Chapter Nine
A sound reminiscent of an approaching train filled Sophia’s ears. The noise grew louder, culminating in a roar. It receded, leaving a voice floating above, muffled as if captured in a bottle. As though someone tipped the bottle, several words spilled forth. Lord. Benevolent. Father.
A prayer? Was that Westfield’s voice? Westfield praying seemed as unlikely as snow in summer.
“Sophia?” The voice, though gentle, grew more insistent. So did the hand tapping at her face. “Sophia?”
She opened her eyes, and Westfield’s face slowly came into focus.
“Thank God.” He set his forehead to hers, pulled back, and stared at her.
She was dreaming again. This one appeared more depraved than the last, for she was lying in Westfield’s bed, and he sat on its edge leaning over her, nearly naked. She reached out, touched his sensual mouth. The warmth of his breath heated her cold fingers.
He folded her hand in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “You mustn’t move.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Mathews!” He turned back. Deep lines furrowed his brow. “Do you know who I am?”
Of course she did. This was her dream, but he was so high-handed, he was taking over.
“You’ve taken a tumble. Do you remember?”
Tumble? She cupped the back of her head and winced. It throbbed as if a blacksmith with an arm of steel had mistaken her skull for his anvil. She glanced around the bedchamber, then at the towel wrapped precariously about Westfield’s lean waist.
This was not a dream!
“Sophia, you should have let me assist you out of the tub.”
By thunder, the tub! She remembered now. She pulled her hand from his, fisted her fingers, and hit his naked chest.
“I deserve that and more. Now”—he lightly touched the back of her head—“you’re in need of some ice for that goose egg.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “God knows where Mathews is.” He cupped her face and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.
His intimate touch and near nakedness caused a warmth all over her body. Frightened by her reaction, she braced herself on her elbow. “I must get up.”
He forced her shoulders back into the mattress. “No, you must—”
A gasp from the doorway cut Westfield’s words short. “My lord,” Mathews said breathlessly. “What do you think you are doing undressed? You know Miss Camden will not attend you in such a state of dishabille.”
Mathews stepped fully into the room. His eyes widened upon seeing her, and he rushed to the bed. “Oh, my. Oh, my!” He cast his employer a belligerent look. “Have you struck her?”
Westfield rolled his eyes heavenward. “Miss Camden is injured. I’ve not beaten her. Now take several deep breaths and go get some ice and send for Dr. Thomas Trimble.”
Mathews spun on his heel and dashed from the room.
Sophia pushed herself up again.
“Lie still, love.” Westfield pressed her back down, then turned up the gas lamp on the bedside table. The sudden brightness caused her to squint and a tear spilled from her eye. Westfield’s gaze seemed to follow the drop as it progressed down her cheek. He swallowed, and she realized he was not as callous as he wished her to believe.
He ran the pad of his thumb lightly over the moisture. “Sophia,” he said softly, his blue eyes intense. “If you wish to gather your belongings and leave, I will consider our dare and subsequent wager null and void.”
He was giving her an out. She could go and not owe him a forfeit. The thought of curling up in her own bed tempted her, but she didn’t wish to leave. She needed to prove her competence and mettle and win Westfield’s support for reforming medical licensure.
What rot! She knew her reluctance to leave had more to do with the complex man before her—the man whose proximity caused her lungs to tighten.
“I’m going to complete the ten days and win,” she said. “Do you wish to concede?”
The pad of his thumb slid down her cheek to touch her lower lip. “No.”
He was toying with her. Her heart raced in her chest. “I really must get up.”
“I shall carry you to your room.” His hand fell away, and his body shifted closer.
“No.” She placed her palm over his chest to push him away. His skin was warm. Her hands flexed against firm muscle.
“Sophia, you’re not capable of standing. And I doubt Dr. Trimble would be enamored with the idea of tending to both of us in the same bed, though if you insist I will oblige you.”
She opened her mouth, intent on saying something, anything that would make him move away from her. His hand eased beneath her shoulders and the hard pectoral muscles contracted under her palm. She closed her eyes, searched her mind for a distraction, but even the thump, thump, thump still beating against her skull appeared unable to sway her wayward thoughts.
“Are you about to swoon?” he asked, pulling her tighter to him.
