18. Deep Touch
Chapter eighteen
Deep Touch
Emma smoothed her hands over the pale green silk of her gown, grateful now for Alexi’s insistence on packing “proper” clothes for the house party.
The French lace of her chemise felt delicate against her skin, a secret reminder of what was to come.
She had felt almost scandalised when her sister had presented it, but now its presence gave her a thrill of anticipation.
Mrs Miller, Everett’s housekeeper, fussed with Emma’s hair, weaving small white flowers into the golden strands. “There now, Miss. You look lovely.”
A knock at the door revealed Bailey, Everett’s butler, looking unusually flustered. “Begging your pardon, Miss, but Dr Moreland asked me to deliver this.” He handed her a small package wrapped in cream-coloured paper.
Inside, Emma found a delicate gold chain supporting a small heart pendant, rendered with anatomical accuracy, yet somehow beautiful. A note in Everett’s bold hand read,
For the physician who quite literally holds my heart. -E
Tears pricked at her eyes as Mrs Miller fastened the necklace around her throat. The delicate gold heart seemed to pulse against her skin with each breath, a reminder of everything they were about to undertake together.
Within the hour, she found herself approaching the small chapel.
Though it held just their two witnesses, the space felt intimate rather than empty.
When Emma entered and saw Everett waiting for her, his dark eyes warming at the sight of her, the rest of the world seemed to fade away entirely.
He wore a deep blue coat that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, his cravat tied with elegant precision, but it was his expression that caught her breath, a mixture of joy, pride, and something deeper that made her heart flutter.
As she reached him, he leaned close to whisper, “I had an entire speech prepared about how beautiful you look, but I find myself rather speechless.”
“That’s a first,” she murmured back, making him grin.
The ceremony passed in a blur of ancient words and solemn promises, but Emma found herself focused on small details, the warmth of Everett’s hand holding hers, the slight tremor in his voice as he spoke his vows, the way his thumb traced circles on her palm as the priest pronounced them man and wife.
When Everett kissed her, it was gentle yet full of promise, proper enough for their witnesses yet charged with everything left unspoken between them. Emma felt herself blushing as Mrs Miller dabbed at her eyes and Bailey cleared his throat awkwardly.
The short journey to Everett’s London home gave them their first moments alone as husband and wife. Emma found herself studying his profile in the carriage, marvelling at how this brilliant, complicated man was now hers.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, catching her gaze.
“That I’m rather proud to be Mrs Moreland,” she admitted. “Though I shall continue using Dr Brown professionally.”
His smile held such tenderness she felt a lump form in her throat. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Though I must warn you, being proud of me may prove challenging in the days ahead.”
“I doubt that very much,” she said softly, remembering his promise to fight for what was right, to use his position to save lives rather than protect reputations.
As their carriage approached his London residence—another impressively large house—Emma felt none of the uncertainty that had plagued her earlier.
She was no longer just Emma Brown, the unconventional nurse who dared to practise medicine. She was Mrs Everett Moreland, wife to a man who saw her strength as an asset rather than a liability, who challenged her mind, even as he captured her heart.
Emma had thought Everett’s Kent “cottage” impressive, but his London home left her momentarily speechless. The entrance hall alone spoke of generations of wealth; crystal chandeliers, priceless artwork, furniture that probably cost more than her entire medical practice.
But like his country home, this one revealed Everett’s true character in subtle ways.
The library she glimpsed was clearly well-used, medical journals scattered across a massive desk.
A consultation room had been set up adjacent to it, equipped with everything a practicing physician might need.
Fresh flowers brightened windowsills, and there was none of the stuffy formality she’d expected from such a wealthy residence.
Still, walking these halls, Emma felt the weight of what Everett stood to lose. This wasn’t just a house; it was a legacy, a foundation built on centuries of privilege and respectability. All of it could crumble if they pursued the truth about London Water.
As if sensing her thoughts, Everett caught her hand. “Stop worrying.”
“I’m not.”
“You have that little crease between your eyes.” His thumb smoothed over her forehead. “The one that appears when you’re overthinking things.”
