His mother pinned him with a look that sent waves of displeasure rolling across the room. She pulled a watch fob from the pocket of her gown and snapped it open. “Good afternoon, James,” she replied, then continued tartly, “Our presence should hardly be a surprise. I believe I mentioned yesterday that I’d managed to secure the services of Dr. Michaelson from St. Thomas hospital. Surely you haven’t forgotten we were expected.”
Ah, yes. So the latest arrival in a long series of medical reinforcements had arrived. James’s gaze moved past his mother to a stout man with gray hair and gray beard. The man hovered in the doorway with a leather satchel in his hand. A nurse, judging by her attire, stood slightly behind him. Rounding out the party was Robert, his mother’s footman, and the lovely Miss Vanessa Kittworthy.
Vanessa swept forward, gliding across the room in a deep green morning gown expertly tailored to display her willowy figure to best advantage. She pressed a dry kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his cheek, then turned and lifted a starched shirt from a neatly stacked pile. “Here, darling. Let me help you dress.”
The physician stopped her. “If you don’t mind, Miss Kittworthy, I’d like to get a look at the wound on his shoulder first. Then I’ll tend to his leg.”
“Oh.” Vanessa straightened in surprise, obviously unused to having her actions countermanded. “Of course, Doctor.” With a careless toss, she sent the shirt back to the bench where she’d found it. She trailed one gloved hand lightly along James’s shoulder. “I simply thought your nurse might be more comfortable if James were properly dressed.”
“Thank you for your courtesy,” the nurse replied, “but I assure you it’s not necessary. I’ve cared for too many of our returning soldiers for my sensibilities to be so easily offended.”
James turned sharply at the sound of the woman’s voice. Given her manner of dress—white lace cap, drab gown, and a coarse blue cape in the style popular with the women who labored in London’s hospitals—he had expected a meek, churchmouse kind of voice, not a sound that was at once low, melodious, and infinitely soothing. It wasn’t just her tone that surprised to him, but the cultured inflection of her speech, which suggested both breeding and education.
Vanessa noted it as well. She studied the nurse with a look of cool feminine superiority. “Nurse Riley, is it? Irish, I suppose.” She waited a beat, then delicately cleared her throat. “You may answer the question.”
The nurse brought up her chin ever-so-slightly. “I wasn’t aware I’d been asked a question.”
Vanessa stiffened, but James intervened before she could speak. It was simply too early to entertain one of her petty dramas.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” He looked from the nurse to the physician beside her. Reluctantly acknowledging they would not leave until he had been sufficiently poked and prodded, he sat up. He’d been seen by a number of London’s top specialists, yet the condition of his leg continued to worsen. He had no doubt this would be more of the same.
Although his chest was bare, the lower half of his anatomy was covered by a pair of sturdy cotton breeches. He swung his left leg—his good leg—out of bed. His foot hit an empty bottle of scotch, sending it skidding across the room. The bottle spun in a wobbly circle, coming to rest with its long neck pointing at him like an accusing finger.
James heaved a sigh of disgust. He’d never taken a bottle to bed before, but since his return to London he’d managed to reach a new series of lows.
His mother’s lips tightened. She glanced over her shoulder at Robert, who seemed to have developed the astonishing telepathic ability to surmise his mistress’s wishes without the necessary burden of speech. The man swept forward and lifted the offending bottle. Wearing an expression of pinched displeasure, he held it outstretched as he carried it from the room, as though he were holding a dead rat by the tail.
“My apologies,” James said to the room at large. “A bit of a crisis here last night.”
His mother arched one dark brow. “Oh? What sort of crisis?”
“I ran out of scotch.”
He glanced up, hoping to see some glimmer of amusement reflected back at him. Instead the group looked as cheerful as a gathering undertakers at a wake. Ah, well. He gingerly edged his injured right leg over the side of the bed, biting back a pained grimace as he did so. The damned thing hurt.
Vanessa leaned slightly forward. Her thick, dark hair brushed his shoulder. “Can I bring you anything?” she asked.
