Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (6 page)

“At least.” She nodded. Colour stained her cheeks, and he could only imagine an insensate patient was a tad easier to deal with than an indignant one.

“Very well, then.” Gritting his teeth, he prayed his body wouldn’t betray him. He’d never had a woman’s hands on him intimately
before, and her gentle if impersonal touch was unsettling to say the least. There was also the issue of her appeal. A compassionate woman, she’d gone above and beyond even those duties expected of a vicar’s daughter. William could only imagine her husband must be a curate, for it would take a far saintlier gentleman than he to allow his wife to care for another man in such a fashion.

“All set,” she said after a moment that seemed to drag for an eternity. “I’ll give you some privacy and be back to collect the bottle when you’re finished. Do you think you’ll be able to manage alone?”

Stifling the urge to curse—again
—
he nodded, relieved when she turned and left the room.

A part of William wondered if he was still trapped in a nightmare or had been consigned to hell after all. Either option would have been more bearable than the situation in which he found himself.

“This is an outrage! Why wasn’t I called sooner?”

William awoke to the sound of an argument being carried out above his head.

“We’ve been rather busy, doctor. It’s not our fault Lord Blackthorn’s estate manager took this long to send for you.”

“That’s not good enough.” The doctor’s voice rose unbearably. “His Lordship should have been under the care of a physician, not a couple of ignorant misses plying him with useless herbal remedies.”

“Useless remedies that have saved his life.”

“
I’m
the physician.
I’ll
be the judge of that.”

“Actually, I believe I’m the best judge of whether or not my life has been saved,” William muttered. The officious-looking doctor, whom he remembered none-too-fondly from his childhood, had unwrapped the bandage from his arm and was prodding at his wound. Batting the man’s hand away, William sought his nurse’s steady gaze. Relieved to have her near, the tightness in his chest eased.

“Lord Blackthorn, I am Dr Cooper. I was your physician when you were a boy,” the doctor said unnecessarily. “I was only recently apprised you’d returned to Hartley and were in need of medical attention. I must say, I am appalled by the treatment, or the lack thereof, you have received. This . . . this . . .
woman
”—he pointed to the dark-haired young lady standing at the end of the bed—“has admitted to performing what is tantamount to
surgery
on your arm and has been dosing you with all manner of vile and useless concoctions.”

“I merely cleaned the wound and removed metal shards and fragments of the viscount’s uniform that had been left to fester.” The woman’s green eyes flashed. “The herbal remedies I prescribed have been used effectively by generations of healers.”

“Old wives’ tales,” the doctor said with a sneer. “His Lordship should have been medicated with a mercury tonic to combat miasma and detritus
introduced
to the wound to encourage seepage. It is the only way to promote healing.”

“I was told the wound would not heal, that my only
hope of survival was amputation.” William studied his mangled but mending arm. “While I won’t dispute the concoctions have indeed been vile”—he shot a dark look at the vicar’s daughter—“the care I’ve received at the hands of these two ladies appears to have accomplished what the army surgeons and physicians declared impossible.”

“Infusions and herbal plasters are outmoded forms of treatment rejected by modern science, my lord. You need to be bled immediately and purged.”

William narrowed his eyes. “I believe I was sufficiently
bled
on the battlefield.”

As for purging, the thought of being forced to expel the bile from his stomach when he was already weak as a kitten was not particularly appealing.

“If you insist on continuing in the care of a couple of untrained, unmarried young misses, this one”—the doctor pointed again to the dark-haired lady—“nothing more than a
midwife
with a bag full of herbs, and this one”—he pointed to William’s angel—“the vicar’s spinster daughter, then I refuse to be held responsible for the outcome, my lord.”

“Duly noted.” William hid his reaction to the doctor’s disclosure and dismissed him with a flick of his fingers.

The man departed, muttering darkly, and William’s unlikely healer redressed his wound. He paid little attention, his gaze fixed on the young lady who had nursed him proficiently, intimately, and single-handedly for God only knew how long.

She was a
miss
?

Chapter 6

Propriety

Hannah enjoyed seeing the viscount put the doctor in his place, his return to cognisance timely. She’d been worried the physician would insist on inflicting one of his debilitating treatments on her patient, undoing all the good work they’d accomplished.

Having spent years watching her mother suffer, Hannah’s faith in the medical fraternity was not strong. In hindsight, she wished her father had put his trust in Grace’s aunt rather than the never-ending stream of doctors who had slowly bled both her parents dry, one of lifeblood and the other of financial resources. She doubted her mother could have been saved from the wasting disease that caused her death, but her final months might not have been so distressing if she’d been given palliative care rather than constant purgings and medicines that seemed to do more harm than good.

The viscount responded to Grace’s report on the ongoing care of his wound with a nod, his only acknowledgement of Hannah’s presence the return of his glower. It was hardly surprising. The previous evening’s encounter had been unsettling for them both. She’d been relieved when he fell asleep halfway through his bowl of broth, though it had left unresolved the issue of her attending to his personal care. He seemed much stronger this morning, and she doubted he would be so easily diverted.

After Grace departed, Hannah feared the moment of reckoning had arrived. She couldn’t deny nursing the viscount unaided and unchaperoned had stretched the bounds of propriety, but she hadn’t been overly
concerned. In hindsight, maybe she should have worried a little more. While her spinsterhood was universally accepted by those of her sphere, there were limits
to how far she could stray from convention without censure, limits she may have crossed.