“It’s just…” She gestured at their surroundings. “All of this. What you could lose because of me…”
“Because of my father’s failings, his choices,” he corrected gently. “Not yours.” He drew her closer, his hands warm on her waist. “The only thing in this house that truly matters to me is standing right here.”
The tenderness in his voice made her throat tight. “Everett…”
“Would you like to rest before dinner? It’s been rather an eventful day.”
Emma nodded, suddenly aware of her exhaustion. “A short rest would be lovely.”
He led her up a sweeping staircase to what was the mistress’s chamber, though he’d clearly had it modified. A small writing desk had been added, along with shelves for medical texts. Fresh flowers filled the room with the scent of roses.
“I’ll have tea sent up,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Take all the time you need.”
Once alone, Emma sank into the chair at the writing desk and pulled out paper and a pen.
29 December 1840
Dearest Helen,
I am now Mrs Everett Moreland. Please don’t be too cross with me for denying you the pleasure of planning an elaborate wedding. Though I suspect you’ll find ways to make me pay for it, regardless.
I’m writing from my new home, a palace masquerading as a townhouse, if you can believe it.
Yet somehow Everett has made it feel welcoming rather than overwhelming.
He’s added medical texts to my chamber and set up a consultation room.
Even here, surrounded by evidence of all he stands to lose, he thinks first of making space for my work.
You may worry that I’ve rushed into this marriage, that my heart has overruled my usually practical mind.
Perhaps it has. But Helen, when he looks at me, I feel as though I’ve finally found someone who sees me completely—physician and woman, strength and vulnerability, all of it—and loves every part.
The road ahead won’t be easy. There are battles to fight, truths to uncover, lives to save. But for the first time, I don’t feel I have to fight alone.
I must go. My husband (how strange and wonderful that word feels) has promised dinner, though I suspect neither of us is particularly interested in food at the moment.
All my love,
Emma
She knew her friend would be furious. The letter’s contents would likely send Helen into a magnificent rage, ranting about not being able to attend her best friend’s wedding.
But Helen would also understand, somewhere beneath her protective anger, why Emma had to do this.
She and Everett needed to make their nuptial appear like an elopement to avoid any harm to Arthur’s standing.
She sealed the letter just as a maid arrived with tea. Through the door, she could hear Everett giving instructions about dinner, his deep voice sending pleasant shivers down her spine.
Soon, she thought, setting aside Helen’s letter. Soon there would be no more waiting, no more restraint. Soon she would discover if all their lessons had prepared her for the reality of being Mrs Everett Moreland.
Her cheeks warmed at the thought.
The conservatory air hung heavy with night-blooming jasmine as they finished their midnight supper.
Moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling, casting silver patterns across the intimate table Everett had arranged among the exotic plants.
Steam rose from their cups of chocolate, mingling with the heady flower scents.
Emma watched him pour the deep red port, fascinated by how the candlelight caught the liquid’s movement. His surgeon’s hands handled the delicate glass with precision that made her shiver. It was the same careful control he’d shown in their earlier lessons.
“The nose first,” he murmured, demonstrating how to warm the glass. “Then let it touch your lips, but don’t sip. Just feel.”
The crystal rim pressed cool against her mouth. His eyes darkened as she followed his instruction, letting the port’s aroma fill her senses without tasting.
“Now?” she whispered against the glass.
“Now taste.” His voice dropped lower. “But slowly. Let it pool on your tongue.”
The wine bloomed rich and complex in her mouth. She caught notes of berry, oak, and something tangy. When she swallowed, his thumb brushed her throat, following the movement.
“Your pulse has quickened,” he observed, medical precision belied by the heat in his gaze. “Fascinating how sensation spreads, isn’t it? The way one pleasure enhances another?”
To demonstrate, he lifted a brandied fig to her lips. The sweetness burst across her tongue just as his other hand found the sensitive spot at her nape. The dual sensation made her gasp.
"A lesson in the workings of nerves?" she managed, though her voice emerged husky.
“Among other things.” The words brushed her ear as he moved behind her chair. His fingers traced her collarbone, barely touching. “Though I find myself less interested in academic observation these days.”