Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (7 page)

“She was. I’m sorry for my comment about leaving you to die, as you’re right. My conscience never would have allowed me to do such a thing.”

The viscount waved off her apology. “I don’t mean to appear ungrateful for your efforts, nor am I questioning your capability—”

“But you’d be more comfortable with a male assistant, a valet or the like, to help you with your personal needs.” Hannah sighed, the colour in the viscount’s cheeks reminding her how mortified he must be. Putting herself in his shoes was shudder inducing. “May I suggest a compromise, my lord?”

“You may.” Curiosity coloured his tone.

“Now that you
are
lucid and able to authorise the payment of wages, I am sure I’ll be able to find a suitable candidate for your personal
care. Do you have anyone in mind for the role of valet?”

His brow furrowed in thought. “I’d like you to send for my soldier-servant, a Corporal Markham. He’s due for discharge and will gladly accept the opportunity to continue in my service.”

Hannah had her doubts. Lord Blackthorn had not been the easiest of patients, and she could only imagine what sort of an officer he’d been.

“You have an opinion?” He too-accurately read her expression.

“Not at all.” She had no desire to rekindle their conflict but was unable to fully hold her tongue. “One can hardly blame a man for things said and done when not in full possession of his wits.”

The viscount sputtered, triggering another bout of coughing. Raising the glass to his lips, silencing any protest he might have been about to utter in the process, Hannah contemplated how to solve their more immediate dilemma. Truth be told, she was relieved she wouldn’t be required to assist him with his intimate care for much longer.

“How soon before you can employ a footman or some such to assist me?” he asked after pushing the glass away.

“Not soon enough, I fear.” Hannah discerned at least one cause for the man’s less-than-genial disposition. He’d been plied with both broth and herbal tincture the evening before, and she imagined the need to relieve himself was pressing. “You seem much stronger this morning.” She gestured to the bottle designed for the purpose. “Do you think you could manage alone while I organise a more substantial breakfast?”

He nodded brusquely, making no comment when she placed the bottle within reach of his good arm.

“I’ll return shortly, and please, if you
do
need my assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.”

After gathering the tray with the broth she’d intended offering for his breakfast, she headed for the door.

“There is something,” the viscount said, and Hannah turned back to face him. “From some of your comments I infer that, in the minds of the locals, the reach of the Blackthorn Curse has extended?”

“I’m afraid you’re correct, my lord. The curse is now perceived to affect visitors to the manor, and not just those who bear its name. Although prompt payment of wages should allay any concerns,” she added wryly.

“I imagine it might also help if the lord of the manor wasn’t quite so beastly in appearance?” He stroked his beard.

“It might.” Hannah had come to the same conclusion, not that she would have voiced it if he hadn’t raised the topic.

“Well, there’s nothing to be done until Markham arrives. Hopefully I won’t frighten the locals too badly with my untidy countenance.”

Being of two minds, Hannah hesitated. “I have experience with a straight blade, my lord, and have been known to give a passable haircut when the barber is unavailable.” Or when her father’s parishioners were unable to afford the fee.

“You’re a woman of unexpected talents, Miss Foster.” The viscount’s eyes widened, his bemusement understandable. Gentrified young ladies normally did not own to such experience.

“If you’d prefer, I could arrange for the barber from Thornton to make a visit, but it probably won’t be for a few days.”

“I’d rather get cleaned up before
I meet any prospective employees.” He eyed her tentatively. “Would it be asking too much?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” she said, more curtly than she’d intended. The man’s contrariness made it difficult to keep up.

“Thank you.” He nodded stiffly, and Hannah sighed. It must be galling to request her help after denouncing her participation in his care.

“You’ll be doing me a favour, my lord. It will make it easier for me to rub the comfrey and witch hazel unguent into the scar on your face if it’s not covered in hair. It’s worked wonders on your leg.”

“You’ve been massaging ointment into my thigh?”

His tone was appalled, and Hannah regretted her admission.

“Oh, never mind.” He flopped back against the pillow and covered his eyes with his good arm.

While Hannah understood his mortification, she would have thought a man who’d spent so many years in the rough and tumble of the military would be a tad less concerned with propriety.

Chapter 7

Unsettling

William had never spoken harshly to a lady before and put his behaviour down to the fact he was embarrassed beyond measure, amongst other things. He couldn’t get the image of her touching him out of his mind. To his chagrin, desire curled low in his belly, the mere thought
of her fingers massaging his wounded thigh having a predictable effect on his no-longer-dormant body. While the muscles in his leg did feel less cramped, another part of his anatomy—one he typically paid scant regard—was anything but relaxed.

Between his unwelcome heritage ruling out any meaningful dalliance and his years spent in military duty, William was accustomed to suppressing his urges. When that wasn’t possible, he dealt with them in a perfunctory manner. Considering the severity of his illness, he supposed he should be relieved his body was still capable of a response, not that he would act upon it nor the attraction that inspired it. Miss Hannah Foster, the vicar’s daughter, was a wholly unsuitable candidate for both
his interest and his nursing care.

Recalling her assisting him with his toilet the evening before doused his body’s inappropriate inclinations. It had been bad enough to discover the person who’d tended to his
every
need had been a lady. That she was a maiden was still a hell of a shock. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d never received a proposal. Were the gentlemen hereabouts all imbeciles?

Miss Foster might not be a great beauty, but she was hardly unappealing. He thought her features handsome and her hazel eyes exceptionally fine. Not excessively thin like some of the debutantes he’d observed in town during the season, she seemed a perfectly acceptable size for a grown woman, with curves in all the right places . . . curves he had no right to be thinking about now he knew she was, in essence, available.

