James set aside his crutches. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorway. “Do I look humiliated?”
His mother stopped pacing, truly looking at him for the first time since she’d entered the room. Her face suddenly softened. A tremulous smile curved her lips and her deep blue eyes glistened. “You look like the old James,” she said. “The way you did years ago, before you left for the war.”
“The rake and the cad who was forever embarrassing you?”
“Exactly.” She released a shaky laugh. “My incorrigible youngest son. How lovely to have you back.” She moved to James and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Not a woman normally given to displays of emotion, she pulled back forthwith and dabbed at her eyes. “You shall have to double Dr. Michaelson’s fee.”
“I’ve already decided to do exactly that.”
“Then you are not upset that your relationship with Miss Kittworthy—”
“I am exceedingly grateful to be relieved of that commitment.”
His mother eyed him appraisingly. “So it would appear.” She glanced away, feigning casual disinterest as she brushed her palms against the silk of her skirts. “And the lucky woman who has taken Miss Kittworthy’s place in your affections?”
James arched a dark brow. “That’s a rather large assumption, isn’t it? Why are you so sure there’s a woman involved? Perhaps my physical progress has brought about my miraculous recovery.”
The viscountess rolled her eyes. “I know my son. You only get that cat-in-the-cream look when there’s a woman involved. Now, I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who she is?”
“No, I don’t suppose I would.”
“You know I’ll learn anyway. I have my sources.”
James gave a short laugh. “I hope there will be no formal inquiry. In any event, I doubt you travel in the same circles.”
“Is that right?” His mother frowned, then squared her shoulders and began to pace again. “In that case, the only issue before us is the upcoming ball. It will be most uncomfortable with His Grace and Miss Kittworthy in attendance.”
“Then inform them they are no longer longer invited.”
She sent him a withering glare. “Really, James. One simply cannot disinvite a duke.” She thought for a moment, then announced, “Since it is no longer a betrothal party, we shall let it be known that the ball will be held to raise funds for the brave men fighting in the Crimea. That’s the perfect solution, isn’t it? Lord Ellerbee and Miss Kittworthy will appear petty and self-absorbed, while I will be patriotic and humble.”
“Humble?” His lips quirked. “Not a word that’s often used to describe you.”
“We will gather to celebrate the glorious victories of the Crimean campaigns—”
“There haven’t been many of those.”
“Do be quiet, James.” She drew on her gloves. “I’ve far too much to do to waste another minute here. I shall have to change the menu entirely. And the decorations. And the music. Oh, and the members of the War Office will have to be invited...”
“Dr. Michaelson will need an invitation, as well as Nurse Riley.”
“Humble is one thing. We don’t want to be common.”
“There is nothing common about either one. Send the invitations here. I will deliver them personally.”
The viscountess looked up in surprise at James’s tone. A slow smile curved her lips and she inclined her head. “As you wish.”
James’s driver had been instructed to deliver Kate and Dr. Michaelson to their respective homes, but she asked to be taken to St. Thomas instead. She needed time to think, and the walk home from the hospital would provide exactly that.
After her mother’s death she had leapt into the role of family caretaker with childish eagerness. She took care of the men in her family, and she’d been proud to do it. Proud to use the skills her mother had taught her before she died. Proud to darn her brothers’ socks, cook their meals, make their home warm and presentable.
But somewhere along the way what had begun as a labor of love had simply become labor. Perhaps it wasn’t intentional, perhaps it wasn’t planned, but there it was. Bertie and George had made her a slave, and she had made them simpering idiots either incapable of taking care of themselves, or just unwilling to.
The worst of it was, she couldn’t entirely blame them. Hadn’t she felt needed? Hadn’t she been the dutiful sister, the dutiful nurse? One didn’t simply wake up one morning and find oneself in the predicament she was in. It took years of practice and experience to achieve such heights of stupidity.
Years of loving sacrifice. I’ll take the burned end of the meat. I don’t mind.
Praise. I say, no one can scrub the commode the way you can, Kate.
Expectation. If you don’t help me pay my gaming debts, we’ll all be ruined.
Humor. Can you imagine Kate at the ball? Not our plain little peahen.
Her rebellions—daring to scrimp and save a portion of her salary to splurge on an item of lingerie, or occasionally loitering near the hospital’s garden wall—were so minor as to be almost meaningless. She’d fallen into a fog of obedience and lived her life in a stupor. It had taken James to finally shake her awake. To make her realize she wanted so much more.
A misty rain had begun to fall as she’d walked home. She’d barely noticed it at the time, but as she climbed the stairs to the third floor garret flat she shared with her brothers, her sodden skirts dragged behind her. She opened the door and stepped inside. A puddle pooled beneath her.
Bertie, lounging with his feet up and absorbed in the Daily News, glanced up. “Good, you’re home. My tea.”
“Your tea?” she repeated.
He lifted his teacup and saucer, rattling it in her general direction. “Hurry up, would you? The kettle’s gone cold.”
“What about our supper?” George whined. “Do you expect us to starve?”
