5. Emma’s Proposal
Chapter five
Emma’s Proposal
After spending away the evening hours in intimate discourse of family and childhood remembrances, Emma insisted upon another saltwater bath to ward off infection in Everett's wounds.
Though she was grateful for his offer of assistance, she hastily declined, choosing instead to avoid the risk of loosening his stitches.
She then retreated to gather her composure, for his presence had quite undone her.
His penetrating eyes, the tender devotion with which he spoke of his family, and those elegant fingers that promised to awaken sensations she scarcely dared name.
What she had intended as but a few moments' respite stretched longer, until at last, she mustered the courage to return to his bedchamber.
Emma pushed open the door, fresh towels in hand, expecting to find Everett still soaking in the copper tub.
Instead, she froze at the sight before her—Everett standing nude by the window, his back turned to her, candlelight playing across his muscled form.
She had examined him clinically when he first arrived, but this was different.
Without the mask of a physician, the pure masculine beauty of him stole her breath.
Moonlight silvered the elegant sweep of his shoulders, highlighting the perfect symmetry of his musculature.
Her eyes traced the graceful line of his spine, the powerful latissimus dorsi tapering to a narrow waist, the flowing curves of his gluteal muscles that would have made Michelangelo weep.
Each muscle was perfectly defined, speaking of disciplined training.
When he turned, Emma quickly averted her gaze, heat flooding her cheeks. “I… I apologise,” she stammered. She was hopelessly melting into liquid before this man. “I thought you would still be bathing. I brought fresh towels.”
“Thank you,” he said, wrapping the old towel around his waist. His footsteps approached, and she forced herself to maintain her professional demeanour despite the warmth radiating from his bare chest mere inches away.
“You can look, you know,” he said softly, a hint of challenge in his voice. “I believe you were quite thorough in your initial examination.”
Emma’s fingers tightened on the towels she held. “That was different. Clinical.”
“And now?” There was something in his tone that made her pulse quicken.
Gathering her courage, she raised her eyes to his face, then allowed her gaze to drift lower.
The candlelight carved shadows beneath each muscle, highlighting the extraordinary definition of his chest, the elegant lines of his collarbones, the tantalising trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the towel.
“Well?” He was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“You’re…” She wet her lips, medical vocabulary failing her for once. “You’re quite a remarkable specimen. The symmetry of your trapezius muscles alone…” she trailed off, realising how she sounded.
“Is that the physician speaking?” His voice had dropped lower, sending shivers down her spine. “Or the woman?”
Emma met his dark eyes, feeling the dangerous pull between them. “Both, perhaps,” she admitted softly. “Though I find myself rather less clinical in my observations than usual.”
His slow smile made her heart stutter. She should leave, maintain proper distance.
He sold his body for coins, she reminded herself.
Instead, she found herself cataloguing new details—the slight curl of his damp hair, the way water droplets traced paths down his chest, the subtle shift of muscles as he breathed.
She opened her mouth to give voice to the incessant thought she’d had since making her list. The proposal was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak of it.
“Your assessment, Doctor?” he murmured, and she realised she’d been staring.
“I…” She squared her shoulders, trying to reclaim her professional demeanour even as her body hummed with awareness. “I should go. These towels…”
“Of course.” But he didn’t step back, and Emma found herself caught between propriety and desire, between clinical detachment and a new, dangerous appreciation for the male form that had nothing to do with medicine.
Finally, she placed the towels on a nearby chair, her movements deliberately precise. “Goodnight, Mr Hughes,” she said, proud of how steady her voice emerged despite her racing heart.
His soft “Goodnight, Miss Brown” followed her into the hall, along with the burning awareness that she would never again be able to look at him purely as a patient.
Emma lay in her bed, restless and agitated, trying desperately to banish the image of Everett’s nude form from her mind.
Yet every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again—moonlight sculpting his muscles, water droplets trailing down his chest, that knowing smile that reminded her she was a woman.
“This is madness,” she muttered, punching her pillow.