On the surface, her question seemed loving and dutiful. But it held an underlying edge of distaste that James didn’t miss. Upon his return from the Crimea, he had made the discovery that Vanessa Kittworthy, perfect being that she was, harbored an inbred contempt for weakness of any kind in others. This new knowledge afforded him a surprisingly enjoyable way to accomplish two things at once: torment Vanessa, and break up the otherwise dreary monotony of his days.
“If you could bring me my crutches, darling,” he said.
A frown crossed Vanessa’s beautiful face, but she caught herself before anyone but James saw it. “Of course.” With a forced smile, she carried the crutches across the room. “There you are,” she said, thrusting them at James the instant she reached his side. “Is that all, my dear?”
“Actually, my shoulder itches terribly. If you wouldn’t mind...”
Vanessa looked at the nasty flesh wound on his shoulder. Horror flashed through her sapphire blue eyes. “Yes?” she said, her voice tremulously high.
“Perhaps you could bathe it for me.”
“Bathe it?”
“Yes, bathe it.”
A burst of shrill, nervous laughter escaped her lips. “Me?” she said. “Surely the physician or the nurse would be better qualified—”
“Perhaps,” James allowed, biting back a grin. “But your touch would be infinitely more soothing.”
“How very...sentimental of you, darling,” she grit out, slowly drawing off her silk gloves. Aware she was being watched, and obviously unable to find a way to escape the unappealing duty, Vanessa sent her audience a tight smile. She dipped the cloth into the basin, vigorously rubbed the cake of soap against it, then shoved the sloppy mess against his shoulder. Heavy rivulets of cold, soapy water ran down his chest and pooled at his groin.
With a bark of laughter, James caught her wrist. “Nevermind. I don’t think the position of nurse quite suits you. That’s an excellent technique for bathing a dog, however.”
From across the room, the nurse giggled, then covered the sound with a discreet cough.
Vanessa glared at the nurse, then at James. Drawing herself up to her normal state of cool composure, she returned the cloth to the basin and turned to the physician. “I trust you can see for yourself what an impossible patient we are remanding into your care. He seems to delight in making things difficult for everyone around him.”
“Regrettably true,” James acknowledged. “But you must admit, you do make the temptation so...tempting. Besides, a little teasing is preferable to dark bouts of brooding, don’t you think?”
“Frankly, I find both qualities most unappealing,” Vanessa replied with an indignant sniff. “Lord Tashton says it’s a soldier’s sacred privilege to bear his wounds bravely.”
“In that case, why don’t I take a shotgun to Lord Tashton’s bloody ankle so he can exercise that sacred privilege himself?”
His mother stepped forward. “I believe we’ve wasted enough of the good doctor’s time,” she said. At moments like this, James had to remind himself that his mother, the viscountess, was really a diminutive lady of advanced years, for she moved through life with the confidence and bravado of an army general. She turned the force of her personality on Dr. Michaelson. “As you have witnessed, my son is not comfortable playing the part of invalid. I have heard your methods are unorthodox, but effective. Is that correct?”
The physician gave a modest nod. “I’ve been able to assist the majority of my patients to a full recovery.”
&n
bsp; “Excellent,” the viscountess said. “You have until the third of June to return James to his former state of health. I shall expect nothing less.” With that dire pronouncement, she swept out of the room, her footman and Vanessa Kittworthy trailing in her wake.
Heavy silence followed their departure. James looked at Dr. Michaelson and the nurse. “The dragons have left the lair,” he intoned in mock solemnity. “If you’ve an escape in mind, this would be the perfect opportunity to run.”
“I don’t believe I’m quite prepared to flee,” Dr. Michaelson returned. “However, as time is evidently of the essence, I suggest we begin. Nurse Riley?”
The nurse took the physician’s proffered coat, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. Next she opened Dr. Michaelson’s satchel and removed a variety of medical devices, passing them forward with brisk efficiency, anticipating the physician’s every need. James clenched his jaw and wordlessly succumbed to the examination. He’d been through several, and he hated the ordeal. It served as a constant reminder of his physical weakness. What he wanted was to be left alone. To wake up in possession of his former health and strength.
