Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance (4 page)

“And what is that ghastly smoke?” Bertie asked. “Are you burning coal?”

She shrugged. “Wood is expensive.”

“That reminds me,” George broke in, “how do you expect me to visit Mrs. Dewberry this afternoon? The fare you’ve given me is for the trolley, not a hansom cab. Most undignified for a surgeon of my stature...”

Kate turned her back on her brothers’ litany of complaints. Her spirits were high, and she didn’t want to engage in the argument that would surely ensue if she reminded George and Bertie that the reason for their dire financial straits was entirely of their own making.

Humming softly to herself, she finished her morning chores, then packed a small tin for each of them for lunch. Boiled eggs, a biscuit, and an apple. They’d complain about that as well, but at least she wouldn’t be there to hear it.

“While we are on the subject of expenses,” Bertie said, “I think I’ve found a way to resolve some of our financial difficulties.”

Kate looked up from her work and sent him a sharp stare. “It’s not another wager, is it Bertie?”

“No, it’s not another wager, Bertie,” Bertie mimicked. Dismissing her with a shake of his head, he turned to George and said, “A chap approached me the other day at the hospital. He’s got work for both of us, if you’ve time in your schedule, George.”

“Oh?” said George. “What sort of work is it?”

“Something to do with shipping medical equipment and supplies to the troops in the Crimea.”

Kate frowned. “Why would he need the assistance of a surgeon to ship medical supplies?”

“Obviously it’s more complicated than just shipping supplies,” Bertie replied impatiently. “He said something about getting the endorsement of a proper surgeon in order to sell the equipment to the army. He’s an inventor, and a bit out of his area of expertise, so he needs someone with our skills and abilities. We do have a certain reputation, you know.”

Well, that much was certainly true. Both her brothers had reputations at the hospital. Unfortunately those reputations were very poor indeed. That made Kate highly skeptical as to the judgement of anyone who would approach Bertie or George Riley for an endorsement of a surgical product. But she kept her thoughts to herself as her brothers discussed the venture in greater detail.

She finished the breakfast dishes and was putting on her cape to leave when George stopped her.

"How are you finding your work with Dr. Michaelson?” he asked.

Kate looked at him in surprise. Rarely did either of her brothers ask about her work. A guarded smile curved her lips. “Dr. Michaelson is quite committed to the regimen he’s developed,” she answered. “It’s only been three days, but he’s very encouraged by the progress we’ve made. He’s convinced his system of therapeutic exercise will help restore Mr. Lancaster’s full mobility.”

Bertie gave a sharp guffaw. “Sounds like a ridiculous notion to me. Likely it’ll do more harm than good.”

Kate turned. “The treatment won’t hurt him, will it?”

“Hurt him?” George frowned. “Perhaps not physically, but in my experience, it’s always better to lower a patient’s hopes. Soldiers are coming back from the Crimea expecting physicians to cure things that can’t be cured. Lucky he didn’t lose the limb entirely. He may be an invalid, but at least he’s alive. He ought to be grateful enough for that.”

No, Kate thought, silently dismissing her brother’s words. James Lancaster would not be satisfied merely being alive. He was still the same man she had glimpsed three years ago. Perhaps a little thinner, a little wearier, with a slight somberness about him that hadn’t been in evidence before he’d left for the war, but still the same man. She even caught occasional glimpses of the breezy, virile charm with which he’d wooed an entire ballroom of women.

With her thoughts thus occupied, her morning hospital shift seemed to fly by and in no time at all she found herself in James Lancaster’s library assisting Dr. Michaelson. Once James finished his exercises, Kate to began her part of the regimen, a duty which involved massaging, washing, and applying a fresh bandage to both his shoulder wound and his ankle wound.

Until Miss Nightingale had revolutionized the field of medical science, it had generally been frowned upon for women to enter the nursing profession. Popular wisdom held that it was inappropriate for young, unmarried women to involve themselves in the care of sick and injured males. The risk of such contact resulting in unseemly behavior between the sexes was considered too great.

Kate, who had assisted her father for years and always managed to maintain a professional clinical distance from her patients, had dismissed that view as utter poppycock.

