Chapter 12

12

Twenty minutes later,Richard lay shirtless on the bed in Jane’s room. How luxuriously comfortable her bed was, and how intimate it felt to be in this space that was hers alone—a space where no man was supposed to come.

Jane had given him something to drink for the pain, some sort of bitter alcohol that tasted like herbs. He felt relaxed and warm and slightly light-headed as she kneeled on the floor next to the bed, her small, exquisite hands cleaning the cut on his chest, touching him so lightly they felt like the fluttering of a butterfly.

Her room was so much like her. The wood-paneled walls were painted a pretty dove-egg blue, and botanical illustrations of flowers hung in the middle of the panels: peonies, tulips, hydrangeas, roses. Of course she’d have botanical illustrations; they were the most objective representations of flowers. The room was large, and a plush carpet softened the wooden floor. White window hangings framed two paned windows.

There was a large bookcase full of tomes—which was quite unusual for a bedchamber. A writing desk stood by one of the windows bearing heaps of paper, books, and three jars of ink. Quills lay on the papers, and it all looked quite disorganized…thank heavens. Somehow, the thought of her being imperfect ignited his curiosity even more.

Coals crackled softly in the fireplace’s black cast-iron grate, bringing blessed warmth.

“Jane…” he rasped. “I appreciate your help, but I am fine. I’ll send for our family physician in the morning. This is nothing.”

She dipped a bloodied cloth into a basin of water standing on the night table next to her bed. The crimson water reddened even more. “It is not nothing. I need to stitch you. It would take you at least thirty minutes to reach Sumhall.”

She did look a little pale and worried, he thought, as she ran the wet cloth over his undamaged skin to clean the blood away. The cut must be around two or three inches long, and blood oozed in a thin, constant stream.

“I won’t bleed to death,” he said as he watched her big, worried eyes behind her spectacles. “Besides, you are touching me. Against your own rules.”

Her sharp, angry gaze met with his and she stilled. He was afraid for a moment she’d agree with him and tell him to leave. Even if he kept insisting on going home, he hated the idea of it. He liked her hands on him. He liked her room.

And most importantly, he liked her, flushed and breathing quickly. He’d never met a woman who didn’t need his protection. Back in the Red Donkey, she hadn’t. She’d probably have been fine even if Richard hadn’t interfered.

And touching her…the feel of her skin, her scent that set his blood on fire and left him wanting so, so much more.

She put the wet cloth back into the basin of water and picked up a clean piece of gauze. She folded it into a rectangular piece and pressed it against his cut, but the pain was a dull, distant ache, no doubt thanks to the drink she gave him.

“I will need some additional courage before the next part,” she said.

He watched her walk to the sideboard where her medicinal basket stood, pour brandy into a small glass and drink it, then shudder.

“I do not usually drink,” she said as she walked back to him with the basket in her hands. She dropped to her knees in front of his bed and took out a hooked needle and a thread, which must have been made of catgut. That was what he heard anyway.

With a distant fascination, he watched the needle pierce the two sides of his cut, which sent a piercing pain through him that made him suck in a quick breath, and then a tugging pain as Jane pulled the thread through.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” he asked in a raspy voice as her swift fingers pushed the needle through his flesh again.

“Thorne,” she said as she pulled the thread through. “He comes back sometimes with cuts and bruises. His men, too. Atticus, Reuben, others. Broken arms. Split lips. Brace, one of my brother’s close friends, is a skilled physician. He taught me because I wanted to help. Thanks to him, I know how to clean wounds, suture them, and bandage them. Of course, not as well as him…”

As she kept working, Richard went silent, breathing through the pain, his mind spinning like ash in the wind. Stitch after stitch, he wondered what lady of the ton would stand the sight of blood without blinking. Not to mention suture a wound.

That was because she wasn’t one.

She was so, so much more.

“You should slay those dragon matrons of the ton like you just slayed that man back in the Red Donkey.” He chuckled and added, “Figuratively, of course.”

Jane said nothing, but the corners of her lips stretched as she suppressed a smile, devils playing in her eyes. She had already done five stitches and was about halfway through.

“You didn’t need me at all,” added Richard, wincing as the next jab of pain came.

“I told you that you didn’t need to worry about me.”

“Indeed.”

To distract himself from the ache, he looked around the room and his gaze landed on the heaps of books on her desk.

“Does it take a long time to prepare a lesson?” he asked.

She briefly followed his gaze, then came back to her torturous work. “It depends. As I have never been taught how to teach others, I find myself making mistakes. But I improve and things get better. Last one, Lord Richard. You did well.”

She pierced him for the last time and tied the knot, then cut the thread with scissors.

He breathed out with relief. “Your potion helped.” He chuckled. “Is that the doctor’s recipe?”

“It is,” she said. “Please, sit up.”

