Chapter 22
Nell came awake again at the feeling of cold steel brushing over the naked flesh of her arm. A jolt of pain shot from her shoulder all the way down to her fingers. “Oh!”
Miles loomed over her on the bed, her dainty sewing scissors dwarfed in his large hand. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to jostle you.”
“What are you—”
“It’s your blasted corset cover. It will have to go, too.”
“My what—?” She peered downward. Heat surged into her face. Her bodice was gone. All that remained was her corset and cambric corset cover and her thin muslin chemise beneath. It was nudity, practically. Or as close to it as she’d been in his presence. “But why?”
“I believe I know what the problem is.” He continued cutting. His face was set with concentration. “When Silas hit you, he may have dislocated your shoulder.”
Another wave of nausea swept over her. She briefly closed her eyes, feeling her corset cover fall away. Cool air whispered over her bare arms and the exposed expanse of her bosom that swelled over the top of her tightly laced corset. “Which means—?”
But Nell knew what it meant. There was only one way to mend a dislocated limb. She’d seen it years ago at the Academy when a girl had injured her arm in a cart accident.
“I can repair it,” Miles said. “Unless you’ve decided you’re ready for the doctor?”
“No.” Nell shook her head. “No doctors.”
Miles fell silent.
She cracked open an eye to find him studying her uncovered shoulder. A deep frown notched his brows. “Is it very bad?” she asked.
“It’s as I suspected,” he said. “I won’t lie to you, this is going to hurt.”
Her stomach knotted with dread. As if she wasn’t hurting enough already.
“Mr. Quincey?” Mrs. Bright entered the room. She was accompanied by the housemaid. “I’ve found a half bottle of laudanum left over from when Cook had a toothache. And Gladys has brought hot water, bandages, salves, and a pot of tea for the mistress.”
“Laudanum first,” Miles commanded. He met Nell’s eyes. “Once it takes effect, I’ll reset your shoulder.”
Nell gave a tense nod in reply. It was the only way. A dislocated limb couldn’t heal on its own.
Mrs. Bright crossed the bedchamber with the brown bottle of laudanum in hand. Miles took it from her. It was he who administered it to Nell. Cradling her head with extraordinary gentleness, he tipped her up to take a small quantity of the bitter, reddish-brown liquid.
Nell didn’t confine herself to a single sip.
All things considered, she’d rather not feel it when Miles wrenched her arm back into place, even if that meant briefly losing control of her faculties.
She took a second drink, and might have foolishly swallowed more had Miles not removed the bottle from her lips.
He lowered her back to her pillow, pausing just long enough to smooth the damp hair from her brow. “Almost over,” he said.
She gazed up at him. “You’ve done this before?”
“A few times.”
“Recall that I’m not a man,” she said.
His mouth quirked wryly. “I don’t need reminding.”
“Adjust your strength accordingly. I rather like my arm.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Miles promised. He smoothed her hair again. “Trust me.”
“I do trust you, but…” A surge of panic closed Nell’s throat. Memories of the month she’d spent in the infirmary after her fall from the Academy’s roof flooded back. “I don’t like the sickroom. And I hate doctors. I don’t want—”
“Shh,” he murmured. His touch on her brow was soothing. “No doctors, sweetheart. Just me.”
Mrs. Bright hovered anxiously nearby. “Would you like me to remove the rest of her clothes, Mr. Quincey? She’ll be more comfortable without those wire underpinnings.”
“Leave it,” Miles said. “I’ll undress her afterward. It will be less painful once her shoulder is set.”
Nell’s head was becoming too fuzzy for her to fully register the implications of the exchange. He was going to undress her? He couldn’t. She never let anyone see her injured leg. It was too private. Too humiliating.
Mrs. Pritchard’s evil words echoed in her head in an endless loop. “It will disgust most men even to see it.” She’d been speaking about Nell’s cane, not her leg, but in her present state, Nell could make no differentiation.
“I drank too much laudanum,” she whispered. “But you can’t—”
Miles’s voice sounded as though from a great distance away. “If you’ll hold her, Mrs. Bright. I need her as still as possible.”
“Miles,” Nell said. Or perhaps she only thought it.
He took hold of her wrist and elbow in a firm grip.
She cried out, “No, wait—!”
