Part 14 (1/2)
”Is swearing thrice more effective than swearing once?” she asked.
He chuckled low in his throat. ”Hardly. But it brings me some satisfaction. Now, tell me...about this man who's following you.”
”Only if you'll close your eyes and allow me to do what I can to ease your pain. My father suffered horrendous headaches. Applying pressure at his temples helped.”
She was near enough to see that Claybourne was no stranger to hurt-his body bore the evidence with small scars here and there on what was otherwise an immensely attractive chest. She hated the thought of him enduring any sort of discomfort. What had he ever done to deserve such a harsh life? That even now, when he had almost everything, he still suffered.
”Close your eyes,” she ordered.
To her immense surprise, he complied without arguing.
”Shouldn't-”
”Shh,” she interrupted. ”Just relax. Shh. I'm going to turn down the lamp just a bit.”
She moved away to turn down the flame in the lamp on the table beside his bed. He groaned as though the pain had spiked. Returning her hands to his face, she began circling her fingers over his temples.
”Your hand.”
”It's not bothering me,” she lied, not certain why she felt this great need to ease his suffering even at the expense of her own comfort. Perhaps the scuffle last night had formed a bond between them. They'd fought the same battle and survived. ”Did you send a missive to Frannie?”
He moved his head slightly from side to side. ”They'll know.”
Then this was something he'd suffered before, no doubt suffered alone. Why wasn't Frannie here to ease his hurt?
”What did Dr. Graves recommend?”
”He gave me a powder. Didn't help.”
His breathing became less labored. ”Now, tell me about this man.”
Even now when he was in pain, he was concerned about her. And even though she was alone in his bedchamber-in his bed for that matter-he was being a perfect gentleman. She'd always thought of Lucian Langdon as a rogue, a scamp, and far more unflattering terms, but she was discovering the legend of Lucian Langdon was far removed from the reality. The legend was a man to be despised; the reality was one that she thought she could very easily come to care for a great deal. She wanted to end his discomfort and bring him what comfort she could.
”I don't know. I'm probably being silly, but I keep seeing a gentleman. I think it's the same gentleman. It's difficult to tell, because I've only been able to catch glimpses of his face. He always turns away, and it would be entirely improper for me to approach him.”
”Then perhaps it's nothing.”
”That's what I tried to tell myself, but it's his not trying to garner attention that captures my attention. Yesterday I went into various shops, made unnecessary purchases, and he always seemed to be waiting when I came out. When I looked away to see if anyone else was about, and then looked back to where he'd been, he'd disappeared.”
”Perhaps he's one of your many admirers.”
She scoffed. ”I have no admirers.”
”I find that difficult to believe.”
He sounded as though he was on the verge of drifting into sleep, and she couldn't help but believe her ministrations were causing his pain to recede. She tried to squelch the spark of envy that flared with the thought of Frannie being here and ministering to his needs. She liked Frannie. She truly did. She was sweet, and kind, and so unpretentious. Catherine understood why the young woman feared moving about in aristocratic circles, where ladies were so much more confident.
”This fellow...is there a reason for him to follow you,” Claybourne asked.
”None that I can think of. You don't suppose he's responsible for last night's attack, do you?”
His eyes flew open, concern furrowed his brow. ”Why would you think that?”
”It just seems too coincidental. I can't think of a reason for anyone to follow me.”
”I'm certain the attack last night had more to do with me than you. A description of the fellow would be helpful.”
”Helpful for what?”
”For determining who he is.”
”Oh, you know all the ruffians in London, do you?”
”I know a good many. So what does he look like?”
”He wears a large floppy hat pulled low so I'm not certain of his hair color. Dark I think. His features are very rough-looking, difficult to describe because there's nothing distinctive about them.”
”Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
”Possibly, but you shouldn't worry about it right now,” she said softly. ”You need your pains to go away.”
He barely nodded before closing his eyes again.
”Keep talking,” he ordered, so gently that it was more of a plea.
”About what?”
”Tell me...how it goes with Frannie.”
She sighed. She should have expected that he'd want to speak of his love.
”It goes very well. She is bright as you said. But I think we need to expand the lessons beyond her workplace. I think it might be better to have them here. For example, there is no tea service at Dodger's. No drawing room. It is not a lady's world.”
”Here...is not a lady's world.”
”But it will be, once you marry. We'll discuss it when you're better.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. ”You don't like losing arguments.”
”I didn't realize we were arguing, but honestly, does anyone want to lose?” She leaned up and whispered near his ear, ”Go to sleep now. You'll awaken to no pain.”
Her arms were growing tired. She moved up so she could rest her elbows on the bed. She'd hardly given any thought to the notion that her change in position would place her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest. But he was too far gone to notice, while she was acutely aware of her nipples tightening. Almost painfully so. Perhaps they'd both be in pain before the night was done.
Yet she couldn't deny she was content to remain where she was.
She continued to rub his temples. With her thumbs she began to stroke his cheeks.
All the while taking note of the fine lines etched in his face. He was not much older than thirty, and yet strife had chiseled at his features. That first night in the library, she'd studied the portrait of the man who should have been earl before him. It wasn't difficult to see the similarities. Even though Claybourne claimed she'd find none, she almost imagined that she had. How different the portrait might have looked if the man had lived a life as rough as the man she now comforted.
She didn't like acknowledging how worried she'd been, how much she was coming to care for him. As a friend. One friend for another. There would never be anything more between them than that.