The Salve #2
The image of the rugged Earl of Carlisle, tipsy on brandy, eagerly demonstrating massage techniques on Hereford was so incongruous that Amelia couldn’t suppress a soft laugh. “That must have been quite the demonstration.”
“Oh, it was theatrical in the extreme. David supervised, criticizing Carlisle’s technique and his ‘inadequate appreciation for the finer points of pressure application.’” Hereford’s impression of what must have been David’s haughty tone was remarkably good.
“But the method itself proved effective for my acquaintance.”
He hesitated, studying her with suddenly serious eyes. “I could try it, if you’d allow it. David was quite thorough in his instructions, and I have a decent memory.”
The offer hung in the air between them, weighted with implications that extended far beyond a simple therapeutic gesture. It would require trust, vulnerability, physical contact outside the bounds of their careful arrangement. Well, they’d been there already, had they not?
“A valet with a missing leg who dresses his master in terrible colors taught you a massage technique while drunk?” She couldn’t help the skepticism in her voice, though there was humor there too.
“When you put it that way, it does sound rather implausible,” he acknowledged with a self-deprecating smile. “But I promise the method proved sound, even if its transmission was somewhat unorthodox.”
She believed him, which was perhaps the most surprising realization of all. Despite their earlier argument, despite the walls she’d built around her heart, she found herself trusting the sincerity in his eyes.
“All right,” she said quietly.
Charles set down his glass and moved to kneel before her chair, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “May I?” he asked, hands hovering near but not touching her wrapped stump.
Amelia nodded, unable to form words as he carefully unwrapped the bandages, exposing the scarred flesh beneath. She tensed, waiting for his reaction. But none came. He studied the limb with clinical interest, his expression never changing from one of focused concentration.
“The pain is here?” he asked, his fingers tracing the air just above the knotted scar tissue.
“Yes. And it feels as if the foot that isn’t there is being crushed.”
He nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “According to David, his brain still believes the limb exists.” His hands moved to her thigh, just above where the amputation had occurred. “The muscles here contract, trying to protect a limb that’s no longer present.”
His hands were warm against her skin as he began a slow, methodical massage, starting well above the amputation site and working outward in careful circles. His touch was firm but gentle.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he said, focused entirely on his task.
“It’s… actually helping,” she admitted, surprised as the sensation began to recede under his ministrations. Or was she merely distracted by his hands on her intimate parts? “David knew what he was talking about.”
“He claims it’s the only thing that gave him relief after conventional medicine failed.” Charles continued the careful, rhythmic pressure. “I admit I was skeptical until I saw how it helped my acquaintance.”
As his hands worked their magic, Amelia felt the ghost pain gradually subsiding, replaced by a different sort of awareness—of his touch, his proximity, his competence and kindness. This was a side of Charles Bartholomew Hereford she’d never anticipated but was encountering more and more.
“Better?” he asked after several minutes.
“Much,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
He completed the treatment before carefully rewrapping her stump with a bandage.
When he finished, he returned to his chair rather than using the moment of intimacy to kiss her. Her husband simply poured them both another measure of brandy. This restraint disappointed her which, in turn, caught her off guard.
She gathered her thoughts, the brandy and lingering relief from pain making her more forthcoming than usual. “You surprise me, Charles.” She studied him over the rim of her glass.
“Good.” His eyes held hers, warm with mischief. “I would hate to be predictable.” He surprised her again by not asking for an explanation—a feat achieved by only those with self-assurance.
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional pop from the dying fire. The ghost pain had receded to a dull ache, manageable now.
“It’s late,” he said finally, setting down his empty glass. “And you should rest while the pain is lessened.”
“Yes.” She hesitated, reluctant to break the peace between them. “Thank you, Charles. Truly.”
He rose, offering her the crutch. “If the pain returns, don’t hesitate to ask for assistance. David would be mortified if I failed to properly apply his technique.”
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint David,” she said with a small smile. “Though I might request to meet him sometime. Anyone who can convince an earl to wear purple and orange together must be quite remarkable.”
“He’s a force of nature,” Charles agreed with a warm chuckle. “And fiercely defensive of Carlisle. Rather like your Mrs. Pierce with you.”
As she stood, steadying herself on the crutch, she found herself unexpectedly close to him—close enough to catch the faint scent of him, to see the light stubble shadowing his jaw, to notice how his eyes reflected the dying firelight.
For one breathless moment, she thought he might lean forward, might close the small distance between them. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, a question in their depths she wasn’t prepared to answer.
“Goodnight, Amelia,” he said instead, stepping back.
“Goodnight, Charles,” she replied, suddenly acutely aware of how his name felt on her lips.
As she made her way back to her chamber, she found herself replaying every moment of their encounter—the gentle competence of his hands, the compassion in his eyes, the restraint that spoke of respect rather than disinterest.
The man who had shared that quiet interlude was nothing like the rakish aristocrat she’d married. And that realization was perhaps more dangerous than any ghost pain could ever be.
*
Charles remained in the sitting room long after Amelia had retired, lingering amid the subtle traces of her presence—her scent, the impression of her body in the chair, the lip-marked brandy glass. His hands still tingled with the memory of her skin beneath his fingers.
Sleep had eluded him even before their unexpected encounter.
He’d ached for her. Ever since he’d kissed her, felt her heat and tasted her, his body had refused to settle.
He hadn’t felt like pleasuring himself either.
Hours of pacing had yielded nothing but frustration.
But when he saw her, his hunger had been quelled by her suffering.
Something about tonight had shifted the foundations of their arrangement.
The quiet dignity with which she’d revealed her vulnerability, trusting him despite every reason not to, had caught him entirely off guard.
That rare, genuine laugh when he’d told her about David and Carlisle’s sartorial disasters had been startlingly warm compared to her usual measured responses.
As he’d massaged her phantom pain in the dim light, he’d noticed something curious—a faint violet stain on her fingertips.
The observation had triggered a fleeting thought about the manuscripts from Snowflake, always penned in distinctive violet ink.
Surely it was coincidence; violet ink wasn’t so uncommon among women writers.
Yet… Amelia had surprised him so many times already.
Could his sharp-tongued, principled wife possibly be the same woman who wrote those scandalously erotic tales that had captivated London’s underground literary scene?
The possibility seemed absurd, but he filed the observation away.
“What are you doing, Bartholomew?” he whispered.
This wasn’t how their arrangement was supposed to progress, but did it matter?
It did if he wished to guard his heart. His pulse shouldn’t quicken at her rare smiles.
He certainly shouldn’t lie awake contemplating the many facets of her character with such fascination.
At her door, his hand rose halfway to knock before falling back to his side. “Idiot,” he murmured, turning resolutely away.
As sleep finally claimed him, Charles resolved to make himself useful tomorrow—to show her he could be more than an inconvenient necessity in her life. Perhaps she might smile at him again, in that unguarded way that transformed her eyes from forest depths to spring meadow.
His final conscious thought wasn’t of willing widows or past conquests, but of a brilliant, stubborn woman with chestnut hair and a smile that felt increasingly precious for its rarity.