“I hope Dr Cooper didn’t upset you with his prejudice.” Hiding her anxiety behind busyness, Hannah straightened the viscount’s blankets. “Grace’s methods may be considered old-fashioned, but she’s an excellent healer.”

“That’s not in question.” The viscount glanced at his arm before spearing her with a look designed to intimidate, one she imagined he’d honed as an officer. “Though I dare say my recovery is in no small part due to
your
diligent nursing.”

“Why, thank you, my lord.” Hannah’s insides quailed. “Is there anything you require?”

“Answers!” he barked, loud enough for her to flinch. “And no, I will not endure a vile dosing first, nor do I want another bowl of broth. Eggs, bacon, toast, even porridge would be preferable. I’m a grown man, not a swaddled babe, and I require sustenance, but not before you tell me your name. Then I’d like an explanation as to why I’ve been nursed by a . . . a . . .
miss . . .
not a
missus
!” His voice rose with each word and would have ended on a shout if he had not been overcome by a painful bout of coughing.

“I’ve told you my name several times, my lord.” Hannah raised a glass of water to his lips when he had calmed enough to drink. “It’s
Miss
Hannah Foster, a fact I have made no attempt to disguise.”

“The vicar’s daughter?” he managed to rasp.

“Yes. You and I played together as children.”

“Shouldn’t you be married with a family of your own by now? How old are you?”

Hannah paled. A gentleman
never
questioned a lady about her age, not once she was past her first bloom.

“That’s none of your concern.” She raised her chin.

“It most definitely is when I discover the nurse who has been undressing, bathing, and bloody well manhandling me for the last ten days is not a married woman with at least a modicum of experience but an unwed . . . young . . .
maiden
!”

A blush heated Hannah’s cheeks at the memories the viscount’s words evoked, but she held his gaze . . . just. While undeniably masculine whether awake or asleep, he’d not seemed quite so intimidating when unconscious.

“I am a spinster of twenty-seven years, my lord,” she said flatly. “Two years your senior and hardly what one would consider young.”

“That’s not the point. How, in God’s name, could your father allow this? Does he know what you’ve been about?”

“Of course he knows.” Hannah glanced to the side.

“But he assumes you’re being assisted by the Pottses?”

“Well, yes, but as I explained last night, Mr Potts’ knees gave out after the first few days, and Mrs Potts is in no condition to be running up and down the stairs—”

The viscount silenced her with a slash of his hand. “Then why didn’t you find someone else to tend to my personal needs when it became apparent the Pottses would be unable to assist you? Surely you appreciate the impropriety of the situation?”

“Indeed.” Hannah exhaled a sharp breath, tired of being berated. “But hiring a male assistant was not an option, as I had no way of paying him.”

“I would have reimbursed you.”

“Excuse my lack of tact, my lord, but upon your arrival the odds of your surviving to do so appeared unlikely. There was no one to be found, other than Grace, willing to venture up to Blackthorn Manor on the promise of a payment I could not guarantee.”

With an exasperated sigh, he tugged a hand through his tangled locks. Hannah had taken the time to brush his dark brown hair each day. She’d even given it a dry wash using oatmeal to cleanse it of the blood, dust, and debris that had been caked on for goodness knew how many days or weeks,
but it still managed to resemble a haystack each morning.

“I fear your well-meaning but inappropriate actions have placed us both in an untenable situation, Miss Foster.” The viscount’s sober announcement reminded her of the sour old Reverend Hurst her father had replaced upon his death, and she crossed her arms. “Your reputation will be thoroughly compromised once word gets out,” he continued. “If it isn’t already.”

Hannah bristled. One would think she had trapped him into an unwelcome betrothal.

“If I weren’t a spinster
,
a fact you seem to have trouble comprehending, then your concern would be valid. But the only reputation I have to protect is that of the vicar’s dutiful daughter which, I can assure you, has been in no way compromised by my helping to save your life.” She wasn’t about to admit her doubts to such a boorish gentleman. “Would you have preferred I left you to die at your father’s grave?”

Hannah regretted her words immediately, but before she could apologise he asked, “Why?”

“Why didn’t I leave you to die?”

“No.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Christian charity alone would have compelled you to offer assistance. Why are you a spinster?”

Shocked by his bluntness, her concerns about offending his sensibilities vanished.

“Why do you think?” If the dratted man thought she was going to spell out all the reasons she’d been overlooked, he had a long wait in front of him.

“Was your beau killed in the war?” he asked, his audacity quite breathtaking. “Were you forbidden to marry? Your father seemed a reasonable sort to me, as did your mother.”

“There was no beau, my mother is deceased, and my father
is
a reasonable man who never would have stood in the way of my happiness. If you must know, the reason I never married is because I was never asked.”

Hannah had become a tad proprietorial in her thoughts towards her patient, even entertaining the notion caring for him might be somewhat similar to having a husband of her own to fuss over. Apparently, spinsterhood wasn’t the worst fate that could befall a young lady, as marriage to such a man would be intolerable. He wasn’t only brutish in appearance, his manners were appalling . . . and he most definitely brought out the worst in her.

“I’m sorry to hear your mother has passed,” he said after a moment, his contrite tone going some way towards mollifying her anger. “I remember her as a gracious lady.”