Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance (2 page)

Indeed. Kate’s stomach tightened. Her future loomed before her, a bleak and barren landscape from which there was no visible means of escape.

“In any event,” Bertie continued, “what could be more noble than this cause? A soldier in need of your care. As a matter of fact, the papers are lauding him as a returning hero.”

“Who is the patient?” she asked with a sigh.

“An army captain. James Lancaster is his name. Fairly influential family, as I understand it.”

Dull surprise shot through Kate. Her mind traveled back three years, back to a time before the cholera epidemic that had swept through London had claimed her parents. Her father had secured an invitation to a charity ball given by one of the directors of St. Thomas.

Kate remembered being instantly enthralled as she’d stepped into that enormous candlelit ballroom. She’d been intoxicated by the sheer loveliness of it, and that was before she’d even dared to sip a glass of champagne.

She remembered swaying to the swelling strains of the orchestra as it played from its discreet position behind a row of potted palms. She’d loved the dizzying array of gilt mirrors, loved their shimmering reflection of the elegantly dressed crowd. She’d been entranced by the way the dancers swept effortlessly across the floor, gliding through an endless series of quadrilles and waltzes.

And in the center of it all—or at least it appeared that way to her at the time—was James Lancaster. Tall, muscular, and strikingly handsome in a way that went beyond mere attractiveness. It wasn’t just his dashing uniform, or the way the candlelight warmed the streaks of gold in his thick chestnut hair, or the laughter that sparkled in his deep blue eyes.

He exuded an air of carefree virility, a dynamic combination of wealth, poise, and masculine confidence. He was the magnetic axis around which the females in the room spun and swayed, desperately vying for his attention.

Except Kate herself, of course. She knew better than to hope a man like that would notice her. She had enjoyed precisely two dances that evening. One with Bertie, the other with George.

Something in her expression must have given her thoughts away, for Bertie studied her curiously and asked, “Are you acquainted with the man?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “Why would James Lancaster possibly know who I am?”

“So you’ll take the position?” This from George.

Kate brushed her foolish memories away. The ball had been years ago. She was no longer an impressionable, love-struck girl. She was a proper nurse with a proper job to do, and there was no place in her life for wishing things might be different. She straightened her apron, flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of her blouse, and sent her brothers a cool nod.

“It appears I have little choice in the matter.”

The insistent knocking—a sharp, impatient rap that wouldn’t stop no matter how hard James Lancaster squeezed his eyes shut and willed it to—slowly penetrated his foggy mind. He turned toward the source of the offending racket just as the library door opened. Five shadowy figures loomed in the hallway, none of whom looked particularly pleased to see him.

His mother led the charge, naturally. She was the only person in all of London who would dare blaze into his home uninvited. James stifled a groan. The woman was bad enough on her own. When she came with an entourage, she was intolerable.

James’s footman, Owen, stood to the left of the group, looking both annoyed and apologetic at the intrusion. James dismissed the man with a curt wave of his hand. Ignoring the dull pounding in his head, he braced himself up on his elbows. His sheets pooled about his hips, leaving him naked from the waist up.

As his recent injury prevented him from mounting the stairs to his chamber, his household staff had set up a bed for him in the library. The accommodation had been a necessary convenience, but he realized now what a ridiculous sight he must appear.

Unshaven, undressed, unkempt—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered with a proper bath. Irritation and embarrassment flooded through him in equal measure. But he’d be damned if he’d show it. Instead, he sent the group before him a cocky nod of greeting.

“Good morning,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. It appears I have guests.”

His mother pinned him with a look that sent waves of displeasure rolling across the room. She pulled a watch fob from the pocket of her gown and snapped it open. “Good afternoon, James,” she replied, then continued tartly, “Our presence should hardly be a surprise. I believe I mentioned yesterday that I’d managed to secure the services of Dr. Michaelson from St. Thomas hospital. Surely you haven’t forgotten we were expected.”

Ah, yes. So the latest arrival in a long series of medical reinforcements had arrived. James’s gaze moved past his mother to a stout man with gray hair and gray beard. The man hovered in the doorway with a leather satchel in his hand. A nurse, judging by her attire, stood slightly behind him. Rounding out the party was Robert, his mother’s footman, and the lovely Miss Vanessa Kittworthy.