But that was before James Lancaster.

As she cleansed the wound on his shoulder, making slow, rhythmic circles over his flesh, she was struck by how intimate the task really was. She was entirely too aware of the feel of his bare skin beneath her hands, the way his muscles rippled and contracted beneath her touch. She couldn’t help noticing the rich, masculine scent of his body, or the way his thick chestnut hair curled just so around the lobe of his ear.

The moment she set her hands on James Lancaster’s body, her clinical dispassion deserted her completely.

Embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts, she quickly finished her task and moved away.

Dr. Michaelson turned from his perusal of the books that lined the shelves of James’s library. “You have quite an extensive collection on the subject of campaign medicine,” he said. “Several rather rare works. Why, Hitchcock’s latest volume has been backordered for months.”

James gave an indifferent shrug and reached for his crutches. “As I’d had little success with previous physicians’ methods, I thought to diagnose my injury on my own. Unfortunately, I found the material so dry I only succeeded in putting myself to sleep.”

“Dry?” Michaelson countered. “Why, Rayburn’s method of cauterizing wounds is nothing short of revolutionary, and Collingham’s treatise on the proper treatment of consumptive disorders has the entire medical profession in an uproar.”

“Is that so? In that case, perhaps you’d like to avail yourself of the collection while Nurse Riley and I make our daily therapeutic rounds. That is, if Nurse Riley has no objection?” Both men turned to look at her expectantly.

“By all means,” Kate replied. “I’m sure Mr. Lancaster and I will manage just fine.”

At the end of their sessions, James was to walk—or hobble, as he referred to the ungainly process—through the spacious rooms of his home, slowly increasing both the distance traveled and the weight he put on his injured ankle. As Kate followed him out of library and into the main foyer, she couldn’t help noticing the curiously satisfied expression he wore.

She studied him suspiciously. “I don’t recall seeing those volumes in your library yesterday,” she said.

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. They only just arrived this morning. Cost a small fortune to gather them on such short notice.”

“Oh? Why the sudden rush?”

“For the past three days, Dr. Michaelson has been with us every moment. I thought it might be best to give the good doctor something to do while we better acquaint ourselves. I hope you don’t object.”

“I—Of course not,” she managed to reply, absurdly flattered by his admission. “I’m only sorry to hear you spent so much on books in which you have no interest.”

“Is that your only objection, the money I spent to ensure our solitude?”

He was referring, Kate assumed, to the impropriety of the two of them being together without a chaperone. She stiffened her spine and primly replied, “I’m quite sure you’ll behave like a perfect gentleman.”

“Really?” He arched one dark brow and glanced at her. “On what basis do you make that rather astonishing assumption?”

“Why, you’re on crutches.”

He laughed. “So it’s not my sterling character and high moral standards that put you at ease, but my temporary physical incapacitation.” He favored her with a slow, wicked grin. “In other words, Nurse Riley, you could outrun me should you choose to.”

Kate bit back a smile, refusing to let herself fall under the spell of his considerable charm. But no matter how badly she attempted to project an outward air of cool poise, she was certain James Lancaster could see right through her charade. Her physical awareness of the man was simply too great to ignore.

The only thing she could liken the experience to was an electrical exhibition she had once attended. She recalled how the guide had thrown the switch and an invisible current had illuminated a series of lamps, casting brilliant light into a previously darkened room. She’d been awed by the transformation.

A similar electrical current seemed to pulse between her and James, making her heart hammer erratically and her thoughts spin in giddy circles whenever she was near him.

They came to a large parlor near the back of the house. It was a simple space, not nearly as formal as the front parlors, with southern-facing windows that overlooked a sprawling garden. The entire home was stunning, but this, Kate decided, was her favorite room. Even on a gray and gloomy day like the one outside, the filtered light sparkled through the tall, lead-paned windows.

Aware that he was watching her, she said, “Your home is lovely. But rather large, isn’t it? You’re here alone?”

