Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (5 page)

“Grace!” Hannah gestured for her friend to lower her voice. “He might hear you.”

“Oh, I think the viscount’s heard much worse than that in his time.” Grace shrugged again, a gesture considered unacceptable for a lady but one in which Hannah’s friend now freely indulged. “He’s almost as much of a societal pariah as I am. Of course, the toffs are happy enough to accept
my
services when their gout is troubling them or they feel an attack of the quinsy coming on.”

“That may well be.” Hannah made allowance for her friend’s bitter tone, brought on as it was by her cruelly reduced circumstance. “But the poor man deserves to be treated with dignity.”

Grace studied her. “I hope you’re not allowing yourself to become attached. Nothing good could come of it.”

“Now you’re being preposterous.” Hannah busied herself covering the viscount with the bedclothes that had been removed to aid Grace’s examination. “
If
he lives, which is highly doubtful,” she whispered, “and
if
he is of a mind to find a wife, I can assure you it will not be me.”

“Stop selling yourself short,” Grace said, rebuking and defending her in the same statement. “You’d make an excellent wife. It’s not your fault gentlemen are fools, preferring malleable girls and financial gain to women of substance. All I’m saying is it’s not uncommon for a patient to become enamoured with his nurse. You mustn’t forget
why
the viscount is a pariah.”

Hannah blinked. “I thought you were a woman of science—well,
herbal
science—not superstition. You believe in the Blackthorn Curse?”

“Even your father believes in the curse.” Grace picked at her fingernails but didn’t rescind her warning. “We both know mothers die as a result of childbirth all the time. The fool physicians confine them to their beds for days if not weeks beforehand, robbing them of their strength, and then insist the poor women deliver flat on their backs so as to make it easier to examine them. Add to that the repeated purges and bleedings they use as common practice, not to mention rejecting the herbal remedies that have helped labouring women for generations . . .” She threw up her hands in disgust.

Hannah nodded. “Precisely why I’d thought you would consider the curse to be nonsense. The viscount’s mother probably died giving birth under a physician’s care. Though I suppose his forebears would have been delivered with the aid of a midwife using the
old
ways.”

“My point. Regardless of the type of care they were given, we have five generations of women all dying after giving birth to their first born, a son each time. Twice in one family would not be inconceivable, three times ill-fortuned. But five
in a row? It’s not natural.”

The fire had long since chased the cold of old stone walls from the room, but a shiver ran down Hannah’s spine.
 

“So you believe any woman who marries the viscount is destined to die in childbirth?”

“Don’t you?”

It was Hannah’s turn to shrug, her gaze returning to the viscount’s less-than-civilised visage.

It seemed she wasn’t the only one destined to spend her life alone, though at least she wouldn’t have a spouse’s death on her conscience. Then again, neither would she ever have a child of her own.

Chapter 5

Miss?

William stared at the woman in the upholstered chair beside his bed. She was asleep. The gentlemanly thing would be to awaken her and inform her she need no longer watch over him. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, finding her presence comforting. Dragging his gaze away, he looked down at his arm. Having been told remaining alive and in possession of the limb were mutually exclusive propositions, he was surprised to find it still attached to his body. The wound was neatly bandaged and the pain, while ever present, was nowhere near as fierce as he recalled. He wiggled his fingers and was relieved when they responded, albeit weakly, to his command, but the fire that burned up his arm discouraged further experimentation.

A feeble snort inflated his chest when he looked around, recognising the master suite at Blackthorn Manor. Against all odds, he’d made it all the way from the peninsula, the journey a patchwork of painful memories. Recalling his unscheduled visit to the church in Hartley, his gaze returned to the sleeping woman—the vicar’s daughter with the lovely voice. What was she doing by his bedside? Fanciful dreams must have interwoven with his nightmares, for it simply wasn’t possible a
lady
had tended to him in the manner he recalled.

A groan was all that escaped his lips when he attempted to call for his valet or footman or whomever else should have been watching him in her place. Woken by the faint sound, the woman stretched like a cat. With her eyes still closed, she arched her back, causing her high-waisted, cream-coloured gown to cling to her feminine form. The sensuous action would have been indicative of poor schooling on her behalf—or the existence of a considerable degree of intimacy between them—if she had known he was watching her.

She clearly did not.

William considered averting his gaze, but the image of her arms akimbo, putting her generous curves on display, had already been seared into his brain. When he cleared his throat to alert her to his awareness, her eyes snapped open.

“You’re awake.”

She smiled, and impossible images bombarded his thoughts, images of her nursing him, comforting him, lying across his body to restrain him whilst a green-eyed witch did despicable things to his wound. Despicable things that appeared to have saved both his life and his arm, William mused, struggling to discern what was real and what must surely have been fever-induced imaginings.

“You must be thirsty. Let me get you a drink.” The vicar’s daughter stood and patted her hair into place. “Don’t worry, it’s laced with a little brandy. I’ve never known a gentleman to fuss so over drinking Adam’s ale. You’re not due for another herbal draught until tea time, so you can save your spitting and cursing.”

Her words were preposterous—a gentleman never spat or cursed when a lady was present—but William wasn’t sure he had the strength to argue. After allowing her to assist him to a slightly more raised position, he sipped cautiously at the cup she brought to his lips.

“Why,” he croaked, before trying again. “Why are you here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious, my lord.” She fluffed his pillows and smoothed the blankets into place.

“Where are the servants?” he asked, his voice fading to a whisper as he succumbed to the encroaching darkness.

The next time William opened his eyes, he was being force-fed a concoction so foul he reexamined his earlier opinion on when spitting might be appropriate. Holding the spoon to his lips, his tormentor was actually stroking his throat like he was a damned dog, encouraging him to swallow.

