The physician insisted that Regan remain in bed for a week.
If her throat wasn’t bruised, she could have told the man that she rarely heeded orders, even well-intentioned ones.
Regan’s compliance lasted the length of a nap.
She found Frost and Dare in the library quietly talking as they drank their brandies.
“You were supposed to remain in bed, Regan,” Dare said mildly, his disapproval just as annoying as her brother’s.
Frost must have guessed her uncharitable thoughts. “I suggest you tie her to the bed next time. Or beat her. It is the only way to handle a stubborn wench.”
Regan stuck her tongue out at her brother. Frost was only teasing. He had never laid a hand on her, no matter how badly she had behaved. It was the marchioness who should fear her brother’s wrath. When he had learned of Lady Pashley’s attack, it had taken Dare, Saint, and Vane to stop him from marching down to the magistrate’s office and throttling the woman with his bare hands.
The notion that Frost was willing to kill on her behalf was touching, though entirely unnecessary. The marchioness would suffer for her crimes.
Since the gentlemen were seated in two chairs, she pointed at the sofa to let Dare and Frost know that she planned to join them with or without their permission. Dare captured her wrist and shook his head. Instead, he tugged her into his lap.
Regan did not protest. Since Dare had carried her out of his family’s town house, he had not strayed far from her side. He had glowered over the physician’s shoulder during his examination, and his hand had poured that ghastly laudanum down her throat so she could sleep without seeing Lady Pashley’s face sneering at her.
“Where?” she croaked, gesturing at the empty chairs. Before Dare had bullied her into taking a nap, Sin, Vane, Reign, Hunter, and Saint all had called on the Bishop residence. Like all good older brothers, they had taken turns cursing, offering sympathy, and fussing over her whenever tears threatened to ruin her composure. She wished that she gotten the chance to bid them farewell.
“They were only following the good physician’s orders,” Frost assured her. “Once they know you are receiving visitors again, I am certain we will be burdened with a lot of unwelcome guests.”
Regan rolled her eyes at her brother. He could not fool her. Frost privately loved seeing their old house filled and bustling with life and laughter.
She glanced at Dare. “Your father?” she mouthed.
“At home with my mother.”
He did not mention that his parents were preparing to bury their son.
Dare absently stroked her fingers. “I met with the magistrate while you were sleeping. Even if charges are filed against my father, the magistrate predicts that he will be acquitted. It is quite apparent that the Duke of Rhode was defending himself from Charles’s attack.”
“Your father did London a favor killing a murderous madman,” Frost drawled, taking a sip of his brandy. “The French pox has claimed the sanity of more than one hapless gent.”
The surgeon who had examined Charles’s corpse had also insisted on examining Lady Pashley. He had concluded that the marquess was not the only victim of his reckless debauchery. When he had been trying to beget his heir, he had passed the incurable disease on to his beautiful wife. Charles had always been violent and irrational. No one had noticed that his marchioness had been slowly succumbing to the disease.
The duke had been so certain that Charles had murdered Mrs. Randall. Regan disagreed. She had experienced the brute strength of the madness growing within Lady Pashley. Although she regretted her attack on Regan once she calmed down, Regan thought the woman capable of murder.
Since it hurt too much to speak, she had written down her suspicions. Grim-faced, Dare had read her ideas out loud to his friends. Although she had no proof, it was a plausible theory. She and Mrs. Randall had one thing in common. Dare. Everyone knew of his interest, including Lady Pashley. When Dare had left the ball with the widow, Regan had not been the only one who had been distressed by their departure. Had the lady given in to her blind rage and murdered Mrs. Randall?
Regan’s bruised and swollen throat had convinced the magistrate that the murders could be laid at Lord and Lady Pashley’s feet. He was not particular which one took the blame. Charles was dead, and his wife would eventually join him after the disease ravaged her body. For now, she would live out the rest of her life locked away in an asylum so she could not harm herself or others.
In time, Regan would come to forgive Lady Pashley, who was as much a victim as the woman she had murdered. It was Louise who truly deserved her sympathy. The poor girl had lost her mother and father on the same day. The duke and duchess wanted her to remain with them, but Dare and Regan would be there for her, too. This was not the first scandal the Mordare family had weathered, but God willing it would be the last.
Dare’s thoughts were wholly focused on her. “How are you feeling? Do you want me to carry you back to bed?”
Regan shook her head. If she was going back to bed, she would not be climbing back in alone. She quirked her right eyebrow at his askance look.
“Not fragile,” she whispered in his ear.
Dare shivered and slid his hand over the curve of her hip. He angled his head and Regan leaned in to meet his lips. Her hand tightened on his shoulder as she savored the soft, worshiping caress of his mouth. No, her husband did not think she was fragile. He was holding her as if she was priceless.
Frost’s low chuckle reminded them that they were not alone. “As much as I enjoy observing enthusiastic lovers now and then, I confess even I have my limits.”
Without taking his hungry gaze off Regan’s face, Dare said, “There must be some young pretty wench in desperate need of seducing.”
“There always is, my friend.”
Regan silently concurred as she watched her brother put down his glass of brandy and abandon his chair.
Dare winked at her. “Why do you not go find her?”
He and Regan were both remembering what had happened the last time they were alone in the library.
Frost bent down long enough to kiss Regan on the top of her head. “And with a little dedication, I shall find them all.”
With a farewell wave, he closed the door behind him.
A testament to his strength, in one fluid move Dare transferred them from the chair to the floor. Regan wiggled her shoulders and stretched out on the thick rug as Dare settled between her legs.
It was fortunate that she still wore her nightgown. It would take less time for Dare to get her out of her clothes.
He collected a small length of her hair and blew on the ends. “So what now, my lady wife?” He tickled her nose with her own hair, making her smile. “Is seduction on your mind?”
“Every day, for the rest of our lives?” she said huskily, her feelings lending strength to her voice. “I love you.”
His hands shook as he cupped her face. “Then I am the luckiest scoundrel in all of England!”