Chapter Three
Sophia tried not to swallow the lump forming in her throat as she stared at the devilish gleam in Lord Westfield’s blue eyes.
When she had entered his bedchamber this morning, she’d expected to see a craggy face harmonious with the vulgar-tongued devil who had snapped at her during the early morning gloom. But the light of day revealed the unexpected. Westfield was perhaps thirty, a good five years younger than his sister, Lady Prescott. And if one could label a man beautiful, the word seemed apropos. His brown hair was wavy, his jaw square and stubborn, and his high cheekbones pronounced, but not too angular. And his eyes were a fascinating color. Not a diluted blue but an intense shade, like an artist’s rendition of the Mediterranean Sea.
Still holding her gaze, Westfield ran a hand over his darkly bristled jaw.
What the deuce had she got herself into daring this rascal? She could practically see the cogwheels turning in the man’s head as he calculated his next move. A move he hoped would leave her owing him a forfeit. Her stomach knotted.
“Miss Camden, you said you assist Dr. Trimble with his female patients?”
She nodded.
“So, you don’t usually attend male patients?”
Perhaps she shouldn’t have admitted that. Did he think it made her less qualified? “I work predominately with women, but I attend children as well, including boys.”
“A boy’s body is not the same as a man’s.”
So this was his game. The bounder thought he’d scare her off with immodest talk. “Anatomically, my lord, boys are not much different than men. Of course, there are the obvious differences. Their muscles are not as defined, they have less body hair, and they are still experiencing growth.”
“Exactly what is still growing?” The scoundrel flashed a boyish grin. An illusion. Such a bold question attested to the fact.
“Their stature of course.”
“Obviously, madam, but can you not offer me something more specific?”
Wicked, wicked man! “Indeed, my lord. Their feet.”
He let out a hearty laugh. “That’s not the answer I was seeking, Miss Camden, but possibly Dr. Trimble’s anatomy books aren’t as comprehensive as you believe.”
“Dr. Trimble’s journals and illustrated books are rather detailed,” she responded tartly.
“Really? Perhaps next time Trimble is here, I shall ask him about his infamous books. I will inform him how you told me all about their detailed illustrations, inciting my interest in them.”
Heat burned her cheeks. The scoundrel was beyond the pale, twisting her words around. Well, Thomas would not believe him. She moved to the foot of the bed, intent on pulling Westfield’s bedding back over his body. He trapped the navy blue counterpane under his good leg, then flashing a smile, he folded his hands behind his head.
“Miss Camden, I’m in need of a hot sponge bath. And you, my dear woman, are about to get a true lesson in anatomy.” He motioned with his chin to a door at the side of the room. “You’ll find a clean nightshirt in my dressing room.”
The smile on his face clearly revealed he thought he’d won. That, at any moment, she’d scurry out of his bedchamber, down the stairs, and out the front door as her predecessor had. The unscrupulous man was in for a shock. “Yes, right away.”
He blinked. “You’re going to bathe me?”
“Did I not mention, my lord, Lady Prescott wishes me only to deal with your medical care? The honor of bathing you shall fall soundly on your valet, Mr. Mathews.”
“Damn Edith and her prudish morality,” he mumbled.
Sophia tapped her fingernail against the side of the bedpan, drawing his attention to the porcelain bowl. “He will assist you with the bedpan as well. I trust the urge to shove someone’s head in it has passed?”
He scowled.
“If you’ll excuse me, I shall inform him you’re ready for his assistance.” Sophia curtseyed and exited the room.
She pulled the bedchamber door shut and leaned against the hard surface. Closing her eyes, she expelled a heavy breath as the memory of Lord Westfield’s body flashed before her. Never in her life had she seen a man with such an impressive physique. In truth, Thomas’s medical books with their abundance of illustrations had not prepared her for dealing with a man who possessed legs like Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. It had been rather difficult to feign indifference.
And now she’d foolishly allowed the man to up the ante and add a wager to her dare. Why had she acted so impetuously? It would have made sense if she needed the funds, but she did not. However, his lordship’s reticence to let her tend to him had made her feel inadequate, reminded her of Great-Uncle Charles’s cruel words about her limited worth. She’d wanted to prove her competence. To show his lordship she could care for him as well as any man.
But to dare him was rash. To add a forfeit lunacy! The scoundrel would use every wile in his arsenal to thwart her. This would not be a means to prove her intelligence, but a game to ease Westfield’s ennui. She straightened. Well, she’d not turn back now and owe him some unknown prize. She had contended for years with Great-Uncle Charles’s sharp tongue; surely, she could survive whatever Westfield heaved upon her.
