Page 28 of Cold November Rake

Temperance

[Sketch of the mountains in the margins]

You should not be working, or even sitting upright," Whitlow, Sutton's man of business, admonished him, towering over the desk.

Sutton sat at his desk in his study, feeling faint.

His wound had been hurting all night. That footpad had cut him worse than he'd initially thought, and bedding his wife soon after certainly didn't help.

He shouldn't have done that. He knew it.

Yet he could not summon a single ounce of regret for the feel of her skin under his hands, the soft, startled sounds she had made, the way she had begged him not to stop.

His only regret was that he had finished quickly.

He had been tired, wounded, and a little inebriated. Of course he hadn't lasted long.

He, no doubt, had disappointed his wife.

In more ways than one.

He had failed to bring her to pleasure, and he had failed to act gentlemanly when requesting her to leave.

He could still remember the confusion in her eyes when he dropped her nightgown onto her naked body.

It had not been her fault, and it had not been his intention.

His wound had been on fire, and he had been irritated with himself and the pain, unwilling to let her see how much the act had cost him. Every thrust had pulled at the stitches. By the time he climbed off her, his vision had gone gray at the edges. So he had retreated to the dressing room to suffer in private and returned with a nightgown and the manners of a brute.

"Dash said you were feeling poorly when he hurried out the door to fetch the doctor," Whitlow continued. "And no doubt you do, having been skewered in the side by a footpad last night!"

Sutton was tempted to roll his eyes, but the action required too much energy. His servants gossiped like fishwives. The result was that his every move was dissected by the society papers.

How had that blasted Brazen Belle found out about his late-night mishap and published it so quickly?

He doubted Ganderson was the one to spread the word, unless the footpads themselves had sold the gossip for a pretty penny after their failed robbery attempt.

"I am well enough to sit at the desk," he said. "And we need to finalize the budget for the new Sutton Hall gardens, do we not?"

Whitlow let out a breath. "Her ladyship insists on hiring the architect of the Medusa theater gardens, but I imagine that would be exceptionally expensive."

"You imagine?" Sutton raised a brow. "So you haven't asked yet."

"I have set a meeting for this afternoon."

Sutton let out a sigh of relief. "Good. Then we can discuss this item tomorrow."

"Indeed." Whitlow pulled up a chair and settled across from Sutton. "Her ladyship mentioned to me that she wishes to renovate this townhouse while she is here, too. I told her it would take months, and she didn't seem fazed. But I presume you wish me to accompany her to Sutton Hall as soon as possible?"

Sutton drummed his fingers against the desk.

"I may need you here longer," he said, shifting his weight and biting down on a hiss. "Both of you. I find myself somewhat indisposed, and you can help me run my affairs while her ladyship..."

Sutton trailed off, unsure how to tell the man his wife wished to stay in London until she was with child.

"...while her ladyship remains in London," he finished lamely.

"You want her ladyship to stay here after you were attacked by footpads? I wouldn't want my wife near the streets such savages occupy."