She was thirty years old, not some green girl swooning over her first glimpse of male flesh.
She had examined countless bodies, performed surgeries, delivered babies.
Yet something about Everett’s form haunted her in a way that was entirely unprofessional.
Her medical mind tried to rationalise it, cataloguing muscle groups, noting the symmetry of his physique, appreciating the mechanical efficiency of his movements.
She began to list all the possible diseases he could be afflicted with given his profession, though she had not seen any signs.
Annoyingly, her treacherous thoughts kept straying to less clinical observations: the barest quickening of his breath upon their nearness, the warmth of his skin, the way his eyes darkened when he caught her staring.
“No,” she told herself firmly, sitting up in bed. “Absolutely not.” But even as she spoke the words, her fingers were reaching for her housecoat.
She paced her room, arguing with herself.
“He’s a patient. And a… a…” He was experienced in giving pleasure, and she…
She was woefully ignorant in matters of physical intimacy.
Both she and Michael had been untested when they had made their arrangements.
They had both approached their bodies like specimens to be studied, although this method seemed to work well enough for Michael.
“Research,” she said suddenly, reassuring herself. “Purely academic interest in physical response and sensation.”
The excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Emma tied her housecoat with trembling fingers and slipped into the hall.
Each step toward his room felt both thrilling and terrifying.
She was either about to make a terrible mistake or embark on the most fascinating study of her life.
At his door, she hesitated only a moment before pushing it open without knocking. She found Everett propped up in bed, bare-chested and reading by lantern-light. The sight of him, all golden skin and defined muscle, made her mouth go dry.
He looked up, surprise flickering across his features before being replaced by something darker, more intense. “Miss Brown?”
“I…” Her carefully prepared speech deserted her. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders like she did before particularly challenging surgeries. “You owe me a debt,” she managed finally. “For saving your life.”
His eyebrow rose slightly as he closed his book. “Indeed, I do. And how would you have me repay this debt?”
The heat in his voice made her knees weak, but Emma forced herself to continue. “I believe your…particular skills might prove educational.”
“My skills?” His voice emerged strangled.
“Yes. You see, I’ve conducted research into physical pleasure, but my findings have been…inconclusive.”
“Research?”
“One subject is hardly an adequate sample size, wouldn’t you agree?” Her clinical tone contrasted sharply with the subject matter. “You, being a professional and assuming you are capable of pleasuring women, would make an ideal study participant.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze and waited expectantly.
Everett sat up straighter in bed, his bare chest catching the candlelight as Emma stood across the room in her housecoat, her golden hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.
The intimacy of the setting, her in her nightclothes, him half-dressed in bed, made every word feel charged with dangerous possibility.
“Miss Brown,” he said hoarsely, painfully aware of how the thin fabric of her housecoat clung to her curves. “This is highly inappropriate.”
“When would be more appropriate?” Those remarkable eyes held his, challenging yet vulnerable.
“Tomorrow? Next week?” She didn’t wait for his response, her hands twisting in her robe as she continued, “I’ve had eight intimate encounters.
All with the same gentleman, a physician. I kept detailed notes.”
Everett’s breath caught, heat flooding his body at the thought of Emma in intimate acts. The room suddenly felt oppressively warm. “Notes?”
“Yes. Though I fear the documentation may have affected the results.” She frowned thoughtfully, pacing a few steps closer. “He seemed…distracted by my note taking.”
“Imagine that,” Everett muttered, crossing his arms to keep from reaching for her. The sight of her like this—all professional demeanour, despite her state of undress—was maddening.
“You must be rather experienced in giving pleasure,” she pressed on, her professional tone belied by the flush creeping down her neck. “Do you prefer gentlemen or ladies?”
He shut his eyes to her curious expression. The lies he had told earlier about his proclivities now trapped him, even as his body responded traitorously to her proximity. “Most decidedly ladies, Miss Brown.”
“Excellent.” Her eyes brightened with academic fervour, though he caught the slight tremor in her hands. “Then you’re perfectly suited to assist my research once you pass the medical exam for diseases.”