“But instead of healing, the limb has grown increasingly weak, hasn’t it?”
James bit back his instinct to deny the physician’s diagnosis. To claim his leg was healing just fine, thank you very much. Instead, he gave a terse nod and admitted the truth. “Quite.”
“I’m afraid, based on the cases I’ve seen, that’s not uncommon. Your mother mentioned I have unorthodox methods. She is correct. You see, during my tour in Crimea I noticed something astounding. Poor men heal faster than rich men.”
James blinked, certain he’d heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon?”
“The question is, why does that occur?” Michaelson continued, warming himself to the topic. “Not because poor men have stronger constitutions, but because they do not have the luxury of hiring servants to wait on them hand and foot. The poor, particularly those injured on the battlefield, moved. In my experience, using the limb helps quicken the healing.”
Dr. Michaelson paced the room as he spoke, his passion for his work evident. “I should like to present my findings to the Royal Academy of Physicians next month, and a case like yours is exactly what I need to prove my theory.” He went on to describe in precise detail the nature of James’s injury, the shattering of bone and the ensuing muscle atrophy.
Apparently his course of treatment consisted of a regimen of daily exercises to strengthen the limb, followed by deep cleansing, massage to stimulate the muscles, and monitoring for infection.
James allowed the man to continue, but declined the treatment the moment the physician paused for breath. Not only did the ordeal Michaelson proposed sound like an uncomfortable waste of time, James had no desire to act the part of medical specimen and hold his injuries up for public scrutiny.
Dr. Michaelson appeared momentarily crestfallen, but had the good grace to shrug it off. “A shame. I had hoped to set a new standard of treatment for our injured soldiers. But of course I shall respect your decision.” Turning away, he began to pack his instruments.
Nurse Riley collected James’s shirt from the bench where Vanessa had dropped it. As she held it out for him to slip on, his gaze was drawn to the buttons of her gown.
Ladies with whom he socialized generally wore gowns that buttoned down the back. It took particularly nimble fingering to casually loosen those buttons while locked in a rapturous embrace. That was a skill that James, like most healthy boys in London, had perfected by the age of thirteen.
On the other side of the spectrum were the class of women—servants, women who worked in trade, nurses and the like—who did not have maids to assist them when they dressed. Of a practical necessity, their gowns buttoned down the front. And in Nurse Riley’s case, when those buttons strained against breasts that were magnificently full and generous, well, something altogether glorious happened. The gown occasionally pulled open, permitting one a peek within. James did not hesitate to avail himself of that opportunity.
Following the line of his stare, Nurse Riley momentarily froze, locked in a pose reminiscent of a startled young deer about to flee. Their gazes connected. Embarrassment flushed her face as she jerked the offending gap in her gown closed.
While her breasts—at least the shadowy glimpse he’d had of them—were beautiful in and of themselves, that wasn’t what had made his mouth go dry. It was the knowledge that Dr. Michaelson’s prim and proper nurse, with her starched cap and coarse cape, liked to tuck her luscious breasts into a corset of scarlet lace. Not the plain cotton shift he might have expected to see.
Scarlet lace.
Never in his wildest dreams would James have imagined that. How...fascinating. What other erotic surprises did she hide beneath her gown, he wondered, utterly intrigued. He made an abrupt reversal of his earlier decision. “I think, Doctor,” he said, his eyes never leaving Nurse Riley’s, “that perhaps you’re right. For the good of returning soldiers everywhere, I should be willing to try your radical new method.”
Dr. Michaelson, absorbed in the task of packing his satchel, turned abruptly. “Why—excellent. That’s very patriotic of you.”
“Yes, isn’t it.”
“Times like these call for noble sacrifices,” the physician continued enthusiastically. “If only more men followed your example.”
James bit back a grin. “Well, let’s not get too carried away.” He shrugged on his shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned, he turned to Nurse Riley, sending her a look he hadn’t employed since his days as a ballroom rake. It was a look of cocky confidence and sensual promise, a sultry stare that told his pretty little nurse not only had he seen what she wore beneath her drab muslin gown, he liked it. He liked it very much.
