Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance (3 page)

His curiosity peaked, he studied her face—or rather, what he could see of her features beneath the ridiculous lace cap she wore. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes at all, just a heavy fringe of sooty lashes. Her skin was pale and smooth as porcelain. He noted the delicate pink blush that softened her cheeks, the pleasing plumpness of her lips, her slightly square jawline.

Though her hair had been scrupulously twisted into a tight knot at the base of her neck, one thick golden tendril had managed to escape. He found himself battling a ridiculous urge to touch it, to wrap that golden, bouncy curl around his finger and give it a playful tug.

Following the slender column of her throat, his gaze moved lower. At some point during the physician’s examination she had slipped off her cape to reveal a simple gown of pale blue muslin. Tied around her waist was an apron of the same crisp white lace of her cap. James had seen nurses dressed in similar attire assisting surgeons in the Crimea, as well as in hospital corridors throughout London. No doubt the effect was meant to be dutiful and demure.

It didn’t work on Nurse Riley. No matter how badly she wanted to disguise her body, her curves would not be hidden beneath the drabness of her gown. She looked as lush and alluring as a Rubens portrait come to life. The ripe swell of her breasts strained against the thin muslin fabric. The absence of exaggerated bustles and crinolines beneath her skirts—a nod to hospital efficiency, no doubt—allowed him an enticing suggestion of her natural form.

Her apron, he noted as she turned, was tied in a full, bouncy bow in the back, as though her beautiful round ass was a party gift to be unwrapped and enjoyed.

As she leaned forward to apply a dry cloth to his shoulder, her breath fanned his neck and her breasts lightly brushed his bare chest. James stiffened and pulled away, but he was too late. The lower portion of his anatomy, which had already stirred with interest at the nurse’s proximity, began to harden, causing a distinct bulge in the crotch of his trousers.

The nurse, alert to of the subtle rigidity of his body, drew back. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” Seizing conversation as a potential means of distracting his body from its unseemly reaction to the woman, he blurted out, “I was thinking of a Rubens painting I’d seen in the National Gallery.”

“Oh?” she said absently, surveying her work. “You enjoy visiting museums?”

“Not particularly.”

“I see.” Her touch faltered, but only for a moment, as though she were accustomed to that sort of babbling idiocy from her patients. Perhaps she was. After all, it was highly unlikely he was the only man whose cock responded to her gentle ministrations the way his did. A preposterous surge of possessive irritation rushed through him at the thought.

Having finished caring for the wound on his shoulder, she reached for a small footstool and seated herself between his knees. She drew his injured ankle onto her lap, rolled his cotton breeches up to his knee, and began cleansing his lower limb. Her wrists, he noted, were finely boned, her hands soft and delicate. She worked with slow, methodical care, lathering his calf and ankle. The action shouldn’t have been stimulating, but it was. Incredibly so.

Her head was bent down, her luscious lips pursed in absorption of her task. His eyes locked on the gentle sway of her breasts as she moved. He imagined her lathered hands slowly moving up his thigh...

“You’ve been a nurse for long?” he bit the question out.

She glanced up at him in startled surprise at the abruptness of the question. “Yes. Several years now.”

“One of Miss Nightingale’s ministering angels, I gather.”

She gave a light shrug. “While I admire her work in the Crimea,” she replied, “I entered the profession in order to assist my father. He was a physician. I have two brothers at home, both of whom are surgeons. So I suppose the medical profession runs in my family.”

Once again, James was struck by the soft, cultured cadence of her voice. “You must read your patient’s correspondence aloud to them,” he said, imagining her in a room full of sick and injured men, each of them hanging on to her every word.

“Yes. That’s often part of my duty. I’ll do whatever is necessary to comfort my patients.”

A wicked smile tugged his lips. Although her reply was innocent enough, when interpreted by someone of a more bawdy bent—such as James—a deliciously wanton spin could be put on her words. “Thank you, Nurse. I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.”

“I hope so,” she said. She looked up at him and smiled. Her eyes, he now noted, shimmered with gold and green and brown. Hazel, he supposed they would be called. Striking eyes. Now if only he could see more of the rest of her...

