Page 87 of The Marriage Method

She gazed up at him. “You’ve done this before?”

“A few times.”

“Recall that I’m not a man,” she said.

His mouth quirked wryly. “I don’t need reminding.”

“Adjust your strength accordingly. I rather like my arm.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Miles promised. He smoothed her hair again. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you, but…” A surge of panic closed Nell’s throat. Memories of the month she’d spent in the infirmary after her fall from the Academy’s roof flooded back. “I don’t like the sickroom. And I hate doctors. I don’t want—”

“Shh,” he murmured. His touch on her brow was soothing. “No doctors, sweetheart. Just me.”

Mrs. Bright hovered anxiously nearby. “Would you like me to remove the rest of her clothes, Mr. Quincey? She’ll be more comfortable without those wire underpinnings.”

“Leave it,” Miles said. “I’ll undress her afterward. It will be less painful once her shoulder is set.”

Nell’s head was becoming too fuzzy for her to fully register the implications of the exchange. He was going to undress her? He couldn’t. She never let anyone see her injured leg. It was too private. Too humiliating.

Mrs. Pritchard’s evil words echoed in her head in an endless loop. “It will disgust most men even to see it.” She’d been speaking about Nell’s cane, not her leg, but in her present state, Nell could make no differentiation.

“I drank too much laudanum,” she whispered. “But you can’t—”

Miles’s voice sounded as though from a great distance away. “If you’ll hold her, Mrs. Bright. I need her as still as possible.”

“Miles,” Nell said. Or perhaps she only thought it.

He took hold of her wrist and elbow in a firm grip.

She cried out, “No, wait—!”

One sharp, forceful jerk upward, a decided scrape and crunch, and then—

Darkness closed over her.

• • • • •

When next Nell awoke, her pain was largely gone. Night had fallen, and her bedchamber was lit by a low fire and the soft glow from a distant branch of candles. Rain drummed against the windowpanes. She couldn’t tell how late the hour. She only knew that she was warm and safe in her bed, with Miles keeping vigil in a chair beside her.

She was also in her chemise and drawers.

At some point, it seemed, he had undressed her. Or someone had. But not all the way. Her drawers were knee-length. The injured part of her thigh was still well covered.

Strangely, the fact wasn’t at the forefront of her mind. Indeed, except for the lingering soreness in her shoulder, she felt wonderfully relaxed. It was as though the laudanum had been a magic elixir, muffling not only her pain, but a great many of her inhibitions as well.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked softly.

Miles straightened in his chair. His hair was rumpled, and he was absent his coat and cravat. She belatedly realized that there had been a cat sleeping in his lap. A small, short-haired black one Nell hadn’t seen before. Smoke, she presumed. He jumped down as Miles leaned toward her, disappearing out of her sight line. “You’re awake,” Miles said.

“Where?” she asked again.

“One of the skills I picked up during my years as a foreign correspondent. There were a great many brawls in Marseille, and more than a few dislocated limbs.” Miles took her hand in both of his. His voice deepened, his eyes searching hers. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” she said.

Some of the tension in his face eased. “Good.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Excellent.”