was hardly unexpected. Drink, drugs, women. He liked these things. The hell, he wasn't going to stop because she said so and stuck a few bottles on his bedside cabinet. What else was in his life? What else was it for? Even coming here the only thing he'd discovered, so far as he could see, was that even his desire for revenge had been dissipated.
"I am concerned, Lord Hawley."
His desire to laugh had dissipated too. What pretense. "You and half the county. So please stop sitting there like Lady Muck. What's the damned time anyway?"
"You were kind enough to help me the other day."
"I was helping myself. And if you think otherwise you're the damned fool, though I don't think you are and I don't think you do. Think otherwise that is. Now then."
He glanced around for his dressing gown. He didn't feel bad for saying it. Why should he, for all she'd sat there last night? It was the truth. He didn't want her pity or her concern, or her cool hands playing havoc with his already beleaguered senses, making him feel better than he had in months. Not when she was the one who had landed him in this situation. Whether or not she was ignorant of the fact hardly mattered.
Now he'd had her, it was bad enough she'd initially failed to disappoint him. He had reconstructed this, taking her as he had last night, to prove she didn't interest him. The last thing he wanted was to find himself thinking she was pretty, perched on the edge of his bed like that, especially for someone who had been up half the night, even if he did.
"Lord Hawley-"
He threw the covers aside and reached for his dressing gown. Even the fact she'd seen that wound made his blood boil. It hardly mattered his thigh felt better, cleaner. She wasn't a nurse, she was a jewel thief, with uppity notions of being a lord's daughter.
Yesterday had been a disaster in ways too dire to contemplate, yet contemplate them he did. A more brutal man wouldn't have found himself pricked by the sight of her at the bedroom door, when she'd entered the room, into feeling ashamed he was there, let alone in the damned bed. A more brutal man wouldn't have responded to her as he damned well had, letting her even further beneath his skin. A more brutal man could truly have made that screwing a salutary lesson.
It had worked no magic on him to work none on her. Him, who knew all kinds of pleasure with women, forced to make it the most bland, boring session he could recall, in order to dismiss her from his bed. And he had. Now he really didn't care what the hell happened next. Apart from clearing his name. Yes he still wanted that. The hell with what that meant for her.
He tugged on the robe.
"Just get out, will you?"
Her eyes widened. Please don't tell him a malefactor like her wasn't accustomed to being spoken to in that way. Oh, he forgot. She was a lady. Anyway he'd sooner talk to her like that than admit even the worn furnishings of a room that had been empty for ten years seemed brighter because she was here. Ignoring her, he crossed to the washstand.
"I don't want you in here doing things for me."
He cursed beneath his breath. Something he didn't do much of either but was it any wonder? She'd even used all the water. Not a drop of water to be had from the jug even though he upended it, shook it. How was he meant to wash his face with no damned water to wash it with? And where was Etti with the steaming ewer she usually brought, so he could shave? By Christ, he'd had enough of this. Enough of her.
"In fact you can consider our arrangement terminated."
"Terminated?"
"Oh, I forgot, you probably never went to school. Finished in other words. Take the damn papers with you, if that's your worry."
"The papers?"
The papers were of course a pressing concern, although not so pressing, she didn't stand stock still beside the bed as if her slipper clad toes had sprung roots. Or was it simply that, that after the conditions he'd laid down, it didn't seem possible he would dismiss her quite so easily?
Whatever it was, now wasn't the time to think about it.
For a second he stood clutching the edge of the washstand, contemplating the daisy etchings that ringed the porcelain basin. "I mean, who's to say I won't hook you on the stuff." Then he walked to the bedside cabinet, unscrewed the brandy decanter. "And we wouldn't want that now, would we?"
Certainly not the blameless life she'd led.
He lifted the glass to his lips. "The door's there, unless you expect me to get it for you."