Her lips parted ever so slightly, forming a small, silent ‘oh.’
Watching her, James felt a weight had been lifted from his chest. For the first time since his return from the Crimea, his future did not look quite so bleak. The grim curtain that cast a pall over his life had finally parted to emit a ray of hope.
He shook Dr. Michaelson’s hand, then turned to his lovely assistant.
“Nurse Riley,” he said, acknowledging her with a polite nod. “I shall look forward to seeing much more of you.”
Bright spots of color stained her cheeks. She delicately cleared her throat and managed a cool nod in return. “Good day, Mr. Lancaster.” She turned and followed Dr. Michaelson out of the library, the bow of her apron bouncing above her sweetly rounded ass as she fled the room.
James smiled as he watched her go. Healing, he decided, was going to be a very enjoyable process.
Chapter Three
Kate finished stitching the small rip in the lining of Bertie’s suit coat. She knotted the thread and bit it off, passing the garment to her brother with a satisfied sigh. “There we are. Good as new.”
Bertie took the coat and eyed it critically. “New? This rag? It’s an embarrassment, that’s what it is. More patches and mends than a rag vendor’s suit.”
George swallowed his last bite of egg, then scraped his fork over his plate as if expecting the gesture to yield more food. “Is that it, then?” he grumbled. “One egg apiece? A speck of toast, and tea without sugar? Hardly a breakfast to fortify a grown man. Surely you can do better than that, Kate.”
“And what is that ghastly smoke?” Bertie asked. “Are you burning coal?”
She shrugged. “Wood is expensive.”
“That reminds me,” George broke in, “how do you expect me to visit Mrs. Dewberry this afternoon? The fare you’ve given me is for the trolley, not a hansom cab. Most undignified for a surgeon of my stature...”
Kate turned her back on her brothers’ litany of complaints. Her spirits were high, and she didn’t want to engage in the argument that would surely ensue if she reminded George and Bertie that the reason for their dire financial straits was entirely of their own making.
Humming softly to herself, she finished her morning chores, then packed a small tin for each of them for lunch. Boiled eggs, a biscuit, and an apple. They’d complain about that as well, but at least she wouldn’t be there to hear it.
“While we are on the subject of expenses,” Bertie said, “I think I’ve found a way to resolve some of our financial difficulties.”
Kate looked up from her work and sent him a sharp stare. “It’s not another wager, is it Bertie?”
“No, it’s not another wager, Bertie,” Bertie mimicked. Dismissing her with a shake of his head, he turned to George and said, “A chap approached me the other day at the hospital. He’s got work for both of us, if you’ve time in your schedule, George.”
“Oh?” said George. “What sort of work is it?”
“Something to do with shipping medical equipment and supplies to the troops in the Crimea.”
Kate frowned. “Why would he need the assistance of a surgeon to ship medical supplies?”
“Obviously it’s more complicated than just shipping supplies,” Bertie replied impatiently. “He said something about getting the endorsement of a proper surgeon in order to s
ell the equipment to the army. He’s an inventor, and a bit out of his area of expertise, so he needs someone with our skills and abilities. We do have a certain reputation, you know.”
Well, that much was certainly true. Both her brothers had reputations at the hospital. Unfortunately those reputations were very poor indeed. That made Kate highly skeptical as to the judgement of anyone who would approach Bertie or George Riley for an endorsement of a surgical product. But she kept her thoughts to herself as her brothers discussed the venture in greater detail.
She finished the breakfast dishes and was putting on her cape to leave when George stopped her.
"How are you finding your work with Dr. Michaelson?” he asked.
Kate looked at him in surprise. Rarely did either of her brothers ask about her work. A guarded smile curved her lips. “Dr. Michaelson is quite committed to the regimen he’s developed,” she answered. “It’s only been three days, but he’s very encouraged by the progress we’ve made. He’s convinced his system of therapeutic exercise will help restore Mr. Lancaster’s full mobility.”