Kate’s gaze moved from Bertie to George, then swept the room. Papers and laundry strewn about, curtains drawn, dirty dishes piled on the table, empty gin bottles tucked beneath the settee. Judging by the looks of things they’d been home for hours, yet they hadn’t bothered to light the grate, let alone tidy up a bit or begin a meal. They had simply waited for her to return and do everything for them.
She felt indescribably weary, as though an enormous weight had been settled on her shoulders. “How long is this to go on?” she asked.
George looked at her blankly. “What’s that?”
“This...situation.” She swept her arm across the room. “The three of us. Living like this.”
Bertie sent her a cocky smile. “Never mind about that. We’ll be flush again soon enough. That endorsement I told you about? The surgical equipment? The chap’s paying very generously for our help, isn’t he, George?”
“He is indeed. Almost feel guilty taking his money.” George guffawed. He looked at Kate. “Don’t you worry. Obviously we’ll continue to take care of you. Just as we always have.”
They took care of her? The laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the mending, the household debts, the grocer’s debts, the tailor’s debts, not to mention the gaming debts, the drinking debts, the solicitor’s debts. Bertie’s endless schemes and George’s bottomless bottles of gin. Always making excuses for them at the hospital when they missed their shifts.
“Well?” George prompted. “Don’t just stand there. It’s late. Aren’t you going to get on with supper?”
Icy water dripped down her spine as Kate studied her brothers, but she didn’t feel cold. Instead, heat rose in her chest, balling into a tight knot of quiet fury.
“As a matter of fact,” she said. “I’m hungry as well.” She crossed the room to the kitchen, her voice unnaturally shrill as she said, “Look here, both of you. This remarkable invention is called an oven. They’ve been installed in homes throughout London.” She threw open the cast iron door. “The kindling goes here. That will heat it.”
She removed a pot and slammed
it on the surface. “This is called a pot.” Next she removed a tin from the cupboard. “These are known as beans. If you avail yourself of these three items, you will doubtless avoid the horrors of starvation.”
Bertie blinked. “But—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “I am quite confident this momentous task is well within your capability.”
“Surely you don’t expect—”
“Surely I do. If you are prepared to truly test your culinary aptitude, there is a cabbage to be boiled. I would recommend you heat last night’s chicken as well, but I wouldn’t dare overwhelm you all at once.” She lifted her drenched skirts and strode from the room. “You may call me when supper is ready.”
Kate stepped into her chamber and slammed the door behind her. Her heart raced at double its normal tempo, her hands shook. She’d never stood up to them before, and the experience was as frightening as it was exhilarating. Moments later, she heard her brothers muttering something about the unpredictable moodiness of females. They slammed out of the flat in a huff and stormed down the back stairs.
She let out her breath in a rush and returned to the kitchen. The dampness of her clothing had begun to chill her very core. Shivering, she lit the stove and heated buckets of water for a bath. She didn’t expect her brothers to return for hours, but modesty demanded she put the privacy screen in place. Once that was accomplished and the metal tub was brimming with steaming water, she loosened her hair, stripped naked, and eased herself in.
A moan of utter contentment escaped her lips. The water, so hot it was almost painful, pooled around her limbs, enveloping her in its heated caress. The liquid warmth flushed her skin and eased her nerves. She leaned back, not moving as the heat seeped into her bones. She closed her eyes and tilted back her head. She banished her brothers from her thoughts and breathed deeply until her entire body felt languid and loose.
After a moment, she reached for a soft cloth and her favorite lavender soap—the same soap she used to cleanse James’s wounds. The scent immediately brought him to mind. An image of James’s face formed in her mind’s eye. A shiver ran through her as she pictured his stark masculine beauty, his deep blue eyes, his cocky smiles. She remembered the flavor of his kiss, the taste of his tongue in her mouth, the feel of his breath against her ear.
She worked up a sudsy lather and applied the cloth to her skin, imagining it was James’s brawny bicep she was touching, not her own slender arm. His long, masculine calf she was massaging. His flat, rippled stomach she was rubbing with a warm, soapy cloth.
Kate smiled and dragged the cloth across her breasts. Mimicking James’s touch, she used both hands to knead and massage the heavy globes. She rolled her nipples between her fingers, tweaking them over and over until they stood at firm, soapy attention. A heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water began to build within her belly.
The aching pressure blossomed and grew until it demanded to be satisfied. She arched her back and dragged the cloth down low, settling it between her thighs.
She remembered the delicious arousal she’d experienced with James. With that in mind, she swept the sudsy fabric back and forth between her thighs, rubbing it against the sensitive pink nub at the entrance to her sex. Rubbed it until her clitoris swelled and throbbed. Her belly tightened and her breath quickened.
She was reaching, building, grasping for something she couldn’t name. The sensation was maddeningly similar to the feeling she’d experienced rocking against James’s leg. But this time she had no intention of stopping. She needed to know where the sensation would lead.
Abandoning the cloth, she fondled herself with her fingers. She toyed with her clitoris, then experimentally probed the slick channel of her sex. The muscles in her buttocks clenched as she drew her fingers in and out, sloshing bath water over the kitchen floor. Her breasts shook and her nipples tightened. Her belly tensed. She threw back her head and let her chin drop open, panting with desire. She stroked harder, faster.