“Bloody hell, woman.” He jerked his head away from her hands.

“And now with the cursing.” She moved the spoon away with a sigh. “I know it tastes dreadful, my lord,” she said, her tone resigned rather than apologetic. “But it’s for your own good
and
appears to be working. You’re looking a little better every day. Certainly much better this week than last.”

This week? Her cream gown had been replaced by a plain but fetching blue, her hair fashioned in a braided coronet rather than the bun she’d worn the last time they’d spoken . . . whenever that might have been. Raising a hand to scratch his jaw, William froze when he encountered a full beard rather than the straggly scruff he recalled.

Ignoring his glower, his nursemaid brought the spoon back to his tightly compressed lips. Her shoulders drooped, and there were shadows beneath her eyes.

“My lord, would you
please
stop fighting me?”

William’s conscience twinged, and he jerked his head towards the god-awful tasting medicine. “What’s in it?”

“An old but powerful recipe,” she said, her expression lightening. “Grace swears this tincture was used by grave robbers in France during the plague years . . . grave robbers who
lived
to enjoy their ill-gotten gains.”

He snorted. “Grave robbers?”

“Infection has no respect for person, my lord.” Her tone was prim, but he detected the hint of a smile.

She was right about that. Suffering and death cared not for human distinctions. If his family’s history had not been sufficient to teach him that lesson, five years at war had pounded home the truth. Realising he was behaving like a petulant child, he opened his lips and allowed her to dose him with the vile concoction. Bitter and reeking of garlic, it did appear to be working—he was alive, after all, despite the odds—but he would have been more appreciative if the cure was not worse than the malady.

“Well done,” she murmured when he finished the final drop, her smile reward enough to forgive the patronising tone. “How about some of Mrs Potts’ beef broth to chase away the bitter taste? Now your fever’s broken, it’s time we started building you back up again.”

Unaware he had wasted away, William glanced down, relieved to note that, though thinner than usual, he was far from skin and bone.

While the vicar’s daughter busied herself at the sideboard, removing a silver dome covering a bowl of what turned out to be a tasty soup, he attempted to marshal his thoughts. There were questions he wanted answered, but every time he came close to formulating one, she slipped another spoonful between his lips. He had never known the act of swallowing to take such effort and, halfway through the bowl, exhaustion overwhelmed him once more.

The next time he awoke, it was courtesy of the urging of his bladder. Though Markham would empty a chamber pot without complaint, William preferred not to overburden his soldier-servant and made the walk to the latrines whenever possible. Doing so in the middle of the night was not his favourite pastime and, grumbling, he attempted to rise from his cot, but his body refused to obey. When he forced open his eyes, he was met with the view of a firelit bedroom rather than his neat but functional officer’s tent.

What the devil?

The memory of his current location and circumstances came back to him in a rush, and he breathed a sigh when he spotted the vicar’s daughter, curled up in the padded chair beside his bed, reading a book. She was dressed in the pale-blue gown he recalled from the last time he’d awoken, leading him to hope it was the same day.

“Excuse me, madam.”

His rasped words drew her attention, and she stood. “It’s good to see you are awake again, my lord.” She smoothed the hair from his brow, testing his temperature in the process. “No sign of fever. Do you think you could manage some more broth?”

“Please,” he said and cleared his throat. “Please call for my valet or a footman.”

She raised her eyebrows. “It’s just me, my lord, and the Pottses. But I’m afraid the stairs were too much for them after the first few days.”

Frowning, William tried to make sense of her words. His need was becoming urgent, and he moved restlessly. Wanting to press upon his afflicted organ but unable to do so in front of a lady, his hand moved automatically in its direction.

Spotting the action, she pulled a face. “Oh, I see.” Moving away from the bed, she returned with an oddly shaped bottle. Initially puzzled, he realised its purpose when she brought it to rest beside his leg, her hands moving to lower the bedclothes.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” He grabbed her wrist.

“Assisting you, of course.”

“But you’re a woman . . . a
lady
.”

Her lips formed a determined line. “And the only person available, so let’s not make a fuss. Don’t worry . . . I’ve managed this a dozen times already.”

His eyes widened in horror. “I’m not concerned with your proficiency. It’s the impropriety of the situation that bothers me.”

“Oh dear.” She sighed and let the blanket drop. “You’re lucid. It’s to be expected now the fever is broken, but I dare say it’s going to make things complicated.”

“The situation isn’t complicated, it’s incomprehensible. Why, in heaven’s name, would a lady perform such an intimate task for an incapacitated gentleman?”

“An incapacitated
patient
,”
she said firmly, “and not for any prurient reason that soldier’s mind of yours might conjure.”

William fisted his good hand in exasperation.

“I meant no disrespect, madam, but since I’m now fully awake, I insist on having a male servant assist me.”

His nurse took a moment to reply, her tone gentling. “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t know if it’s as a result of the fever, but you appear to be suffering a delusion. Other than Mr and Mrs Potts—the elderly caretaker and his wife,” she said carefully as if he wouldn’t remember the couple who had assisted in raising him, “there are no other servants, male or female, at Blackthorn Manor. They were all dismissed many years ago, not long after your father’s funeral, in fact.”

William stared unblinking. That was a decade ago. Whose wages had he been paying all these years?

The mystery would have to wait, his current dilemma taking precedence. If she was speaking the truth, and he could think of no good reason for her to lie, there wasn’t any other help to be found. To his shame, he wasn’t sure he could manage alone in his weakened state.

“A dozen times, you say?”