Vanessa swept forward, gliding across the room in a deep green morning gown expertly tailored to display her willowy figure to best advantage. She pressed a dry kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his cheek, then turned and lifted a starched shirt from a neatly stacked pile. “Here, darling. Let me help you dress.”

The physician stopped her. “If you don’t mind, Miss Kittworthy, I’d like to get a look at the wound on his shoulder first. Then I’ll tend to his leg.”

“Oh.” Vanessa straightened in surprise, obviously unused to having her actions countermanded. “Of course, Doctor.” With a careless toss, she sent the shirt back to the bench where she’d found it. She trailed one gloved hand lightly along James’s shoulder. “I simply thought your nurse might be more comfortable if James were properly dressed.”

“Thank you for your courtesy,” the nurse replied, “but I assure you it’s not necessary. I’ve cared for too many of our returning soldiers for my sensibilities to be so easily offended.”

James turned sharply at the sound of the woman’s voice. Given her manner of dress—white lace cap, drab gown, and a coarse blue cape in the style popular with the women who labored in London’s hospitals—he had expected a meek, churchmouse kind of voice, not a sound that was at once low, melodious, and infinitely soothing. It wasn’t just her tone that surprised to him, but the cultured inflection of her speech, which suggested both breeding and education.

Vanessa noted it as well. She studied the nurse with a look of cool feminine superiority. “Nurse Riley, is it? Irish, I suppose.” She waited a beat, then delicately cleared her throat. “You may answer the question.”

The nurse brought up her chin ever-so-slightly. “I wasn’t aware I’d been asked a question.”

Vanessa stiffened, but James intervened before she could speak. It was simply too early to entertain one of her petty dramas.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” He looked from the nurse to the physician beside her. Reluctantly acknowledging they would not leave until he had been sufficiently poked and prodded, he sat up. He’d been seen by a number of London’s top specialists, yet the condition of his leg continued to worsen. He had no doubt this would be more of the same.

Although his chest was bare, the lower half of his anatomy was covered by a pair of sturdy cotton breeches. He swung his left leg—his good leg—out of bed. His foot hit an empty bottle of scotch, sending it skidding across the room. The bottle spun in a wobbly circle, coming to rest with its long neck pointing at him like an accusing finger.

James heaved a sigh of disgust. He’d never taken a bottle to bed before, but since his return to London he’d managed to reach a new series of lows.

His mother’s lips tightened. She glanced over her shoulder at Robert, who seemed to have developed the astonishing telepathic ability to surmise his mistress’s wishes without the necessary burden of speech. The man swept forward and lifted the offending bottle. Wearing an expression of pinched displeasure, he held it outstretched as he carried it from the room, as though he were holding a dead rat by the tail.

“My apologies,” James said to the room at large. “A bit of a crisis here last night.”

His mother arched one dark brow. “Oh? What sort of crisis?”

“I ran out of scotch.”

He glanced up, hoping to see some glimmer of amusement reflected back at him. Instead the group looked as cheerful as a gathering undertakers at a wake. Ah, well. He gingerly edged his injured right leg over the side of the bed, biting back a pained grimace as he did so. The damned thing hurt.

Vanessa leaned slightly forward. Her thick, dark hair brushed his shoulder. “Can I bring you anything?” she asked.

On the surface, her question seemed loving and dutiful. But it held an underlying edge of distaste that James didn’t miss. Upon his return from the Crimea, he had made the discovery that Vanessa Kittworthy, perfect being that she was, harbored an inbred contempt for weakness of any kind in others. This new knowledge afforded him a surprisingly enjoyable way to accomplish two things at once: torment Vanessa, and break up the otherwise dreary monotony of his days.

“If you could bring me my crutches, darling,” he said.

A frown crossed Vanessa’s beautiful face, but she caught herself before anyone but James saw it. “Of course.” With a forced smile, she carried the crutches across the room. “There you are,” she said, thrusting them at James the instant she reached his side. “Is that all, my dear?”

“Actually, my shoulder itches terribly. If you wouldn’t mind...”

Vanessa looked at the nasty flesh wound on his shoulder. Horror flashed through her sapphire blue eyes. “Yes?” she said, her voice tremulously high.