In his fleeting lucid moments, William had allowed himself the indulgence of appreciating his nurse’s appearance, believing both of them well protected by his imminent demise and her state of matrimony.

But he hadn’t died.

She wasn’t married.

And
she had both seen and touched his naked body.

Groaning, he wished for a return to insensibility, but despite feeling enervated by the altercation with the feisty Miss Foster, sleep eluded him. Maybe that was it? Her bold manner must have frightened away prospective beaux. Some gentlemen were put off by that sort of thing. Not William, as he was more than capable of standing his ground and rather impressed by a woman who could hold hers.

His nurse’s expression was guarded when she returned bearing a covered tray, but William held off making further apology. Hoping a friendlier manner would suffice, his attempt at a smile ended in failure when she retrieved the blasted bottle, both their cheeks flaming as she carried the offending utensil from the room. For an experienced officer of His Majesty’s Fusiliers, accustomed to commanding men and confronting the enemy, it was humiliating to be so thoroughly discomposed by the equivalent of a bedpan in the hands of a lady.

A relatively young lady.

However she might describe herself, a doughty old spinster was not what came to mind when Miss Foster reentered the room. Sighing, William couldn’t deny he found her damnably attractive.

“Hopefully this will be more to your liking, my lord.” She set the breakfast tray upon his bedside table, and his discomfiture worsened. While a lowly vicar’s daughter wouldn’t normally move in the same circles as a viscount, she was still of the gentry and should not be required to wait on him.

“Thank you,” he said when she assisted him to a sitting position. In reality, she did all the lifting while he panted for air. Adding to his shame, he doubted he had the vigour to do justice to the meal he’d demanded. The coddled eggs, toast, and tea looked inviting, but there was no way he would be able to feed himself without spilling the majority down his still-bare chest. He really should have requested a nightshirt. Unwilling to admit raising the fork to his mouth was beyond him, he waved a hand ineffectually.

“Would you like me to assist you, my lord? Just until you’re a little stronger?”

Nodding with a mixture of reluctance and relief, William concluded that Miss Foster might not be of the nobility, but she was a woman of class. He was tempted to grant her permission to call him by his Christian name, as she had when they were children, but quickly discounted the possibility. It would indicate a degree of familiarity between them he dare not allow. Once considered, though, the thought of his name upon her lips was enticing. His men had called him captain. Those peers with whom he presumed a friendship, Blackthorn. But no one had called him William in over a decade.

Careful not to jostle his arm, Miss Foster took a seat on the edge of the bed, her hip scant inches from his own. He recalled her sitting beside him when he’d awoken to find her forcing foul-tasting medicines down his throat. If normal societal rules applied, the position would be considered too familiar, but he made no comment, meekly opening his mouth. Being fed like an infant should have heaped even more shame upon his head, but William was too weary to care. Her matter-of-fact demeanour helped, as did the one-sided conversation she maintained while he summoned the strength to chew and swallow.

“It’s a lovely spring day outside.” She gestured to where the open curtains allowed pale, golden light to spill across the floor. He could just make out a splash of blue sky through the lace that covered the panes, a rarity even at this time of year.

“As soon as you’re feeling up to it, we’ll get you outside to enjoy the fresh air.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d had his fill of the hot sun and cloudless days on the peninsula, and had actually been yearning for good, old English drizzle.

“The gardens are in a dreadful state, I’m afraid, having been neglected for so many years,” she continued. “The Pottses were able to maintain only a small, home garden. But the view across the lawn—well, more of a field now, I suppose—to the lake is quite lovely. Wild flowers have sprung up here and there, and some hardy climbing roses have managed to survive, so there’s a little colour.”

Her words puzzled him until he recalled the missing servants, hence the neglected estate. He should question her further, begin to deal with matters, but the lethargy stealing over him made speech impossible. That and her plying his mouth with tasty morsels whenever he opened his lips.

“I’ve sent word to the village and surrounds that the estate is hiring.”

While grateful she’d taken the initiative, he wondered how he was supposed to manage overseeing such a task.

“My sister, Naomi, has agreed to interview the applicants,” Miss Foster said in answer to his unspoken question. “She volunteers at the orphanage in Thornton and has some experience dealing with staff, so you can trust her judgement. If we offer work trials for the most suitable applicants, you can make the final decision regarding whom you want to keep on when you’re feeling a little stronger. Does that meet with your approval?”

He nodded, relieved she had matters in hand.

“If you give me the address, I’ll write and send for Corporal Markham. There’s someone I have in mind to assist you until he can arrive, but I’m not sure you’ll find him acceptable.”

William raised a brow, the only query he could muster.

“Trevor Dawkins, the draper’s son, lost several fingers in service to the king. He’s a bright young man and had hoped to work as a footman at the Wescotts’ estate after his return from the war, but Lady Wescott insists on only able-bodied servants—”

“Send for him,” William whispered.

Miss Foster’s smile was blinding, and he blinked, dumbly opening his mouth when she raised the cup for him to take a sip of tea. Then her expression turned contemplative.

“What is it?” He gestured with his good hand for her to continue.

She drew in a deep breath, which expanded the bodice of her gown, drawing his eye.

“There is much unemployment and hardship in the district,” she said, refocusing his attention. “Through the vicarage, we try to support the returned servicemen. The able-bodied ones can find work in the mines, or seasonally on the farms when they’re hiring, but those who have been injured, who have lost a limb or been left with permanent scarring . . .”

“You think I’ll be sympathetic to their plight?”