The Salve
The grandfather clock in the hallway had just struck two when Amelia admitted defeat in her battle with sleep.
Stump pain clawed at her missing limb tonight, a sensation both impossible and agonizingly real—as if the leg that had been taken thirteen years ago was being crushed anew with each heartbeat.
She sat up, pushing tangled hair from her face, and reached for the small tin of medicinal salve she kept in her bedside drawer.
Grimacing, she lit the small bedside lamp and pushed back the covers. The polished wood of her prosthetic gleamed in the lamplight where it rested against the nightstand, a reminder of absence made tangible.
With a sigh, Amelia reached for the small pot of violet ink at her desk and withdrew a fresh sheet of cream paper. The first dip of her pen was always the most difficult, but once the ink touched paper, the words began to flow, and with them, a liberating sense of escape.
Lady Caroline Westwood leaned against the library balcony, observing the room below where her husband, the imposing Earl of Westwood, had just sent another young candidate scurrying off with nothing more than a withering glance.
His possessive nature had once vexed her beyond measure, yet tonight she found herself watching him with reluctant appreciation.
“That’s the third gentleman you’ve frightened off this evening,” she remarked when he joined her, his tall frame casting her in shadow.
“Merely the third you noticed,” he replied, his hand settling at the small of her back with casual ownership. “There were two others whose intentions I found equally objectionable.”
“I’m certain their only intention was to collect their hard-earned compensation,” Caroline remarked.
“That’s just it, my dear. I don’t want them getting hard at all where you’re concerned.”
“You are scandalous!” Caroline swiped at his arm playfully as his arm wrapped around her waist. She could feel the evidence of his desire through the layers of her skirts. “You cannot keep me locked in a tower, my lord,” she said, her face flushed, though the heat was not from anger.
His smile, that rare expression reserved solely for her, transformed his severe features. “That is rather unfortunate, my dear. I had hoped to discipline you in the tower for daring to disagree with me.”
Amelia paused, her cheeks warm as she considered her next words. The scene was taking a decidedly improper turn, even by Snowflake’s standards. Yet something compelled her to continue, to explore this territory of desire and liberation through the character’s encounter.
She dipped her pen again, the violet ink glistening in the lamplight, and allowed her imagination to follow Lady and Lord Westwood into realms that the Marchioness of Hereford could never publicly acknowledge but that Snowflake could render in exquisite, scandalous detail.
As her pen scratched across the page, drawing Lady Westwood ever deeper into her husband’s embrace, Amelia found her thoughts straying to her own husband. The way Charles had looked at her the other night, his eyes dark with want. The taste of him, the heat of his hands, and the hardness of him…
She shook her head, banishing such distracting thoughts. Lady Westwood’s fictional passions were far safer to explore than her own confusing feelings. With renewed focus, she returned to her tale of forbidden desire, where consequences remained safely confined to paper and violet ink.
A sudden worry crossed her mind. Did Charles suspect?
Sometimes when he looked at her, particularly after returning from meetings with Patrick Adams, she caught a curious gleam in his eye.
Did he recognize something in her writing style?
Had she inadvertently included details only she would know?
The thought of him reading her most intimate fantasies, perhaps even recognizing himself in her thinly disguised aristocratic characters, sent a thrill of both fear and forbidden excitement through her.
Stabbing pain in her injured leg diverted her attention.
She unwrapped the bandages around her stump, wincing as the cool air hit sensitive skin rubbed raw by the day’s activities.
The flesh was red and angry tonight, a combination of overexertion and the damp weather that always made the ghost sensations worse.
As she began massaging the salve into tender flesh, a muffled oath from beyond her door caught her attention. Then a soft thud. Amelia froze, listening intently.
Silence stretched for several heartbeats before she heard it again—a quiet rustling from the sitting room, followed by the distinctive clink of crystal against crystal. Hereford was apparently also finding sleep elusive tonight.
She should ignore him. Return to her ministrations and wait for him to retreat to his own chambers. That would be the prudent course, the sensible choice that maintained their careful boundaries.