Lecher, James thought, chastising himself. He had no shortage of willing paramours, even in the sorry state he was in now. There was Vanessa, of course. And others as well, beautiful women who could discreetly satisfied his needs. But he hadn’t even thought of seduction until this sweet, guileless nurse had put her soft hands on his skin. Enveloped him with her warm breath and heady scent of lavender. Accidentally brushed her lush breasts against his chest.

“It’s been too long,” he said aloud.

“Wounds heal at their own speed,” she replied, misinterpreting his words. She opened a jar of mint balm and began using gentle, circular strokes to massage the ointment into his skin. The urge to grasp her hand and draw it upward was almost overpowering.

Desperate to steer the conversation in the opposite direction of his thoughts, he said, “I’m afraid that will not suit my mother. She is determined I manage a decent waltz by the third of June.”

A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. “As least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“I only wish I were jesting. She’s planned a formal ball to celebrate my return. Apparently all of London is invited. I have no doubt the spectacle will be quite ghastly.”

“Ghastly? That sounds quite lovely to me.”

“Obviously you haven’t attended one of my mother’s grand balls.”

The soothing motion of her hand stopped. She stood and capped the jar, then passed the ointment to him. “Thank you, Mr. Lancaster. I’m finished here. Your scars will itch as they heal. The balm will help relieve that annoyance. I trust you can manage to apply it by yourself.”

While there was nothing objectionable to her tone, the warmth he had heard moments earlier had vanished entirely. The sudden change in her manner was doubtless a result of his clumsy phrasing. Damn. He hadn’t meant to imply she was of too low a station to warrant an invitation, but clearly that was how she had interpreted his words.

In truth, he dreaded his mother’s forthcoming ball for reasons too complicated to share. First and foremost, he loathed the fact that that he would be hailed as a returning hero, when really it was nothing more than grim luck that had enabled him to survive the desperate charge that had taken the lives of so many of his men.

Secondly, there was the pressing expectation that he and Vanessa would choose that occasion to announce their betrothal. That event seemed to be a foregone conclusion in everyone’s mind but his own. He wasn’t gullible enough to expect to love Vanessa, but that was hardly an impediment to marriage. Her beauty was certainly unparalleled. What troubled him was that the more time he spent in her company, the less confident he was that he actually liked the woman.

He pushed the burdensome thoughts away and turned his focus to Dr. Michaelson, who had finished his notes and set aside his journal. “Your former physicians,” Michaelson said, coming to stand before him, “what course of treatment did they recommend?”

James gave a loose shrug. “Laudanum for the pain. Though as you doubtless noted when you entered, I prefer scotch. The effects on pain are similar, but it doesn’t bring on the spells of nausea. Other than that, I was to rest and remain off the leg until it heals.”

“But instead of healing, the limb has grown increasingly weak, hasn’t it?”

James bit back his instinct to deny the physician’s diagnosis. To claim his leg was healing just fine, thank you very much. Instead, he gave a terse nod and admitted the truth. “Quite.”

“I’m afraid, based on the cases I’ve seen, that’s not uncommon. Your mother mentioned I have unorthodox methods. She is correct. You see, during my tour in Crimea I noticed something astounding. Poor men heal faster than rich men.”

James blinked, certain he’d heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon?”

“The question is, why does that occur?” Michaelson continued, warming himself to the topic. “Not because poor men have stronger constitutions, but because they do not have the luxury of hiring servants to wait on them hand and foot. The poor, particularly those injured on the battlefield, moved. In my experience, using the limb helps quicken the healing.”

Dr. Michaelson paced the room as he spoke, his passion for his work evident. “I should like to present my findings to the Royal Academy of Physicians next month, and a case like yours is exactly what I need to prove my theory.” He went on to describe in precise detail the nature of James’s injury, the shattering of bone and the ensuing muscle atrophy.

Apparently his course of treatment consisted of a regimen of daily exercises to strengthen the limb, followed by deep cleansing, massage to stimulate the muscles, and monitoring for infection.

James allowed the man to continue, but declined the treatment the moment the physician paused for breath. Not only did the ordeal Michaelson proposed sound like an uncomfortable waste of time, James had no desire to act the part of medical specimen and hold his injuries up for public scrutiny.