But obviously that wasn’t going to happen. James had taken two wounds in the Battle of Balaclava. One in his upper right shoulder, just below his collarbone. That was a relatively minor injury. Ugly, but on the mend. His badly mangled right calf and ankle presented a more serious problem. After a recuperative period of several months, his ankle was still painful, and far too weak to bear his weight.
The nurse stood beside Dr. Michaelson as he carried on his examination. She watched with sympathy, but not pity. It was a fine distinction but it mattered, and James appreciated it. Dr. Michaelson finished his probing and took a step away from James. He opened a worn leather journal and began recording his observations. “You may clean the wounds, Nurse.”
The woman lifted a fresh cloth, applied a pinch of a powdery substance to it, then lightly dampened it. She rubbed it between her palms until she’d warmed the cloth and raised a light lather. She moved closer to James and gently placed it against his shoulder. The fragrance of lavender drifted around her, whether from the soapy cloth, or her own personal scent, James couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he liked it.
His curiosity peaked, he studied her face—or rather, what he could see of her features beneath the ridiculous lace cap she wore. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes at all, just a heavy fringe of sooty lashes. Her skin was pale and smooth as porcelain. He noted the delicate pink blush that softened her cheeks, the pleasing plumpness of her lips, her slightly square jawline.
Though her hair had been scrupulously twisted into a tight knot at the base of her neck, one thick golden tendril had managed to escape. He found himself battling a ridiculous urge to touch it, to wrap that golden, bouncy curl around his finger and give it a playful tug.
Following the slender column of her throat, his gaze moved lower. At some point during the physician’s examination she had slipped off her cape to reveal a simple gown of pale blue muslin. Tied around her waist was an apron of the same crisp white lace of her cap. James had seen nurses dressed in similar attire assisting surgeons in the Crimea, as well as in hospital corridors throughout London. No doubt the effect was meant to be dutiful and demure.
It didn’t work on Nurse Riley. No matter how badly she wanted to disguise her body, her curves would not be hidden beneath the drabness of her gown. She looked as lush and alluring as a Rubens portrait come to life. The ripe swell of her breasts strained against the thin muslin fabric. The absence of exaggerated bustles and crinolines beneath her skirts—a nod to hospital efficiency, no doubt—allowed him an enticing suggestion of her natural form.
Her apron, he noted as she turned, was tied in a full, bouncy bow in the back, as though her beautiful round ass was a party gift to be unwrapped and enjoyed.
As she leaned forward to apply a dry cloth to his shoulder, her breath fanned his neck and her breasts lightly brushed his bare chest. James stiffened and pulled away, but he was too late. The lower portion of his anatomy, which had already stirred with interest at the nurse’s proximity, began to harden, causing a distinct bulge in the crotch of his trousers.
The nurse, alert to of the subtle rigidity of his body, drew back. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” Seizing conversation as a potential means of distracting his body from its unseemly reaction to the woman, he blurted out, “I was thinking of a Rubens painting I’d seen in the National Gallery.”
“Oh?” she said absently, surveying her work. “You enjoy visiting museums?”
“Not particularly.”
“I see.” Her touch faltered, but only for a moment, as though she were accustomed to that sort of babbling idiocy from her patients. Perhaps she was. After all, it was highly unlikely he was the only man whose cock responded to her gentle ministrations the way his did. A preposterous surge of possessive irritation rushed through him at the thought.
Having finished caring for the wound on his shoulder, she reached for a small footstool and seated herself between his knees. She drew his injured ankle onto her lap, rolled his cotton breeches up to his knee, and began cleansing his lower limb. Her wrists, he noted, were finely boned, her hands soft and delicate. She worked with slow, methodical care, lathering his calf and ankle. The action shouldn’t have been stimulating, but it was. Incredibly so.