One sharp, forceful jerk upward, a decided scrape and crunch, and then—
Darkness closed over her.
· · · · ·
When next Nell awoke, her pain was largely gone.
Night had fallen, and her bedchamber was lit by a low fire and the soft glow from a distant branch of candles.
Rain drummed against the windowpanes. She couldn’t tell how late the hour.
She only knew that she was warm and safe in her bed, with Miles keeping vigil in a chair beside her.
She was also in her chemise and drawers.
At some point, it seemed, he had undressed her. Or someone had. But not all the way. Her drawers were knee-length. The injured part of her thigh was still well covered.
Strangely, the fact wasn’t at the forefront of her mind. Indeed, except for the lingering soreness in her shoulder, she felt wonderfully relaxed. It was as though the laudanum had been a magic elixir, muffling not only her pain, but a great many of her inhibitions as well.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked softly.
Miles straightened in his chair. His hair was rumpled, and he was absent his coat and cravat.
She belatedly realized that there had been a cat sleeping in his lap.
A small, short-haired black one Nell hadn’t seen before.
Smoke, she presumed. He jumped down as Miles leaned toward her, disappearing out of her sight line. “You’re awake,” Miles said.
“Where?” she asked again.
“One of the skills I picked up during my years as a foreign correspondent. There were a great many brawls in Marseille, and more than a few dislocated limbs.” Miles took her hand in both of his. His voice deepened, his eyes searching hers. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” she said.
Some of the tension in his face eased. “Good.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Excellent.”
She brushed his cheek with the edge of her finger. “I’m muddled.”
“The laudanum,” he said. “You’ll be clearer headed tomorrow.”
She gazed into his eyes. “Did you undress me?”
He looked steadily back at her. “I did.”
She touched his cheek again, feeling oddly unconstrained by self-consciousness or doubt. “You didn’t cut away my crinoline, I hope.”
His mouth tipped briefly. “Very nearly. It’s a confounding article.”
“I’m a confounding article,” she informed him.
His smiled lingered. “You’re lucky you’re not in your right mind at the moment. I’d planned to scold you afterward.”
“Hmm.” Somehow, the notion didn’t trouble her. “You should congratulate me.”
“Should I?”
“I saved her.”
Miles’s expression reverted to solemn lines. “You did,” he acknowledged. “At great peril to yourself.”
Nell made an effort to marshal her thoughts. They were drifting like vapor in every direction. “She isn’t our daughter,” she told him.
He gave her a look that was hard to read. “No. She isn’t.”
“We haven’t a daughter. But if we did…no peril would be too great.”
“Is that why you went back to Whitechapel in search of Miss Brent?” he asked. “You wanted to prove something to yourself?”
Nell didn’t know. She couldn’t recall what she’d been thinking of when she’d returned to Whitechapel so impulsively, except that it had had something to do with Lady Belwood.
“Nobody came for me,” Nell said. “But I came for her.”
Miles’s black brows dipped with sudden fierceness. “I would have come for you. Had I known what you intended, nothing on earth could have stopped me.”
Her gaze fell away. “You say that—”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He held her hand to his lips. A note of gruffness entered his voice. “We’re partners, aren’t we? A fact you seem to forget when it suits you.”
“I don’t forget.”
“After last night, I thought we—” He didn’t finish.
Nell brought her eyes back to his. Last night she had kissed him. Passionately kissed him.
Their gazes held for an aching moment. Outside, the rain continued to fall in an endless drumbeat. Along with the crackling of the fire, it was, for those few taut seconds, the only sound in the room save the uneven thump of her heart.
Miles abruptly released her hand. His coat was draped over the back of his chair. He retrieved something from the pocket. Turning back to her, the candlelight glinted across the item in his fingers. It was a gold ring.
No. Not a ring. A wedding band.
“I bought it today in Bond Street.” He picked up her hand again with exquisite care, as though she were a fine, delicate lady for whom he cherished some tender affection and not the troublesome creature he’d married out of duty. “If I may?”
A lump formed in Nell’s throat. The day they’d wed, he had promised to purchase her a ring at the first opportunity. It was a purely practical matter. Which did nothing to explain why her hand quaked as he slipped it onto her finger.
His hand was unsteady, too. Or so she thought. She couldn’t be completely sure. Her perception was off. It felt as though she’d stepped into a hazy painting—the colors indistinct and the edges all blurred.