“Perhaps you could bathe it for me.”

“Bathe it?”

“Yes, bathe it.”

A burst of shrill, nervous laughter escaped her lips. “Me?” she said. “Surely the physician or the nurse would be better qualified—”

“Perhaps,” James allowed, biting back a grin. “But your touch would be infinitely more soothing.”

“How very...sentimental of you, darling,” she grit out, slowly drawing off her silk gloves. Aware she was being watched, and obviously unable to find a way to escape the unappealing duty, Vanessa sent her audience a tight smile. She dipped the cloth into the basin, vigorously rubbed the cake of soap against it, then shoved the sloppy mess against his shoulder. Heavy rivulets of cold, soapy water ran down his chest and pooled at his groin.

With a bark of laughter, James caught her wrist. “Nevermind. I don’t think the position of nurse quite suits you. That’s an excellent technique for bathing a dog, however.”

From across the room, the nurse giggled, then covered the sound with a discreet cough.

Vanessa glared at the nurse, then at James. Drawing herself up to her normal state of cool composure, she returned the cloth to the basin and turned to the physician. “I trust you can see for yourself what an impossible patient we are remanding into your care. He seems to delight in making things difficult for everyone around him.”

“Regrettably true,” James acknowledged. “But you must admit, you do make the temptation so...tempting. Besides, a little teasing is preferable to dark bouts of brooding, don’t you think?”

“Frankly, I find both qualities most unappealing,” Vanessa replied with an indignant sniff. “Lord Tashton says it’s a soldier’s sacred privilege to bear his wounds bravely.”

“In that case, why don’t I take a shotgun to Lord Tashton’s bloody ankle so he can exercise that sacred privilege himself?”

His mother stepped forward. “I believe we’ve wasted enough of the good doctor’s time,” she said. At moments like this, James had to remind himself that his mother, the viscountess, was really a diminutive lady of advanced years, for she moved through life with the confidence and bravado of an army general. She turned the force of her personality on Dr. Michaelson. “As you have witnessed, my son is not comfortable playing the part of invalid. I have heard your methods are unorthodox, but effective. Is that correct?”

The physician gave a modest nod. “I’ve been able to assist the majority of my patients to a full recovery.”

“Excellent,” the viscountess said. “You have until the third of June to return James to his former state of health. I shall expect nothing less.” With that dire pronouncement, she swept out of the room, her footman and Vanessa Kittworthy trailing in her wake.

Heavy silence followed their departure. James looked at Dr. Michaelson and the nurse. “The dragons have left the lair,” he intoned in mock solemnity. “If you’ve an escape in mind, this would be the perfect opportunity to run.”

“I don’t believe I’m quite prepared to flee,” Dr. Michaelson returned. “However, as time is evidently of the essence, I suggest we begin. Nurse Riley?”

The nurse took the physician’s proffered coat, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. Next she opened Dr. Michaelson’s satchel and removed a variety of medical devices, passing them forward with brisk efficiency, anticipating the physician’s every need. James clenched his jaw and wordlessly succumbed to the examination. He’d been through several, and he hated the ordeal. It served as a constant reminder of his physical weakness. What he wanted was to be left alone. To wake up in possession of his former health and strength.

But obviously that wasn’t going to happen. James had taken two wounds in the Battle of Balaclava. One in his upper right shoulder, just below his collarbone. That was a relatively minor injury. Ugly, but on the mend. His badly mangled right calf and ankle presented a more serious problem. After a recuperative period of several months, his ankle was still painful, and far too weak to bear his weight.

The nurse stood beside Dr. Michaelson as he carried on his examination. She watched with sympathy, but not pity. It was a fine distinction but it mattered, and James appreciated it. Dr. Michaelson finished his probing and took a step away from James. He opened a worn leather journal and began recording his observations. “You may clean the wounds, Nurse.”

The woman lifted a fresh cloth, applied a pinch of a powdery substance to it, then lightly dampened it. She rubbed it between her palms until she’d warmed the cloth and raised a light lather. She moved closer to James and gently placed it against his shoulder. The fragrance of lavender drifted around her, whether from the soapy cloth, or her own personal scent, James couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he liked it.