Dr. Michaelson appeared momentarily crestfallen, but had the good grace to shrug it off. “A shame. I had hoped to set a new standard of treatment for our injured soldiers. But of course I shall respect your decision.” Turning away, he began to pack his instruments.

Nurse Riley collected James’s shirt from the bench where Vanessa had dropped it. As she held it out for him to slip on, his gaze was drawn to the buttons of her gown.

Ladies with whom he socialized generally wore gowns that buttoned down the back. It took particularly nimble fingering to casually loosen those buttons while locked in a rapturous embrace. That was a skill that James, like most healthy boys in London, had perfected by the age of thirteen.

On the other side of the spectrum were the class of women—servants, women who worked in trade, nurses and the like—who did not have maids to assist them when they dressed. Of a practical necessity, their gowns buttoned down the front. And in Nurse Riley’s case, when those buttons strained against breasts that were magnificently full and generous, well, something altogether glorious happened. The gown occasionally pulled open, permitting one a peek within. James did not hesitate to avail himself of that opportunity.

Following the line of his stare, Nurse Riley momentarily froze, locked in a pose reminiscent of a startled young deer about to flee. Their gazes connected. Embarrassment flushed her face as she jerked the offending gap in her gown closed.

While her breasts—at least the shadowy glimpse he’d had of them—were beautiful in and of themselves, that wasn’t what had made his mouth go dry. It was the knowledge that Dr. Michaelson’s prim and proper nurse, with her starched cap and coarse cape, liked to tuck her luscious breasts into a corset of scarlet lace. Not the plain cotton shift he might have expected to see.

Scarlet lace.

Never in his wildest dreams would James have imagined that. How...fascinating. What other erotic surprises did she hide beneath her gown, he wondered, utterly intrigued. He made an abrupt reversal of his earlier decision. “I think, Doctor,” he said, his eyes never leaving Nurse Riley’s, “that perhaps you’re right. For the good of returning soldiers everywhere, I should be willing to try your radical new method.”

Dr. Michaelson, absorbed in the task of packing his satchel, turned abruptly. “Why—excellent. That’s very patriotic of you.”

“Yes, isn’t it.”

“Times like these call for noble sacrifices,” the physician continued enthusiastically. “If only more men followed your example.”

James bit back a grin. “Well, let’s not get too carried away.” He shrugged on his shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned, he turned to Nurse Riley, sending her a look he hadn’t employed since his days as a ballroom rake. It was a look of cocky confidence and sensual promise, a sultry stare that told his pretty little nurse not only had he seen what she wore beneath her drab muslin gown, he liked it. He liked it very much.

Her lips parted ever so slightly, forming a small, silent ‘oh.’

Watching her, James felt a weight had been lifted from his chest. For the first time since his return from the Crimea, his future did not look quite so bleak. The grim curtain that cast a pall over his life had finally parted to emit a ray of hope.

He shook Dr. Michaelson’s hand, then turned to his lovely assistant.

“Nurse Riley,” he said, acknowledging her with a polite nod. “I shall look forward to seeing much more of you.”

Bright spots of color stained her cheeks. She delicately cleared her throat and managed a cool nod in return. “Good day, Mr. Lancaster.” She turned and followed Dr. Michaelson out of the library, the bow of her apron bouncing above her sweetly rounded ass as she fled the room.

James smiled as he watched her go. Healing, he decided, was going to be a very enjoyable process.

Kate finished stitching the small rip in the lining of Bertie’s suit coat. She knotted the thread and bit it off, passing the garment to her brother with a satisfied sigh. “There we are. Good as new.”

Bertie took the coat and eyed it critically. “New? This rag? It’s an embarrassment, that’s what it is. More patches and mends than a rag vendor’s suit.”

George swallowed his last bite of egg, then scraped his fork over his plate as if expecting the gesture to yield more food. “Is that it, then?” he grumbled. “One egg apiece? A speck of toast, and tea without sugar? Hardly a breakfast to fortify a grown man. Surely you can do better than that, Kate.”