She opened her eyes. He was so close his breath caressed her face. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from his sensual mouth. “No,” she finally replied.
“Sophia, I fear I might need to distract you once more.” His fingers stroked her neck.
Distract her? Did he mean kiss her? That idea frightened her more than the relentless throbbing in her head, yet she closed her eyes.
Westfield’s lips touched hers. He coaxed her mouth open and deepened the kiss.
Molten heat pooled in her belly. She lifted her other hand to his chest and ran her fingers over the coarse hair, each wisp a reminder of his maleness—of the differences between their bodies. She slipped her hands to his back, pressed her breasts closer, desiring, needing the contact.
His hand shifted to her collar, and his nimble fingers undid the first few buttons lining the front of her dress. He ran his thumb over her throat and the indentation above her collarbone while his tongue continued to tangle with hers.
He stilled and pulled back. “Mathews is coming.”
A second later, the valet barreled into the room, and Westfield lifted his deft fingers to refasten her buttons.
“No, no, no, my lord,” Mathews exclaimed. “She is a gently bred woman. Not some strumpet.”
“Do not get your peacock feathers in a twist,” Westfield replied, his voice so cool it sent a shiver down her back. “Miss Camden felt faint. I thought some air upon her skin would alleviate her need to swoon. Have you sent for Dr. Trimble?”
“Yes, someone was dispatched to fetch him, a maid is coming with ice, and that strapping footman, Peter, is on his way up to carry Miss Camden to her bedchamber. He shall be here any minute.” He darted into the dressing room.
The urgency in Mathews’s voice lifted the fog clouding Sophia’s mind, and she pushed Westfield’s hands away from her buttons so she could complete the task. Mathews returned with a green velvet and damask robe clutched in his hand.
Westfield stood and slipped the garment on.
Peter entered the bedchamber. The young footman’s mouth dropped open when his gaze settled on her lying in the bed.
“Don’t stand about gawking, Peter,” Westfield snapped. “My leg is bloody well killing me. And Mathews has greatly inconvenienced me by placing Miss Camden in my bed after she took a tumble. Please take her to her room. My breakfast has been detained long enough.”
My heavens, he was good! The conviction in his voice had her almost believing Mathews had placed her in the bed, but her lips still tingled from Westfield’s kiss, and she was sure his hands had left indelible marks on her skin.
A pale-faced Peter rushed forward.
“I can walk,” she hastily said.
“No,” Westfield replied firmly. “You will allow Peter to carry you. No, never mind. I’ll do it.”
Mathews and Peter stared at each other before returning their gazes to her.
Heat singed her cheeks. “No, you mustn’t . . . your leg.”
Ignoring her warning, he lifted her, and cradled her against his chest as he carried her. The warmth of his body filtered through her clothes, heating her skin.
“I’ll open Miss Camden’s bedchamber door,” Mathews said, rushing before them as they entered the corridor.
In her room, Westfield set her down on the bed. For several heartbeats, their gazes locked. He lifted her hand and held her fingers for a moment. She had the strangest feeling he wished to say something, but he turned and strode from the room, limping ever so slightly.
A half hour later, Thomas entered the room.
Sophia shifted uncomfortably in the large bed.
Her dear friend’s jaw visibly clenched as he placed his black medical bag on a chair. “What in God’s name did he do to you?”
He’d be livid if he knew the truth.
“I slipped while in Westfield’s bathing room.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “Sophia, both of us know you are not prone to clumsiness, and I can tell when you are being purposely vague.”
When she didn’t respond, he let out a weighted breath and took her right hand in his. “I very much regret you coming here.”
“I’m fine, Thomas.”
He released her hand. “Yes, I can see that,” he quipped, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and angling her head toward the light. “After I examine you, we can leave. Lady Prescott can bloody well find someone else to tend to her brother.”
Thomas never used profanity in front of her, and the vehemence in his voice startled her. “I wish to stay.”
Lines creased the smooth skin on his forehead. “Why?”
“Because Lady Prescott asked me to come here, and Westfield’s sister has been a great benefactress to many of the charities we both hold dear. Has she not promised to hold a ball to help garner more donations for the new hospital’s building fund?”
