Muttering a curse at that distraction, Ned turned to Myles, who was motioning him to lay the senseless girl—nay, woman—on the couch. ‘Who the devil is she?’
‘Said she was Mr Anders’s sister,’ Myles said, pouring a glass of brandy while Ned seated himself beside her, rubbing her hands to try to revive her. ‘At first I thought she be another of Anders’s women, but none of ‘em ever arrived this late and soaked through.’
Abandoning his thus-far ineffectual efforts chaffing her hands, Ned delivered a smart slap to her cheek. Her slack body tensed and she gasped, her eyes flying open.
She gazed up at him, her dazed look barely focused, seeming completely unaware of where she was and with whom. Just as Ned noticed the chill emanating from her and realised how icy were the hands he’d tried to chafe, she began to shiver, violent tremors that set her teeth chattering.
‘She must be frozen through,’ he muttered. ‘Myles, hand me that glass, please,’ he asked, nodding towards the brandy before looking back at the woman still reclining in his arms. ‘Miss … Mrs—’ Ned looked to the butler.
‘Mrs Merrill,’ Myles supplied.
‘Do not be alarmed, Mrs Merrill,’ Ned said. ‘You are at Blenhem Hill. I’m Mr Greaves, Lord Englemere’s estate agent. Here, have a sip of this brandy to warm you.’
He coaxed her lips—plump, in a pretty bow of a mouth, he noticed unwillingly—open and poured some brandy in. After choking a bit, she swallowed, her fingers coming up beside his to steady the glass. The tremors eased, then stopped.
He inspected her as she sipped, her hand absurdly small and delicate beside his. That pointed chin was set in a heart-shaped face with a pert nose and large dark eyes of a hue impossible to determine in the shadowy firelight. A soggy bonnet masked her hair, but her travelling cloak had fallen open when he’d set her down, revealing a graceful arc of neck and shoulders above full, rounded breasts. Chilled she certainly was, for even through her gown, he could see the peaked nipples.
His mouth watered to taste them.
He stifled a groan as his body hardened further. A fine cosy armful, if she was indeed Anders’s fancy woman. All sweetness and curves with a subtly intriguing scent, fresh as a new-mown hay meadow, that tickled his nose over the aromas of mud and damp.
Ned could think of a number of ways to warm her more effectively and much more pleasurably than brandy. Unleashed like hounds eager for the hunt, his thoughts tumbled over themselves, conjuring up images of firm white thighs straddling his, those small hands stroking and teasing as she coaxed him within, bare slender legs locked around his waist as she rocked him hilt-deep.
Heat flooded him and sweat broke out on his brow. Damn, he should have lingered in London long enough to visit Mrs McAllen’s Emporium. It had been way too long since he’d bedded a woman.
With a ferocious will, he jerked his lascivious thoughts to a halt and leashed them. She might be a doxy, but ‘twas just as likely she was Anders’s sister. Which meant she was Nicky’s cousin, however distant. Regardless of what her brother had done, Nicky would expect Ned to treat any connection of his like a lady.
At that moment she pushed the glass away.
‘You told Myles you were looking for Mr Anders—your brother?’ Ned said.
She nodded, her eyes finally turning alert.
‘How did you happen to arrive here alone in the middle of the night? Soaked as you are, you must have driven in an open gig. Is there a driver waiting? Can I have Myles fetch your things?’
Opening her lips, she hesitated, looking stricken. ‘I …I don’t have a gig,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s no driver. I … walked.’
‘You walked from Hazelwick?’ Ned asked incredulously. ‘Alone, in the dark?’
Ignoring that query, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Did … did I hear you aright? Greville … isn’t here?’
Whoever she was, she must have been desperate to come so far on foot, at night and through the rain. Despite his loathing for what Anders had done, Ned couldn’t help feeling a certain sympathy for her. ‘No. I’m sorry, ma’am.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Do you know his direction?’
Ned looked over at Myles, who shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
Two fat tears welled up in her eyes before she clapped her hands over them. ‘Merciful Lord,’ she whispered brokenly into her fingers, ‘what am I to do?’
For a moment he watched as she struggled for control. Admiration stirred in his chest as, with a ragged breath, she mastered her emotions and swallowed the tears.
‘Nothing tonight,’ Ned said, infinitely grateful for her courage. He’d rather battle a plague of rabbits in the kitchen garden than deal with a woman in the midst of a weeping jag. ‘Myles, rouse Mrs Winston and see if she can turn up some dry clothes for Mrs Merrill.’ Looking back to the woman, he said, ‘Did you have dinner before you … left Hazelwick?’
‘I … no.’ she admitted.
No wonder she looked fragile enough to shatter, walking all that way on no sustenance. Studying her suddenly down-turned face, Ned would bet that wasn’t the first meal she’d missed on her travels. ‘See if Mrs Winston can heat up some of the stew from dinner,’ he told Myles.
She looked up at him then, eyes huge in her drawn face, her lips pressed firmly together.
Lush, plump lips he’d like to kiss, he realised irritably as she cleared her throat.
‘You’ve been very kind. I don’t know how I can thank you—’
Ned lifted a hand, silencing her while he absolutely forbade himself to think of the many and delectable ways she might show her appreciation. ‘We’ll speak of it in the morning, after you’re warm, dry and rested. Ah, here is Mrs Winston.’ He looked over at the housekeeper. ‘We’ve an unexpected visitor, as you see.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the housekeeper said, giving Mrs Merrill a hard scrutiny before, reluctantly, she curtsied.
Mrs Merrill sat up abruptly and swung her feet back to the floor. Ned felt the loss of her curves against his body with an inward sigh of regret as she rose to return the housekeeper’s curtsy.
Ned stood up as well. ‘Mrs Winston will fit you out with some dry things and see that you’re nourished before you retire. I shall see you at breakfast. Goodnight, Mrs Merrill.’
She offered him a nod from that pointed little chin, then dropped a curtsy graceful enough to please a patroness at Almack’s. If she was a fancy woman, she’d been well trained.
‘Goodnight, Mr Greaves. Mrs Winston, I’m indebted for your kindness.’
Thoughtfully he watched her follow the housekeeper—who must be thinking who knows what to be charged with caring for a half-drowned woman arriving unannounced in the middle of the night. What catastrophe had befallen her that she’d come here alone, on foot, probably penniless? he wondered.
As Anders’s sister, she’d been a lady born, if not a highly ranked one. No gentlewoman of good reputation would travel as she had.
Maybe she was Anders’s doxy, his lustful imagination suggested hopefully.
Perhaps, he returned, though she had that indefinable look of quality about her bearing and carriage.
Since, as he’d told her, there was nothing more to be done tonight, he might as well go to bed. Absently he walked around the room, snuffing out the remaining candles.
Somehow, knowing the delectable Mrs Merrill dozed somewhere under his roof, he didn’t think he was going to get much sleep.
After tossing