Her head was bent down, her luscious lips pursed in absorption of her task. His eyes locked on the gentle sway of her breasts as she moved. He imagined her lathered hands slowly moving up his thigh...
“You’ve been a nurse for long?” he bit the question out.
She glanced up at him in startled surprise at the abruptness of the question. “Yes. Several years now.”
“One of Miss Nightingale’s ministering angels, I gather.”
She gave a light shrug. “While I admire her work in the Crimea,” she replied, “I entered the profession in order to assist my father. He was a physician. I have two brothers at home, both of whom are surgeons. So I suppose the medical profession runs in my family.”
Once again, James was struck by the soft, cultured cadence of her voice. “You must read your patient’s correspondence aloud to them,” he said, imagining her in a room full of sick and injured men, each of them hanging on to her every word.
“Yes. That’s often part of my duty. I’ll do whatever is necessary to comfort my patients.”
A wicked smile tugged his lips. Although her reply was innocent enough, when interpreted by someone of a more bawdy bent—such as James—a deliciously wanton spin could be put on her words. “Thank you, Nurse. I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.”
“I hope so,” she said. She looked up at him and smiled. Her eyes, he now noted, shimmered with gold and green and brown. Hazel, he supposed they would be called. Striking eyes. Now if only he could see more of the rest of her...
Lecher, James thought, chastising himself. He had no shortage of willing paramours, even in the sorry state he was in now. There was Vanessa, of course. And others as well, beautiful women who could discreetly satisfied his needs. But he hadn’t even thought of seduction until this sweet, guileless nurse had put her soft hands on his skin. Enveloped him with her warm breath and heady scent of lavender. Accidentally brushed her lush breasts against his chest.
“It’s been too long,” he said aloud.
“Wounds heal at their own speed,” she replied, misinterpreting his words. She opened a jar of mint balm and began using gentle, circular strokes to massage the ointment into his skin. The urge to grasp her hand and draw it upward was almost overpowering.
Desperate to steer the conversation in the opposite direction of his thoughts, he said, “I’m afraid that will not suit my mother. She is determined I manage a decent waltz by the third of June.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. “As least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“I only wish I were jesting. She’s planned
a formal ball to celebrate my return. Apparently all of London is invited. I have no doubt the spectacle will be quite ghastly.”
“Ghastly? That sounds quite lovely to me.”
“Obviously you haven’t attended one of my mother’s grand balls.”
The soothing motion of her hand stopped. She stood and capped the jar, then passed the ointment to him. “Thank you, Mr. Lancaster. I’m finished here. Your scars will itch as they heal. The balm will help relieve that annoyance. I trust you can manage to apply it by yourself.”
While there was nothing objectionable to her tone, the warmth he had heard moments earlier had vanished entirely. The sudden change in her manner was doubtless a result of his clumsy phrasing. Damn. He hadn’t meant to imply she was of too low a station to warrant an invitation, but clearly that was how she had interpreted his words.
In truth, he dreaded his mother’s forthcoming ball for reasons too complicated to share. First and foremost, he loathed the fact that that he would be hailed as a returning hero, when really it was nothing more than grim luck that had enabled him to survive the desperate charge that had taken the lives of so many of his men.
Secondly, there was the pressing expectation that he and Vanessa would choose that occasion to announce their betrothal. That event seemed to be a foregone conclusion in everyone’s mind but his own. He wasn’t gullible enough to expect to love Vanessa, but that was hardly an impediment to marriage. Her beauty was certainly unparalleled. What troubled him was that the more time he spent in her company, the less confident he was that he actually liked the woman.
He pushed the burdensome thoughts away and turned his focus to Dr. Michaelson, who had finished his notes and set aside his journal. “Your former physicians,” Michaelson said, coming to stand before him, “what course of treatment did they recommend?”
James gave a loose shrug. “Laudanum for the pain. Though as you doubtless noted when you entered, I prefer scotch. The effects on pain are similar, but it doesn’t bring on the spells of nausea. Other than that, I was to rest and remain off the leg until it heals.”
Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance Page 2