Page 21 of A Daring Desire

“Good God, Jones, I’m not dead yet,” Kilbane grumbled.

“Perhaps not, my lord, but you look like you died and got dug up again.”

Kilbane snorted. “Damn, I’d forgotten what an insolent arse you are.”

“No, you hadn’t,” Jones said frankly.

“No,” Kilbane agreed, amused. “Now, for the love of God, get me shaved.”

“A bath is the first order of business,” Jones replied, wrinkling his nose.

“Lord, is that me?” Kilbane demanded, sniffing the air with revulsion. “I thought it was one of those foul potions my wife has been forcing down my neck.”

“It’s you.” Jones rang the bell to summon a servant. “This is what comes of going off to foreign parts without me. I told you, did I not, that you’d come to no good over there, but no one takes no heed of me,” he said with much offended dignity.

“Put a cork in it, you old windbag.”

A servant appeared promptly, and Jones ordered a bath to be provided for his lordship, only to be informed that Lady Kilbane had installed a bathing room with hot and cold running water.

Jones’ eyebrows shot up and he glanced at his master. “La di da,” he said with approval, going off with the servant to inspect this new marvel of modernity. He returned not long after.

“Well, your ladyship has been busy. Wait till you see the bathing room.”

Kilbane grunted. “And what else has she done to my house? Shall I recognise an inch of it? This room is certainly not as I left it.”

“No, and thank Christ for that. What a gloomy pit it was, and if she burned the bed that was here, I shouldn’t blame her for it none, neither.”

Kilbane frowned, taking the time to observe the room he was in as he had not done before. Jones was correct. It was entirely different, but he had to admit—to himself, at least—that she’d done it well. She had left the dark wood panelling as it had been, but the bull’s blood painted walls were now lined with a blue baroque damask wallpaper. Though still masculine enough to make it feel like the master’s chamber, it lent a lighter, more restful feeling to the large space. The curtains and soft furnishings were a darker blue pressed velvet with gold trimming, and the paintings that lined the walls were peaceful, bucolic country scenes which Kilbane would not have chosen for himself, but found he rather appreciated. She had turned his room, previously a den of iniquity, into a retreat from the world. It disturbed him to discover how much he approved the changes.

“I liked that bed,” he muttered indignantly.

Jones shot him an amused glance that suggested Kilbane was fooling no one. Irritated, he subsided, contenting himself with giving his poor valet a dozen contradicting instructions as the man walked back and forth from the bedroom to the bathing room, preparing his master’s bath. These commands, Jones ignored.

Being a small fellow, Mr Jones was obliged to summon two strong footmen to help his master into the bath and, by the time he got there, Kilbane rather suspected they’d have to carry him back. His lack of strength and energy was terrifying to a man who had never been ill a day in his life. Relying upon other people for his every need was a state guaranteed to put him in a towering rage and after Jones had him bathed and shaved and back in bed, they were ready to murder each other.

Thankfully for his poor abused valet, Kilbane was so fatigued by the exercise he barely had the energy to tell him to sod off before he tumbled into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter 7

Dearest Mama and Papa,

I pray this letter finds you both in excellent health.

I must beg your forgiveness for not having come earlier as I said I might, but something rather unexpected happened. Indeed, that is why I am writing to you now, to beg your forgiveness, for I shall not be with you for Christmas this year.

Now, please, Papa, before you read on, I beg you will not fly up into the boughs and remember that I am a woman grown with a mind and will of her own. Mama, pray help me in this.

Now I have warned you sufficiently – I hope – I must inform you of a rather extraordinary circumstance. On the night of the 17th, my Lord Kilbane arrived at Connaught Place. He was, and remains, gravely ill. Indeed, for several nights, I very much feared he would not live to see the dawn, as his fever was the worst and most prolonged I have ever encountered. I am relieved to tell you his fever broke at last but has left him in a sadly weakened condition. I beg you will understand that my place is beside him. Papa, I can hear your voice in my head telling me I owe him nothing, but you do not and never did understand my feelings on this matter. Please, won’t you trust in me to know what is best? I am no longer the green girl I was. I have been out in the world under the protection of my married name, and I beg you to remember I am no fool, but your daughter.

I know how much you will dislike it, but I ask you to leave me to deal with this as I wish.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, The Marchioness of Kilbane to her parents, The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu.

23rd December 1849, Connaught Place, London.

“For the love of God, leave me be and stop fussing,” Kilbane raged, earning himself a glare of irritation from Mr Jones.

“You wanted the brocade dressing gown, you wished to wash and be shaved and your hair trimmed. Well, and so I have done.”