“Yes, but I do not believe it prudent for you to stay here, no matter how much she and Westfield donate.”
“Westfield? I was not aware his lordship had made a contribution.”
“Yes, a substantial amount. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have one of the maids pack your belongings so we can leave. Or we can have them sent over to your residence later.”
“Thomas,” she said in a firm voice, “I regard you as my dearest friend, but I stayed in London to gain my independence. To make my own decisions.”
“Of course. I do not wish to overstep. . . .” He raked his fingers through his brown hair. “But I feel responsible for you being here, especially if it is because you don’t wish to upset Lady Prescott.”
“I came here of my own accord. You most certainly didn’t force the position upon me. I feel well enough to get up and resume my job.”
“As your physician, I insist you stay in bed for the remainder of the day. I will inform Westfield that you must not return to duty until tomorrow. Can we at least agree on this?”
She saluted. “Yes, Thomas.”
He squeezed her hand. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to leave with me now?”
Westfield’s kiss flashed before her mind’s eye. “I wish to stay.”
* * *
In the gloom, Hayden leaned back against his headboard and took another sip of whisky. He stared at his bedchamber door. Throughout the day, he’d listened to members of his staff entering and departing Sophia’s room across the corridor. They’d trotted in and out as if she offered tea and biscuits and a Punch and Judy show. Even Celia had begged him to allow her to visit Sophia. “Only for a few minutes,” he’d said. “She needs to rest.”
Mathews had informed him that the household staff was fond of Sophia. During her stay here, she’d supplied Laurent with a salve to help heal a burn on the chef’s hand, a tincture to ease Alice’s toothache, and made a warm poultice for Mrs. Beecham’s sore back.
But now that darkness consumed the sky, they’d all taken to their beds, leaving the house still. Over the last several years, he’d come to despise the quiet quality of night when his mind was free to wander. Normally during the small hours, he avoided solitude, knowing his thoughts would center on Laura and all his deceased wife had endured. Yet, at this moment, his mind focused on Sophia.
He took another sip of whisky. An irate Dr. Trimble had confronted him this morning. The good doctor had slammed his medical bag down on a chair. The man was known for his imperturbable demeanor. Trimble’s actions spoke loud and clear. He carried a torch for his little pro-tégée. Hayden’s hand tightened against his glass. What was their relationship? Did she return the doctor’s sentiment?
Hayden reached under his pillow and pulled out Sophia’s cap. He’d found it in his bed. Bringing it to his nose, he drew in the scent of lavender and lemon.
With a derisive shake of his head, he shoved it under his pillow and glared at the half-empty bottle of whisky. He’d indulged in enough liquor to tranquilize a small elephant, yet surprisingly, and inexcusably, he found no respite from his guilt or his thoughts. The sound of Sophia’s head hitting the tub continued to replay itself in his mind. Utter terror had besieged him upon hearing it. Unease lingered in him still.
An inexplicable, burning need to confirm her well-being assailed him. He threw his bedding aside, swung his feet onto the floor, and cringed as a bolt of pain shot through his thigh. It hadn’t been wise to carry Sophia to her room. He’d known his stitches had ripped open when he’d lifted her from the tub, but the thought of Peter carrying her agitated him.
As he stood, he ran his palm over his thigh. Trimble had stitched the torn skin closed again. The sawbones had done a brilliant job. The stabbing pain was subsiding. He took a step and the room tilted. Apparently, he’d given the doctor too much credit and the liquor not enough.
He listed toward his dressing room. Inside, he turned up the gaslight. There, between two tall armoires, stood the brass stand that held his assortment of walking sticks. Bracing a stiff arm on the first armoire, he removed his gold-knobbed stick, a gift from Celia, given to him on his twenty-seventh birthday. Of course, he had Edith to thank for its simple elegance. Celia, if left to her own accord, would have wanted a handle much more ornate, possibly a bear’s head with sapphire eyes or a serpent. Both would be fine for a night at the theater, but for ambulatory needs, the gold-knobbed stick would serve him well.
He grabbed the handle firmly with his left hand, braced his weight on the walking stick, and hobbled out of his room. He tottered toward Sophia’s bedchamber door. Was she well? When was the last time someone checked on her?
He opened the door and stepped inside.