Some Like to Shock (Mills & Boon Historical) (Daring Duchesses - Book 2) (10 page)

Genevieve’s mouth now felt so dry she had trouble swallowing, let alone forming an answer, knowing that Benedict’s own strength lay not in subjugating a woman, but in seducing and pleasuring her, and so rendering another man’s physical bullying totally unacceptable to him.

And she could not bear it, if Benedict were to confront William, for him to learn the ugly truth of her marriage from that hateful man. Nor did she have the courage as yet to tell him of that marriage herself. Perhaps one day, if he were to ask, but not yet. Not yet!

She gave a shake of her head. ‘The fact that the … discomfort is worse now than the day I caught—when the injury first occurred,’ she quickly amended as she saw Benedict’s frown darken, ‘does seem to imply that I have done more than just bruise the skin,’ she conceded huskily, having found little rest or sleep these past two nights as the discomfort of her wrist and down her arm seemed to increase by the minute.

‘What did the doctor have to say?’

‘I have not sent for the doctor—’

‘Why not, when your arm is obviously so painful to you?’ he demanded incredulously.

It had simply not occurred to Genevieve to send for the doctor to examine her arm, because one had never been called to see her in the past when Josiah had ordered William to beat her for one misdemeanour or another.

‘Never mind,’ Benedict bit out harshly as he saw the uncertainty in her expression. ‘My own doctor will be sent for immediately.’

‘And what will I tell him?’ Genevieve looked distressed again. ‘How will I explain my … my injury to him …?’

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. ‘Honestly, it is to be hoped.’ He crossed to the fireplace to ring the bell for Jenkins. ‘Although I somehow doubt that any doctor worth his salt could possibly mistake the reason for those bruises.’ His mouth thinned. ‘I only hope that he will not jump to the conclusion that I am the one responsible for them—Ah, Jenkins.’ He turned to the surprised butler as he appeared in the doorway, offering no explanation for his presence there, despite the older man having only minutes ago refused him entrance, instead briskly issuing his instructions and the directions to the doctor’s place of residence.

‘Poor Jenkins,’ Genevieve murmured as soon as the bewildered butler had departed to send for the doctor.

‘Poor Jenkins, be damned.’ Benedict gave a disgusted snort as he began to restlessly pace the parlour, his hands gripped tightly behind his back. ‘If the man had allowed me entrance yesterday you might not have been in pain for as long as you so obviously have.’

‘He received his instructions from me—’

‘I already know what instructions he has
received from you.’ Benedict eyed her impatiently. ‘We will talk of this again once the doctor has examined you and you are hopefully in less discomfort than you are now.’

Much as Genevieve knew Benedict should not be here, that it would be better for him if he did not become embroiled in the unpleasantness between herself and William Forster, she nevertheless felt better than she had for the past two days. Less … vulnerable. As if just Benedict’s presence made her safer. Made her
feel
safer.

Even if she knew she was not …

And now that her initial shock had passed, and part of the truth of her injured wrist revealed at least, she had time, whilst they waited for the doctor to arrive, to look her fill of Benedict. To really look at him.

He appeared tired, the lines beside his eyes and mouth somehow seeming deeper, grimmer, as if he had not rested for the past two days or nights either. Oh, not because of her—Genevieve did not fool herself into believing that she was in any way important to Benedict’s life. He found her amusing, they had shared … intimacies, but Genevieve did not fool herself that she meant any more to him than that. Just as she knew it was now Benedict’s
inborn sense of responsibility that made him demand his own doctor be sent for to examine her wrist and arm.

And it did hurt so very much. Unbearably so. An aching, nagging throb, which had prevented her from achieving any rest or calmness of mind or body this past two days and nights.

In the past William had always made sure that he hit her where no one would be able to see the bruises. Always hard enough to hurt and humiliate her, but never enough to break anything or for those bruises to be visible to others. Genevieve was not sure she had been so lucky this time.

A fact Benedict’s doctor confirmed some half an hour later, after examining her thoroughly and declaring that she had broken a small bone in her wrist, before giving her something to take for the pain and then bandaging it tightly and giving her a sling to put about her neck to take the weight off her arm. The easing of the constant pain, brought about just by that simple act, was enough to cause Genevieve to sigh her relief as she relaxed back in one of the armchairs by the fireside whilst Benedict walked downstairs to personally
see to the doctor’s departure, closing her eyes in the first relief of pain she had known for some time.