Bertie gave a sharp guffaw. “Sounds like a ridiculous notion to me. Likely it’ll do more harm than good.”
Kate turned. “The treatment won’t hurt him, will it?”
“Hurt him?” George frowned. “Perhaps not physically, but in my experience, it’s always better to lower a patient’s hopes. Soldiers are coming back from the Crimea expecting physicians to cure things that can’t be cured. Lucky he didn’t lose the limb entirely. He may be an invalid, but at least he’s alive. He ought to be grateful enough for that.”
No, Kate thought, silently dismissing her brother’s words. James Lancaster would not be satisfied merely being alive. He was still the same man she had glimpsed three years ago. Perhaps a little thinner, a little wearier, with a slight somberness about him that hadn’t been in evidence before he’d left for the war, but still the same man. She even caught occasional glimpses of the breezy, virile charm with which he’d wooed an entire ballroom of women.
With her thoughts thus occupied, her morning hospital shift seemed to fly by and in no time at all she found herself in James Lancaster’s library assisting Dr. Michaelson. Once James finished his exercises, Kate to began her part of the regimen, a duty which involved massaging, washing, and applying a fresh bandage to both his shoulder wound and his ankle wound.
Until Miss Nightingale had revolutionized the field of medical science, it had generally been frowned upon for women to enter the nursing profession. Popular wisdom held that it was inappropriate for young, unmarried women to involve themselves in the care of sick and injured males. The risk of such contact resulting in unseemly behavior between the sexes was considered too great.
Kate, who had assisted her father for years and always managed to maintain a professional clinical distance from her patients, had dismissed that view as utter poppycock.
But that was before James Lancaster.
As she cleansed the wound on his shoulder, making slow, rhythmic circles over his flesh, she was struck by how intimate the task really was. She was entirely too aware of the feel of his bare skin beneath her hands, the way his muscles rippled and contracted beneath her touch. She couldn’t help noticing the rich, masculine scent of his body, or the way his thick chestnut hair curled just so around the lobe of his ear.
The moment she set her hands on James Lancaster’s body, her clinical dispassion deserted her completely.
Embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts, she quickly finished her task and moved away.
Dr. Michaelson turned from his perusal of the books that lined the shelves of James’s library. “You have quite an extensive collection on the subject of campaign medicine,” he said. “Several rather rare works. Why, Hitchcock’s latest volume has been backordered for months.”
James gave an indifferent shrug and reached for his crutches. “As I’d had little success with previous physicians’ methods, I thought to diagnose my injury on my own. Unfortunately, I found the material so dry I only succeeded in putting myself to sleep.”
“Dry?” Michaelson countered. “Why, Rayburn’s method of cauterizing wounds is nothing short of revolutionary, and Collingham’s treatise on the proper treatment of consumptive disorders has the entire medical profession in an uproar.”
“Is that so? In that case, perhaps you’d like to avail yourself of the collection while Nurse Riley and I make our daily therapeutic rounds. That is, if Nurse Riley has no objection?” Both men turned to look at her expectantly.
“By all means,” Kate replied. “I’m sure Mr. Lancaster and I will manage just fine.”
At the end of their sessions, James was to walk—or hobble, as he referred to the ungainly process—through the spacious rooms of his home, slowly increasing both the distance traveled and the weight he put on his injured ankle. As Kate followed him out of library and into the main foyer, she couldn’t help noticing the curiously satisfied expression he wore.
She studied him suspiciously. “I don’t recall seeing those volumes in your library yesterday,” she said.
“No, I’m sure you didn’t. They only just arrived this morning. Cost a small fortune to gather them on such short notice.”
“Oh? Why the sudden rush?”
“For the past three days, Dr. Michaelson has been with us every moment. I thought it might be best to give the good doctor something to do while we better acquaint ourselves. I hope you don’t object.”