But she needed to raise the stakes.
She spun around and rapped on Westfield’s bedchamber door.
“Enter,” his deep voice called.
With shoulders squared, she marched to the foot of his massive bed. “If I win the dare, my lord, there is something else I want.”
He arched a dark brow.
She gathered her courage and barreled forward. “Do you know Russell Gurney?”
“From the House of Commons? Of course.”
“Mr. Gurney hopes to change the law that excludes women from taking the examination to be physicians. If I last the ten days, I wish you to support his efforts.”
His blue eyes widened. “Do you wish to be a physician, Miss Camden?”
She stiffened her back and held her chin high. Whenever she revealed this fact, she opened herself to derision, especially from Great-Uncle Charles. But everyone she’d loved had died, and perhaps if she became a doctor, she could stop others from losing those most important to them and experiencing the loneliness that sometimes crept over her.
“I do, my lord. One who treats women.”
The room grew quiet and even though his lordship’s face didn’t show scorn, a bead of sweat trickled down her back.
“Very well, Miss Camden. If you win, I’ll throw my political weight behind this issue.”
The air held in her lungs eased out. “You will?”
“Whatever else I am, madam, I am a man of my word.” He grinned. “But first you must complete the dare to avoid owing me a forfeit.”
She intended on winning. Yes, she’d prove her competence and tenacity, no matter how much his lordship tried to unsettle her. She had to. The stakes had become too dear. With his lordship’s political muscle, she might just attain her dream of becoming a physician.
* * *
The following morning, at nine thirty sharp, Sophia strode to Westfield’s bedchamber door. Yesterday, his lordship and she had engaged in a battle of wits throughout the day. He had complained incessantly, cursed like a sailor three sheets to the wind, and asked her a multitude of tedious and wicked questions about human anatomy. She’d refused to answer him, and he’d flashed that boyish grin of his, knowing he unsettled her.
Fortunately, his lordship had spent the better part of the evening preoccupied with ledgers, folios, and documents all scattered about his bed like the leaves of a maple on a winter’s day. Peculiar behavior for a man linked to a coterie of nobility known for their indolence and frivolity.
She rapped a quick staccato against the thick oak door and entered his bedchamber with a fair amount of resolve. Westfield’s large frame was sprawled, belly down, over the massive bed, and he stirred upon her entering. She moved to the windows and flung the heavy blue curtains wide. The room flooded with the grayness of the stark morning.
Grumbling, Westfield dragged the counterpane over his head.
She cleared her throat. “My lord, I have an appointment at eleven o’clock, and I wish to examine your leg before I leave.”
From under the bedding came a low disembodied voice. “Miss Camden, you walk a fine line between insolence and outright madness waking me this bloody early.” He lowered the counterpane off his head, clutched his injured thigh, and rolled onto his back.
Even with his hair in disarray, the man looked appealing. What would it be like to wake up next to such a virile man? She tamped down her wicked thought.
He narrowed his already heavy-lidded eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, madam. You may examine me upon your return.”
Evidently, she was destined to struggle through another day of combative behavior. So be it. Without responding, she entered the bathing room, washed her hands, and collected fresh bandages.
She returned to find Westfield had rolled back onto his stomach and appeared fast asleep. Did he believe she’d concurred with his mandate? Well, he was in for a shock. With a swift tug, she sent the heavy counterpane and sheet flying to the foot of the bed.
She sucked in a breath. Westfield’s nightshirt had ridden up and over his hips to reveal his taut bum. Gracious, his gluteus muscles were so developed one could bounce a coin off them.
“Shall I roll over, Miss Camden, so you can ogle my bits as well?” Westfield asked, his deep voice muffled by his thick pillow.
She swallowed. How long had she been staring? She darted to the foot of the bed and flung the sheet upward.
Westfield rolled over and peered at her with a lopsided grin. “Tsk-tsk, Miss Camden. Who would have guessed you’re a naughty girl?”
She set her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “And you are no gentleman. Now please pull your nightshirt down, so I may examine you.”
His grin widened as he adjusted his nightshirt. “Ah, I think you’ve examined me well enough.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Do not flatter yourself. I have a job to do, and you look no different to me than the children I tend to. In fact, from what I could see, you . . . you reminded me of little Edward Shore.”
Westfield’s smug face faltered. “Who the deuce is little Edward Shore?”
