“Very well.”
Her father went to the head of the bed and propped Arundel up slightly. He groaned in pain, but he didn’t open his eyes. Belle concentrated on extracting his hands from the sleeve and then tugged the shirt up. Whoever had dressed him after the doctor had tended him had not tucked the shirt into the waistband of his trousers, so at least she needn’t deal with those. She pushed the shirt up his abdomen, trying not to notice that that part of his body was flat and muscled. Though he was wealthy and upper class—he must be if he and Randall went to school together—he obviously did some sort of physical labor. Her mouth went dry at the sight of those muscles and the broad expanse of his chest. Belle swallowed and tried to avert her eyes as she maneuvered the shirt higher. But then there was a new obstacle. With her gaze averted, she had to feel her way up his body, up the smooth, taut, warm skin of his chest. It was lightly furred with hair that tickled and intrigued. She bit her lip, scolding herself for drooling over an injured man in her care, and attempted to focus. Finally, the shirt was over his head and away, and her father had laid him back down.
Belle’s gaze strayed to her patient’s chest again, and she hissed in a breath. “The bandage is soaked with blood.”
“Not surprising considering how much he’s been moved about. I’ll fetch the clean linen, and we will change it.”
Changing a bloody bandage was about the last thing Belle wanted to do at midnight after she’d been up at six that morning and would need to be awake again in six hours. Her father left to fetch the linen the housekeeper had sent, and Belle set about unknotting the linen wrapped around the man’s upper chest, which held the bandage in place. She tugged the wrapping off so she would not have to move him, then held the bloody bandage in place, waiting for her father to return. She told herself her actions were completely necessary, but it felt strangely intimate to lean across the man’s body this way, even if it was only to hold a bandage to his wound. He was half naked, and the warmth of his flesh made her belly tighten and her breath come quicker.
Her sleeves were three-quarter length so as not to interfere with her work or become dusty with tea. It was sweet torture to feel the heat and smoothness of his chest against her wrists and the tender flesh of her inner forearms. She tried not to react to her forced proximity, tried to slow her breathing, tried to think of tea or chores or anything but the man she touched. It was impossible, though, and as her father still did not return, Belle gave in and turned her head to study her patient’s face.
He was closely shaven, only the barest hint of dark stubble having grown back since his last encounter with a razor. His jaw was square, as was his face. He had a nice nose, not too long or short. It was crooked, though, and she assumed that meant it had been broken at some point. His eyes were closed, so she could not see their color. He had dark lashes and brows that matched the dark hair on his head. That hair, still damp from the drizzle outside, had a bit of curl and wave to it, though she would never have said it was unruly. Still, she felt another shiver of attraction flit up her spine. She had to find a way to quash that attraction. She was supposed to be a chaste, proper woman, not a panting wanton.
The world—her world of Fenchurch Street—saw her as a virtuous spinster, but little did her neighbors know her virtue was not by choice. She had desires and urges like any other woman. She’d learned to disguise them, knowing she would only be pitied for wanting what she could not have. But now, alone with a flesh-and-blood man who was undeniably attractive, she was finding it very hard to control her body’s feelings of desire.
What would Mr. Arundel think if he knew the direction of her thoughts? If he knew she imagined him recovered so she could run her fingers over his muscles and kiss that flat abdomen. Perhaps he would wake up and repay the favor...
Or would he?
Except for the crooked nose, the man looked like the perfect gentleman. Most likely he was a gentleman. Why else would he be dining in the Randalls’ home? And Randall had said the two had gone to school together. When he woke—if he woke—he would probably be appalled to find himself in a flat above a tea shop on Fenchurch Street. He would be disgusted by the pockmarked woman tending him. The last thing he would want to do was touch her. She could only pray his family would arrive and take him home before he awoke. If their country estate was not far, they might arrive tomorrow afternoon or evening.
“Here we are,” her father said as he pushed open her bed chamber door. Belle let out a breath of relief. He carried the linen and a tray with a teapot.
“Spearmint?” she asked.
“I thought it might help with the excitement of the evening.”
Belle nodded, though she would have preferred a black tea that would help her stay awake. Her father set down the tea tray and handed her an empty bowl. She removed the bloodied bandage while he fetched her washbasin and ewer. He poured water in the washbasin, and she dipped clean linen in the cool water, cleaned the bloody wound, and, trying not to look at the blood, held out a hand for a fresh bandage.
“Oh, dear,” her father said. He stood over her and looked down at the wound.
Belle looked at him instead of the injury. Her stomach felt queasy just thinking of the thread holding the pieces of skin together. She had to make an effort not to shudder. “What is it?”
“One of the stitches has torn. That must be why he is bleeding.”
Belle kept her gaze firmly on her father. “The doctor can repair it when he returns tomorrow.” She certainly could not do it. She was no seamstress, and she would most definitely retch if she had to pierce skin with a needle. “The bandage,” she said, her voice hoarse as she tried to swallow the rising bile.
Her father gave her the thick piece of linen, and she placed it over the wound. Relieved that it was covered, she took a breath and held out a hand for the long strip of linen to wrap him. Her father handed it to her then helped gently lift the man so they could wind it about his body. Belle waited a moment, praying blood would not immediately seep through the bandage, but the cloth remained white. She pulled the covers back over him and sat back.
Her chamber felt cold now without the heat of the man against her, but that was nothing tea wouldn’t solve. She poured a cup and stood with her hands curled around it. Her father was seated in the chair he’d brought. Her chamber had been small before, but now she could hardly move with the chair taking up more space.
“I don’t like leaving you alone,” her father said, his gaze on Mr. Arundel.
“I’ll call for you if I need any help,” she said. “And I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
He nodded then rose. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “I don’t know how we might have avoided it, though. A home with a new baby is no place for a man to convalesce.”
“I hardly think a tea shop the best location either.”
“It’s not so loud up here,” she said. “And it’s only until his family can be notified and return to take him in.”
“Let’s hope that is sooner rather than later.”
Belle agreed. The last thing they needed was a dead man in the tea shop.
SHE DRANK HER SPEARMINT tea then brewed some of her best English Evening tea. She was no great reader as there was no time for such pursuits, but her father had a few books in the flat. She tried to read one but ended up unable to focus. Instead, she sipped endless cups of tea and stood at her window, looking down on Fenchurch Street. The street was dark and barely visible through the streaks of rain on the window. Her chamber boasted the only window in the flat, and in the summer they filled a window box with flowers to make the shop look more inviting. Now the box was empty save for the rainwater pooling in it and slowly draining out through the small holes in the base.