“It fits,” he said huskily.
“Yes.” Her heart beat hard.
It was only a piece of jewelry. It didn’t mean anything. And yet, an undoubted feeling came with it. She belonged to him now.
An unsettling proposition.
Women weren’t property. They were free and independent beings, whatever the law might say. And Nell valued her freedom. Even so…
There was something powerful in belonging to a person, and in knowing that they belonged to you in turn.
The effects of the laudanum loosened her tongue, making her sound like a smitten girl. “I’m glad it’s you,” she said. She impulsively reached to cup his cheek. “I do like you so much.”
Miles’s solemn countenance softened. “I gathered that.”
“And do you—”
“I’m mad for you,” he said gravely.
Mad.
It wasn’t liking. It wasn’t love. To be mad was to be bewitched, bedeviled, irrational.
Qualities that were the antithesis of all Miles represented.
But Nell had no ability to analyze the distinction in her present state.
It slipped away before she could grasp it.
All she cared about was the look in his eyes and the feel of his stubble-shadowed jaw in the curve of her hand.
She drew him to her and kissed him.
A groan emerged from Miles’s chest as their lips met. He braced himself over her on one forearm, mindful not to touch her right shoulder. And he kissed her back—deeply, sweetly. But not carefully. His mouth captured hers with a scorching heat.
Had Nell not already been lying down, she felt certain her knees would have buckled beneath her.
He kissed her as though he’d been thinking of nothing else since they’d parted last night.
As though the recollection of the embrace they’d shared in the library had worked on him, hour by hour, until his adamantine restraint had reached its breaking point.
All Nell had done was unwittingly provide a spark to the tinder.
Mad for her, he’d said.
She felt a little mad, too. Overwarm and restless, her blood thrumming wildly.
Her lips parted for him without conscious thought. There was no awkwardness. No hesitation. He’d already learned the soft shape of her. He angled his mouth over hers with perfect symmetry, touching her, tasting her, drinking in her little gasps and sighs.
Nell curled her hand around the back of his neck. She vaguely realized that she was in over her head. Perhaps she had been from the moment they’d met. He was bigger than she was. Older. More experienced.
Her mouth briefly slid from his. “You said you were out of practice.”
“Did I?” He kissed her again.
“Must one?” she asked breathlessly.
“Must one what?”
“Practice?”
His lips stilled on hers. He was breathing heavily. “Kissing, do you mean?”
“We could,” she said.
Miles drew back to look in her eyes. His color was high.
“Unless you’re entirely opposed to the idea,” she said.
“Of practicing?” he questioned hoarsely. “With you?”
Her fingers played in the hair at his nape. “It needn’t mean anything. Only it seems a waste to be married and to like each other tolerably well enough and to not at least—”
“More than tolerably well,” Miles said. “And I’m not opposed to the idea.” He huffed an unsteady laugh. “Though I’d prefer we didn’t practice while you’re under the influence of laudanum.”
“I’m not—” She stopped herself. Because she was. She was. Why else would this feel so wonderfully unreal? “Well.” She smiled at him dreamily. “Perhaps I am.”
“Your head is going to be aching in the morning,” he said.
“Mmm.”
“Your shoulder as well. I’ll make a sling for your arm tomorrow. You mustn’t move it for the next several days.”
“Mustn’t I?”
He gave her a severe look. “No sewing samplers,” he said portentously.
It sounded as though he was admonishing her. An odd thing given their present positions.
“Do you have something against samplers?” she asked.
“It’s rest you require, not needlework,” he said. “Remain in bed tomorrow. The next day, too.”
She stroked the back of his neck. His skin was hot to the touch. “Like this?”
Another short, husky laugh. “No. Not quite like this.” He pulled back from her slowly.
Nell’s hand slipped from his neck. She didn’t protest his withdrawal. Her lids were heavy. Her limbs, too. She turned her head into her pillow with a sigh.
Somewhere through the fog that addled her brain, she felt Miles gently removing the pins from her tightly plaited coiffure. He loosened the bound coils of her hair with caressing fingers, easing the sharp pressure on her scalp. It was deliciously soothing.
The last pin dropped to the bedside table with a soft clink. Warmth engulfed her as Miles tucked the coverlet around her. “Sleep,” he said.
And she did.