“Well, not entirely. I have a staff of four servants. A cook named Annie. My footman, Owen, answers the door, handles my correspondence, and acts as general man-about-town. William, my caretaker, manages the grounds and the stables. And lastly, Sally, William’s wife, handles the general cleaning chores.”

Kate’s gaze swept the room. With the exception of the library, the house was nearly devoid of furnishings. “There isn’t much to clean,” she observed.

“True. That is fortunate for Sally, for in addition to her duties here, she and William have a two-year-old son who appears to keep her sufficiently occupied.” He came to stand beside her at the window and pointed to a distant blur, his arm brushing her shoulder as he moved. “William and Sally live in the cottage beyond the vegetable garden. If it weren’t raining, you could just make it out.”

Kate made a noncommittal hum and stepped slightly away to better avoid further accidental contact. Her rare encounters with England’s gentry had not prepared her for James Lancaster. He was not pompous. Not superior. Not at all what she’d expected.

“The house previously belonged to my eldest brother, the viscount,” he continued. “After the birth of his fifth child, he and his wife retired to their country home, taking their belongings with them.” He looked around the room. “Something about this house has always appealed to me. Rather than lose it, I purchased it outright before I shipped off to the Crimea.”

“It must be terribly expensive to furnish a home this size,” she said. She longed to take the words back the moment she uttered them. His finances were certainly none of her business, and the implication that he couldn’t afford to furnish his home was likely highly insulting. Or worse, perhaps he’d interpret her comment as a reflection of her family’s own dire financial straits.

But neither outcome proved true. James merely brushed off her words with an indifferent shrug. “I thought I’d leave that chore to my future wife. I’m told women like that sort of thing. Matching fabrics and rugs and all that nonsense.”

An image of the haughty, strikingly beautiful Vanessa Kittridge immediately entered Kate’s mind. Yes, Miss Kittridge would love furnishing the home—but she would ruin it in the process. An uncharitable conclusion, perhaps, but Kate had seen enough of the woman coming and going to form that opinion.

Doubtless Miss Kittridge would fill these magical rooms with exquisite, expensive furniture that no one would feel comfortable sitting on, rugs no one would be allowed to tread upon, brittle bric-a-brac and staid, somber portraits. The thought left her unaccountably saddened.

Thunder rumbled and the rain that had been threatening all morning began to pour down in earnest. She watched the heavy droplets strike the glass panes, softening and blurring the outside world. She tried to focus on the storm, but that proved impossible.

Every fiber of her being was attuned to the overwhelming presence of man beside her. His scent, his height, the broadness of his shoulders, the rich timbre of his voice. Alone with James in the large room, she felt enveloped in a cocoon of strained intimacy, caught in a current that swept her inexorably toward him.

“Something wrong?” His voice was a low murmur in her ear.

“You need drapery,” she blurted inanely, just to have something to say to break the tension that hung between them.

“True.” He cocked his head to one side, considering the room. “I was thinking of scarlet.”

“Scarlet?” she choked out, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. “Surely that’s an odd color to suggest.”

“Is it?” He studied her with a playful smile. “But it’s such a passionate color, don’t you think? Brazen, bold, irresistible. In fact, now that I’ve considered scarlet, I can’t seem to get the color out of my mind. These past few nights, it’s all I could think of as I was falling asleep.”

She squared her shoulders and brought up her chin. Even leaning as he was on his crutches, he was still a full head taller than her. “If you’re referring to what I think you’re referring to, a gentleman wouldn’t refer to it.”

His lips quirked. “That’s a lot of referring. Are you certain I’m not simply inferring?”

“You’re interfering, certainly.”

“Must be infuriating.”

He was teasing her, and she was determined to resist him. Resist his smile. Resist the twinkle in his deep blue eyes. Resist the urge to lift her hand and push back the chestnut curl that fell so appealingly over his forehead.

“A gentleman wouldn’t mention what he saw.”

“True. A gentleman wouldn’t. Therein lies the problem. That glimpse I had of your breasts was the loveliest thing I’ve seen since my return to London. Hell, that’s not accurate. The loveliest thing I’ve seen in years.” He watched her for a moment in silence, then reached out and softly stroked her jaw. “It’s not my intention to embarrass you.”