“I—Of course not,” she managed to reply, absurdly flattered by his admission. “I’m only sorry to hear you spent so much on books in which you have no interest.”
“Is that your only objection, the money I spent to ensure our solitude?”
He was referring, Kate assumed, to the impropriety of the two of them being together without a chaperone. She stiffened her spine and primly replied, “I’m quite sure you’ll behave like a perfect gentleman.”
“Really?” He arched one dark brow and glanced at her. “On what basis do you make that rather astonishing assumption?”
“Why, you’re on crutches.”
He laughed. “So it’s not my sterling character and high moral standards that put you at ease, but my temporary physical incapacitation.” He favored her with a slow, wicked grin. “In other words, Nurse Riley, you could outrun me should you choose to.”
Kate bit back a smile, refusing to let herself fall under the spell of his considerable charm. But no matter how badly she attempted to project an outward air of cool poise, she was certain James Lancaster could see right through her charade. Her physical awareness of the man was simply too great to ignore.
The only thing she could liken the experience to was an electrical exhibition she had once attended. She recalled how the guide had thrown the switch and an invisible current had illuminated a series of lamps, casting brilliant light into a previously darkened room. She’d been awed by the transformation.
A similar electrical current seemed to pulse between her and James, making her heart hammer erratically and her thoughts spin in giddy circles whenever she was near him.
They came to a large parlor near the back of the house. It was a simple space, not nearly as formal as the front parlors, with southern-facing windows that overlooked a sprawling garden. The entire home was stunning, but this, Kate decided, was her favorite room. Even on a gray and gloomy day like the one outside, the filtered light sparkled through the tall, lead-paned windows.
Aware that he was watching her, she said, “Your home is lovely. But rather large, isn’t it? You’re here alone?”
“Well, not entirely. I have a staff of four servants. A cook named Annie. My footman, Owen, answers the door, handles my correspondence, and acts as general man-about-town. William, my caretaker, manages the grounds and the stables. And lastly, Sally, William’s wife, handles the general cleaning chores.”
Kate’s gaze swept the room. With the exception of the library, the house was nearly devoid of furnishings.
“There isn’t much to clean,” she observed.
“True. That is fortunate for Sally, for in addition to her duties here, she and William have a two-year-old son who appears to keep her sufficiently occupied.” He came to stand beside her at the window and pointed to a distant blur, his arm brushing her shoulder as he moved. “William and Sally live in the cottage beyond the vegetable garden. If it weren’t raining, you could just make it out.”
Kate made a noncommittal hum and stepped slightly away to better avoid further accidental contact. Her rare encounters with England’s gentry had not prepared her for James Lancaster. He was not pompous. Not superior. Not at all what she’d expected.
“The house previously belonged to my eldest brother, the viscount,” he continued. “After the birth of his fifth child, he and his wife retired to their country home, taking their belongings with them.” He looked around the room. “Something about this house has always appealed to me. Rather than lose it, I purchased it outright before I shipped off to the Crimea.”
“It must be terribly expensive to furnish a home this size,” she said. She longed to take the words back the moment she uttered them. His finances were certainly none of her business, and the implication that he couldn’t afford to furnish his home was likely highly insulting. Or worse, perhaps he’d interpret her comment as a reflection of her family’s own dire financial straits.
But neither outcome proved true. James merely brushed off her words with an indifferent shrug. “I thought I’d leave that chore to my future wife. I’m told women like that sort of thing. Matching fabrics and rugs and all that nonsense.”
An image of the haughty, strikingly beautiful Vanessa Kittridge immediately entered Kate’s mind. Yes, Miss Kittridge would love furnishing the home—but she would ruin it in the process. An uncharitable conclusion, perhaps, but Kate had seen enough of the woman coming and going to form that opinion.
Doubtless Miss Kittridge would fill these magical rooms with exquisite, expensive furniture that no one would feel comfortable sitting on, rugs no one would be allowed to tread upon, brittle bric-a-brac and staid, somber portraits. The thought left her unaccountably saddened.
Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance Page 3