Benedict took one look at Genevieve when he returned a few minutes later and knew that she had fallen asleep. A deep and untroubled sleep, it was to be hoped, the lines of pain smoothed from her beautifully delicate face, those long dark lashes fanned out upon the paleness of her cheeks.

Benedict wished that his thoughts could be as untroubled, but they could not. Not until he knew who had inflicted this injury upon Genevieve. What man had dared to treat such delicacy of body and nature with such brutality as the doctor had told him would have been necessary to bruise her so badly and break the bone in her wrist?

It was incomprehensible to Benedict that any man could ever find reason to harm such a gentle and beautiful soul as Genevieve, and not just physically, but to the degree that the light of excitement and joy she found in life had been completely erased from her expressive eyes.

One thing was certain, Benedict did not intend leaving this house until Genevieve had told him the name of the man responsible.

Genevieve sensed—knew, as she began to awaken from her deep sleep, that she was not alone. That there was someone in her bedchamber with her. Not just in her bedchamber, but actually in her bed.

Her stomach gave a sickening lurch at the thought that it was Josiah. The husband she despised. The husband she feared. And she could not bear it. Had to get away. To escape—

‘Everything is well, Genevieve.’ A gentle hand was placed soothingly against her cheek. ‘No one shall harm you whilst I am here.’

Benedict!

It was Benedict who lay beside her, not Josiah. Thank God. Josiah was long dead. And Benedict …

Benedict should not be in her bedchamber, let alone lying on her bed with her!

Her eyes opened wide to candlelight and she found herself looking up at Benedict as he bent over her, such an expression of concern upon his wickedly handsome face it made her heart ache. ‘Why are you still here?’ Her voice sounded hushed in the semi-darkness of her bedchamber.

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Waiting for you to awaken, of course.’

‘And how did I get here?’

‘I carried you.’

A frown creased her brow at her lack of memory of having been lifted into Benedict’s arms and being carried to her bedchamber, let alone being placed in her bed. She also noted that Benedict had removed his black superfine and loosened the neckcloth at his throat; it was to be hoped that he had not undressed her too! ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost two o’clock—’

‘In the morning?’ Her eyes widened even further. ‘But you cannot—you must not be here with me, in my bedchamber, in the middle of the night, Benedict!’

‘And yet here I am …’

Yes, here he was. And much as Genevieve knew he should not still be here, of the scandal that would ensue if anyone were to know of the presence of Lord Benedict Lucas in her bedchamber in the middle of the night, let alone the repercussions she might expect from William Forster if he were ever to find out, she felt glad, happy, to know that Benedict had stayed here with her.

Which was a danger in itself, when she had strived so hard this past year of her widowhood to be independent and unafraid, two things she had never been allowed to be whilst she was Josiah Forster’s duchess. She could not, must not, rely on anyone else for that independence or lack of fear. Comforting as it was to know—to feel Benedict’s protection of her, she
had
to manage alone.

She gave a tight smile. ‘And now that you are assured of my well being you must depart for your own home.’

‘Must I?’ He raised one dark and arrogant brow as he looked down at her.

‘I believe so, yes.’ Genevieve turned away to throw back the bedcovers with the intention of rising from the bed, thankful that she was still wearing the gown she had on earlier, only to find it impossible to sit up with her arm secured in the sling about her neck. ‘Bother.’ She scowled as she struggled to even sit using just one arm.

‘Here, let me.’ Benedict swung his legs down from the bed before standing up. Four strides took him round to the other side of the bed before he placed an arm beneath Genevieve’s uninjured arm and helped her sit, then scowling down at her as she would have risen
to her feet. ‘The doctor instructed that you are not to exert yourself or remove your arm from the sling for at least the next few days.’

She gave him an impatient glance. ‘I do not believe that included my needing to use the chamberpot!’

‘No.’ Benedict grinned at her spirited response, happy to be able to do so; there had been an uncharacteristic air of frailty about Genevieve earlier, with only the occasional glimpse of her usual vivacity, something he had not cared for at all. ‘Would you like me to assist you?’