“One of Dr. Trimble’s patients. The poor mite took ill last week, and I helped his mother bathe him with cool water to reduce his fever.”
His lordship’s color dimmed a shade causing him to resemble a man suffering with a case of the collywobbles. He’d probably never had such an unflattering comment heaved upon him. No, she bet his lovers practically swooned over that fine bum of his.
“Oh, my lord, you appear disconcerted. I do not wish you to fret over little Edward, for he has fully recovered.”
“How old?”
“What?”
A nerve twitched in his jaw. “How old is little Edward?”
She tapped a finger to her chin. “I believe he is nine. But he’s a wee little thing who looks no more than seven.” Sophia bent down, averted her smiling face, and began to unwrap his bandages.
She expected a pithy retort, but Westfield remained silent, which didn’t bode well.
Dash it all, what’s he thinking? “After I change your bandages, I’ll bring your breakfast tray before I leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“I volunteer at the Whitechapel Mission and Dispensary in the East End. Dr. Trimble and I go there one day a week.”
Westfield’s face twisted. “Whitechapel? It’s the bowels of hell. Will Trimble remain with you while you are there?”
“Sir, are you concerned for my welfare?”
“Will he remain with you?” he repeated, his jaw tense.
“Yes, I expect his carriage at eleven o’clock.” She finished examining his thigh, moved into the bathing room, and set the soiled clothes in an enamel pail before washing her hands. She stepped back into the bedchamber. “I shall return shortly with your breakfast.”
“Miss Camden, what lunatic, besides Dr. Thomas Trimble, considers that paste I’m fed breakfast?”
“My lord, many people start their day with a bowl of hot porridge.”
“And what did you eat for breakfast?” His tone betrayed he thought it something magnificent.
“For the past two mornings, I’ve been served porridge, along with the rest of the staff.”
He frowned. “Do they eat it every day?”
It sounded as if the thought sickened him. “I’m not certain, but it’s possible.”
“Well, I want something substantial.”
Sophia looked at his tightly set jaw. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with him, and a return to his normal diet might improve his disposition. Though unlikely. “All right, I will inform your chef you may start eating your regular fare.”
“And tell Mrs. Beecham I wish to speak with her. Feeding the staff porridge every day is unconscionable.”
His disgust over his staff’s breakfast surprised her. She nodded and exited the room.
As she passed a hall mirror, she surveyed her frazzled face. Good grief, what had she been thinking, gawking at Westfield’s bum as if it were some fine antiquity on display at the British Museum? No wonder the scoundrel had looked so pleased with himself. She pressed her fingers against her flushed cheeks. Blast it all, the man looked nothing like little Edward Shore. He was magnificent, and he knew it!
A half hour later, Sophia made her way up the stairs carrying Westfield’s breakfast tray. As she stepped off the landing, she saw his valet closing the master’s bedchamber door.
Mathews, a balding man well into his forties, started upon seeing her, and then turned several shades of red before settling on the color of a ripe tomato. The man looked ready to swoon. She rushed forward. The covered platters on the tray rattled and the Sevres creamer tipped precariously. “Mr. Mathews, are you ill?”
The valet shook his head, pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed it across his shimmering brow. His hands trembled like a man suffering the ravages of palsy.
“Miss,” he said, stuffing his dampened linen back into his pocket. “I must insist you give me the tray and let me bring it into his lordship.”
Sophia eyed him keenly. “Mr. Mathews, I assure you I can handle whatever nonsense his lordship throws at me.” She gave him a smile, hoping to reassure him. “Would you be so kind as to open the door?”
He took a deep breath. “I shall accompany you, Miss Camden.”
Sophia gave a brisk nod, and Mathews slowly swung the door open.
She crossed the threshold. The bed was empty.
What the deuce! Silly, silly man. Reckless to be up and gallivanting about. Her gaze shifted to an open doorway. A private sitting room? Yes, from where she stood, she could see a settee and several chairs done in the same opulent navy damask as the bedroom’s curtains and counterpane. Like the bedchamber, the walls were white with thick moldings and wainscoting.
“Mathews, if that is Miss Camden send her in.”
Something in the lighthearted tone of Westfield’s voice, along with Mr. Mathews’s unease, sent a foreboding sensation skittering up her spine.
What in heaven’s name is Westfield up to? She strode to the doorway, stepped into the room, and nearly tripped over her own two feet.
Westfield lounged on a chaise, wearing nothing but a thin sheet wrapped around his lean waist and a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.