Defect? “That’s a harsh word.”
“Would you prefer deformity? Disability?”
Uncertain how to respond, she rinsed out the cloth and stroked his right arm to the edge of the bandage. A lock of her loose hair fell forward as she leaned over him.
He twined the fingers of his left hand in the lock, stroking it and loosely twisting it around one finger. “Tell me, my dear Miss Hamlin, how does society view those who are different? Even the brave, wounded war heroes, as they came home on crutches or missing body parts such as eyes. Arms.” He tapped his knee. “A leg or two.”
She wiped the fingers of his right hand, careful not to jostle his arm. “Not well at all,” she whispered.
She recalled how difficult it had been when the daughter of a marquess enrolled at the academy. All her father’s wealth and the exhortations from the teachers and staff could not ease the way for the other students to accept the girl with a club foot. She dropped out after only one term.
Just last week Ashley had been walking down Bond Street with Sally when she saw two gentlemen walking toward their club, one with his empty right sleeve tucked into his coat pocket, his companion wearing an eye patch. A long scar curved from above his eyebrow to his upper lip. Other gentlemen exiting the club darted out of their way and cast furtive glances, as though afraid their conditions were catching.
Beads of perspiration were forming again at his temples. “Ravencroft, I—”
“Don’t call me that.”
She swished the cloth in the basin. “Beg your pardon?”
“Ravencroft was my father. Was supposed to be my older brother Philip after Father died. Years and years from now. Never me. I’m just David Amadeus Linford. A plain mister. The spare, not the heir.”
Ashley squeezed out the cloth and stroked his face. “You would prefer that I address you as Mr. Linford?”
He flung his arms out to the side and dropped his legs back to the bed, pushing the blankets farther away with his bare feet. “Under the circumstances, formal address seems ridiculous, don’t you think?”
He lay there, naked and exposed except for his drawers. She wore her night rail and wrapper, and not a stitch else. She’d dismissed Maggie and Sally hours ago because Mrs. Gillespie did a bed check of the female servants. The darkened bedchamber was lit only from the firelight, partially blocked by a rack with his drying clothes, and the candle on the bedside table.
“Then it seems only fair, David. You may address me as Ashley.”
He reached up to stroke her hair again, his full lips faintly curved in a smile. “Ashley.”
Her stomach did an odd flip hearing his rumbling voice speak her given name. At last she understood the desire to swoon, or at least grin like an idiot.
“I can’t quite tell the color.” He lifted more of her hair and let it slide through his fingers. “It’s like old gold. Or old honey.”
A frisson of pleasure at the sensation of him playing with her long, loose hair crept down her scalp and spine. “Using the word ‘old’ in any description of me is ungallant of you,” she said, struggling to maintain her equilibrium.
“My humble apologies, Ashley.”
She held her hand to her heart at hearing him say her name again. Unfortunately it was the same hand with the wet cloth, and now she had a large wet spot in the middle of her chest.
He grinned, entirely aware that he had discomfited her, his gaze directed at the damp spot as though he could see through to her bare skin.
She glanced down. As thin as the pale blue fabric was, he very well could from his angle. “Wretch.”
His answering grin was unrepentant.
She began sponging him down again. “It was distinctly blonde when I was a child, quite fair. Especially if I’d been out in the sun without my bonnet. It became darker as I—” she was about to say ‘got older’ but reconsidered “—matured.” It seemed appropriate that her hair was not quite blonde yet also not quite brown. She was in Society yet didn’t quite belong.
When she lifted his arm, he toyed with her hair again instead of being completely passive as he had before.
She could do this all night, stroking his fevered body over and over, letting him play with her hair. She cleared her throat. “The willow bark tea helps treat the symptoms of your fever, but Captain Blackthorn had a treatment to get at the underlying cause of the fever. The infection itself.”
He let go of her hair. “Who?”
“An Army surgeon who stayed with us at the academy during an influenza outbreak. He was most generous in sharing his knowledge with me and Mrs. Rafferty.”
“So you could be his assistants?”