‘Certainly not!’ Two bright spots of embarrassed colour heightened her cheeks as she rose to her feet.

‘You might find it a little difficult to manage on your own with the use of only one arm.’

‘I am sure I shall manage somehow, thank you!’

‘As you wish.’ Benedict stepped back.

‘You will take that smile from your lips, Benedict,’ she instructed pertly, shooting him one last reproving glance as he refused to do so, before she walked quickly across to the adjoining dressing room and closed the door firmly behind her.

Benedict’s teasing grin disappeared the moment that door closed. He gave thought to Genevieve’s panic as she had begun to awaken, as if she feared seeing who lay on the bed beside her …

Did Genevieve fear
him
?

Had their lovemaking two evenings ago put her in fear of him, after all? She had claimed not earlier, had told Benedict that she considered that evening as having been the most perfect and memorable in her life.

So if Genevieve did not fear him, then whom did she fear? The obvious answer was the same man who had broken the bone in her wrist. A man who had perhaps been her previous lover? Perhaps one who had not been pleased to see himself replaced with Benedict? It would certainly explain Genevieve’s reluctance to talk about this other man to him.

But as far as Benedict was concerned, there was no excuse, no reason on this earth, why any man should ever physically hurt a woman. In Genevieve’s case, a woman who was so tiny and delicate she had no chance of being able to physically defend herself against even the smallest show of brute strength.

A brute strength which, in this case, had resulted
in her wrist being broken. Benedict was determined to know this other man’s name, either from Genevieve herself, or by some other means …

G
enevieve was feeling more than a little disgruntled when she returned to her bedchamber some long minutes later, having had more of a problem than she could possibly have realised dealing with her ablutions with only one useful hand. Even now she was unsure of whether or not her gown was tidy—or even decent!—at the back.

‘I will have the man’s name, Genevieve.’

She faltered slightly as she looked across the bedchamber, not because of Benedict’s demand but because he had made himself comfortable in her absence and was now stretched out upon her bed, with several pillows supporting his head and shoulders, his black hair tousled. He had removed his neckcloth completely,
with several buttons of his shirt unfastened to reveal a glimpse of the dark curls that covered his chest.

Genevieve wished she could avert her gaze, but unfortunately instead found herself mesmerised by such blatant male sensuality. ‘You look as tired as I, Benedict,’ she spoke in self-defence.

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘It is after two o’clock in the morning.’

‘A time when you, and no doubt many of your friends, often begin the evening’s activities rather than end them!’

‘True,’ he acknowledged unrepentantly as he lazily crossed one booted foot over the ankle of the other to look at her uncompromisingly between the highly polished tips of those boots. ‘The man’s name, Genevieve.’

‘Is there a particular reason for your own … fatigue?’ Once again she ignored his question, having no idea how to answer him now any more than she had earlier. ‘Perhaps you have made some progress on your own quest in regard to your parents’—Benedict?’ Her eyes widened in alarm as he swung his booted feet impatiently to the floor and sat up.

He was so very, very
male
!

Clothed in his usual elegant finery, with
his dark and dangerous looks, Benedict was enough to make every female heart in a room pound the moment he entered it. But here and now, with his dark hair tousled, wearing only that fine white linen shirt and silver waistcoat to cover his chest and those wide and muscled shoulders, with his throat revealed, black pantaloons fitting tautly across his thighs and the long length of his legs, he was quite literally, breathtaking. In fact, Genevieve could not recall having taken a breath since first looking across the bedchamber at him.

She drew one in deeply now. ‘I am sorry if I have enquired into something you feel is too personal to discuss with a woman who is little more than a stranger to you—’

‘Please be quiet, Genevieve.’ His voice was soft, but all the more of a warning because of it, his eyes once again that glittering black onyx as he glared across the room at her. ‘My reluctance to discuss with you my progress, or rather, lack of it, in regard to finding my parents’ murderer, has nothing to do with how well I do or do not know you—and I know you very well, Genevieve. Intimately. Both inside and out. Do I make myself clear?’ The darkness of his gaze was so compelling it was impossible for Genevieve to look away.