Instead, she found herself reaching for her robe. The decision was impulsive, born perhaps of too many sleepless nights spent alone with unrelenting pain.
She didn’t bother with the prosthetic—it would only aggravate her already inflamed skin. Instead, she reached for the plain wooden crutch she kept for such situations, wrapped her stump carefully, and made her way to the sitting room door.
Hereford sat in one of the wingback chairs before the dying fire, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his long fingers, his usual immaculate appearance nowhere in evidence.
His dark hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly, and he’d shed his formal attire for a simple banyan over loose trousers.
The familiar mask of aristocratic indolence had slipped, revealing something rougher and more vulnerable beneath.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening, surprise flickering across his features as he took in her appearance—loose hair tumbling over her shoulders, the wooden crutch, the absence of her usual composure.
“Amelia.” Her name emerged as barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied, suddenly acutely conscious of her state of undress. The robe covered her adequately, but she rarely allowed anyone to see her without the wooden leg. “I was already awake.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the crutch before returning to her face with cautious politeness. “Trouble sleeping?”
A different night, she might have offered some vague excuse. But something in his own evident restlessness, the shadows beneath his eyes, made her answer honestly.
“Ghost pain,” she admitted, moving farther into the room. “Sometimes the leg that isn’t there hurts worse than the existing leg with crushed nerves.”
He nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. “The brain struggles to interpret the absence.”
“Yes.” She was oddly touched by his matter-of-fact response. No pity, no awkward attempt to change the subject. “I use a salve sometimes, but tonight it’s particularly persistent.”
“May I?” He gestured to the chair opposite his.
She hesitated only briefly before making her way across the room, settling into the offered seat.
“Would you like some?” He indicated the decanter of brandy on the small table between them.
“Please.” She accepted the glass he poured, taking a sip and feeling the liquid warmth spread through her chest. “What’s keeping you awake?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Old ghosts. Nothing of consequence.”
“It must be significant to drive you from your bed at this hour,” she observed.
He studied her for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind. Then he sighed, setting down his glass. “Have you ever met Carlisle’s valet, David?”
The unexpected question caught her off guard. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
A smile tugged at Hereford’s lips. “You’d remember if you had.
The man is impossible to miss—dresses himself and, tragically, Carlisle in the most appalling color combinations imaginable.
Purple waistcoats with orange trim, emerald cravats paired with yellow striping.
The man has a positive genius for chromatic discord. ”
“And Lord Carlisle permits this?” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue.
“Permits it? He actively encourages it.” Hereford’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his expression warming with amusement. “Says he owes David whatever small pleasures he can provide.”
“Owes him?”
“David saved Carlisle’s life before he was an earl, back when he was working the docks.” Hereford leaned forward slightly, his glass cradled between his hands. “A two-ton shipment came loose from its moorings—would have crushed Carlisle entirely if David hadn’t pushed him clear.”
“How heroic,” Amelia said softly.
“Indeed. Though David paid a terrible price.” Hereford’s expression sobered. “The shipment caught his leg instead. It had to be amputated above the knee.”
Understanding dawned in Amelia’s eyes. “So, he suffers from ghost pains as well.”
“Yes. When Carlisle received his earldom for providing ships during the war, he immediately made David his personal valet, though the man knew nothing about proper gentleman’s dress.
” Hereford’s smile returned. “Thus, the predilection for color combinations that would make a peacock weep with envy.”
Despite her discomfort, Amelia found herself smiling. “This is all interesting,” she said, “but I don’t quite see how it relates to your sleeplessness.”
Hereford’s expression turned slightly sheepish.
“Not my sleeplessness but yours. You see, David developed a method for managing his ghost pains—a particular type of massage that targets the muscles above the amputation site. He showed Carlisle, who—” He hesitated, slowly rubbing the stubble on his jaw.
“After perhaps too much brandy one evening, Carlisle enthusiastically demonstrated it to me when I mentioned a hunting acquaintance with a similar affliction.”