Finally, with a suddenness that startled her, she came. Shivers of shimmering delight coiled up her spine. She let out a sharp cry, shuddering as her pleasure overtook her. Then she melted into a pool of liquid relief. Kate sat motionless for a long moment, savoring the lingering sensation of satisfaction, letting her limbs recover their strength.
Eventually she realized the bath water had grown cool. She stepped from the tub and donned a thick cotton night rail.
She ate a cold supper of chicken, cheese, and bread. Fixed her tea strong and sweet, just the way she liked it. Lit candles. Allowed her mind to drift over the afternoon she had spent with James. The pleasure she’d discovered by her own hand. She sat alone in the cold kitchen, in her squalid flat, and was truly content for the first time in ages. Never had a meal tasted so good.
Chapter Seven
Dr. Michaelson snapped his leather satchel shut and gave a satisfied sigh. “Remarkable,” he said. “I’ve never seen a patient progress so quickly. I had allotted four weeks time until you would be ready to move from crutches to a cane, but it appears you’re ready now.”
“A cane,” James repeated. “What a dashing figure I’ll be. Most men wait until old age to adopt that virile accessory.”
His tone was light and playful, mildly self-deprecating. Kate returned his smile with one of her own. “I predict it will be all the rage. You’ll have half the men in London sporting canes this season.”
He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be ghastly?”
Dr. Michaelson lifted his satchel and moved to the door. “I do apologize for not being able to stay longer. Once I’ve concluded my business before the Royal Academy, we’ll work out a satisfactory schedule for the remainder of our sessions.”
“Not to worry,” James replied. “You leave me in very competent hands.”
“Indeed,” Michaelson agreed. He hesitated a moment, then continued, “I hope I’m not premature in announcing this, but I received some very exciting news yesterday. Given the success rate of my treatment, I may be able to convince the Academy to allow me to bring a team of medical professionals to the Crimea.”
Kate and James offered their congratulations. Michaelson smiled proudly, then looked at Kate. “I find myself a bit short of available surgeons. I don’t suppose your brothers would be interested in joining me?”
“I...I’m not sure,” she stammered, caught entirely off-guard by the question.
“I’ve watched them work. Your father taught them excellent technique, but they seem to be lacking the proper discipline, don’t they? A tour abroad might be just the ticket to turn that around.”
Aware of James’s curious gaze, and anxious not to have her family’s dirty laundry aired in front of him, Kate sent Michaelson a curt nod. “I will certainly mention it to them.”
“Very good.” Michaelson lifted his satchel and turned toward the door. “Until tomorrow, then.”
The physician departed, leaving them alone. James waited a beat, then looked across the room at Kate. “Hungry?” he asked.
Relief poured through her that he was not pursuing the topic of her brothers’ character. She turned her attention to the delicious aromas that wafted from the dining room. For the past ten days, James had been an expansive host, stuffing them with savory food and generously refilling Michaelson’s glass. The effect on the good physician had been marvelously predictable: ample food and wine, when combined with a thick medical text and a comfortable chair, resulted in a decided need for the man to enjoy a restorative nap.
While he slept, James and Kate had been delightfully free to explore other pleasures. Those pleasures had been intense indeed, awakening in Kate a sensual hunger she'd supressed for years. But now that the physician had departed, the meal seemed an unnecessary ruse. Kate shook her head. “You?”
“Starving.”
“Oh.” She picked up the cane Dr. Michaelson had left and brought it to James. “In that case, we should adjourn to the—”
He caught her waist and
pulled her firmly against him. “What makes you think I was referring to food?” He brought his head down, lightly brushing his mouth against her own. His kiss was firm, warm, and gently demanding. Increasing the pressure of his lips against hers, he coaxed her lips apart and swept his tongue inside. Desire sparked and shot through her body. She returned his kiss with a fiery ardor, battling his tongue with her own, stroking his broad shoulders, pressing her belly into his groin.
He pulled back with a groan. “This could be dangerous,” he muttered against her throat.
“Dangerous?”
“Being alone like this. If the good doctor is sleeping in another room, awaiting your return, limits are naturally imposed.”
She searched James’s gaze. “What sort of limits?”
“Stopping us from going further than the lady might desire.”
Embarrassment flamed in her cheeks. They were in his library, where his therapy sessions had customarily taken place. She glanced around the chamber, taking in the books, the desk, the bed that had been installed for James’s convenience. She gestured vaguely. “Even here, Owen or Sally might enter—”
“I am not in the habit of hiring idiots. If the door is closed and we are alone, my staff will not disturb us.”
“I see.”
She understood his warning. If they continued on the course they’d begun and their liaison was discovered, she would ruin her reputation. But that was a concern she’d already evaluated and dismissed. She could live with regrets. She would not live with the cowardice of wanting something so badly and being afraid to reach for it. True, she had learned how to pleasure herself by her own hand, but that was a meager thrill compared to the sensations James aroused in her. She needed him. His body, his scent, his taste, his touch.
Softly she said, “And if the lady doesn’t want to stop? What if the lady desires this as much as the gentleman does?” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her courage faltering. “As much as she hopes the gentleman does.”
Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance Page 7