Richard pulled himself up and sat. Her gaze dropped down his naked chest and returned to his eyes, her cheeks reddening. He liked that he affected her because she most definitely affected him.

She found a longer strip of gauze and masterfully bandaged a piece of thickly folded gauze against his chest by wrapping it over his shoulder next to his neck.

And then it was done.

“What drew you to teaching, then?” he asked.

She picked up the basin, carried it to her dressing table, and placed it there. “It was a combination of things. I guess I could say that a noble desire played a part. Those children…they get education, only it’s not the kind with books and numbers. Many of them are trained to pick pockets and do burglaries. And do you know what happens when they’re caught?”

Richard inhaled sharply. “They’re hanged,” he said.

She nodded as she poured the bloody water into the night pot, then cleaned the basin with a cloth, and poured clean water into it. “Indeed. I once saw a gallows with a child’s corpse swaying in the wind,” she said, her voice shaking. A chill ran down Richard’s own spine. “I never want another child to get punished for something they are born into and have no control over.”

Richard couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had been born into a life of privilege and luxury. His biggest daily problem was usually finding the next soirée, the next willing lady with whom he could escape heartache and sadness for a few hours. He did not concern himself with where his next meal would come from.

Neither did this woman, and yet, she had decided to do something useful with herself. Unlike he, who considered himself quite useless…until recently when he had made it his mission to find out what happened to his brother. And it was still Jane who was doing the actual investigating.

“Is that what made you start the school?” he asked.

“I wish it was the only thing,” she said as she picked up a bar of soap and lathered her hands. The foam became pink from his blood. “However, there is another, quite selfish reason.”

He doubted she had a selfish bone in her body. “I am intrigued.”

She rinsed her hands in the basin, then dried them with a towel. “Building this school… Making a difference for these children, and hopefully for more children in Whitechapel… That chases my loneliness away. Makes me feel useful. Like I’m making a difference.”

“That is not selfish, Jane,” he breathed. “I only wish I had something like that to bring meaning to my life.”

She frowned and walked to the bed, then sat at the edge, her leg touching his, facing him. “Your life matters, Richard,” she said. “Every life does. You have a beautiful family, who clearly love you very much.”

He nodded and stared into space. “I suppose they do. Yet…” He paused, looking down at his hands. “You know, I’ve always felt like no one. Spencer, he was always supposed to be the duke, the heir… I always admired him. I was never given a chance to properly learn the things that interested him, like politics and running the estate. He was everyone’s favorite. Preston, he was the spare, so he was still taught and trained and paid attention to. Calliope, she was the only girl, Mama and Papa’s little princess. And I…I knew they loved me. But I just…I never felt like I had a place. Like I was important.”

Her hand moved to lie just a fraction away from his own on the bed. He could feel the warmth of it. “You matter, Richard. What you do have control over is what you do with your life, with your privilege.”

He absorbed her words, his heart pounding in his chest. She had a point, he thought. He had the privilege and the resources to do something impactful. He had just never given it a thought. Richard felt a flicker of hope. Yes, he could do that. He could make a difference in his own way. Jane’s passion for her school was contagious, and he found himself sharing in her excitement.

“I’ve always found business ideas fascinating. Whenever I heard Papa and Spencer talk about investments, business ventures, I was curious and wanted to learn more.”

She smiled warmly, her eyes never leaving his. “Perhaps you could start a business venture of your own.”

His mind raced, hungry for possibilities. For the first time in years, a true inspiration made him feel light and alive. “Yes, I could do that,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “Thank you, Jane. You’ve given me something to think about, something to strive for.”

Her hand inched closer to his own. “I’m glad I could help,” she said softly.

He stopped breathing. Their eyes locked. Hers were big and gray and glistening and so, so pretty. Her hand finally closed the rest of the tiny distance between them, and her finger touched his.

A jolt of hot awareness rushed through him, like a lightning bolt streaking through a stormy night sky. He turned his hand and intertwined his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. She didn’t pull away, but instead, her fingers tightened around his hand.

“You’re breaking your own rules again, Jane,” he whispered, his eyes not leaving hers. His heart pounded in his chest like a wild drum.

“I know,” she said, her voice barely audible. Her eyes burned with an intensity that made his breath hitch. Her other hand rose slowly, tracing a line from his shoulder, down his chest, coming to rest on the bandages that covered his wound.

“I’ve followed rules all my life, Richard. My father’s rules. Society’s rules. My own rules. For once, I just…” She hesitated, her cheeks coloring slightly, but she didn’t lower her gaze, didn’t retreat. Instead, she took a deep breath and finished her sentence. “I want to break them.”

Before he could respond, she leaned in and her lips met his, soft and tentative. His heart pounded in his chest. His blood roared in his ears. His hand slipped up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He deepened the kiss, tasting her, pulling her closer.

Her fingers moved across his chest, sending ripples of pleasure coursing through his veins. He felt like he was drowning in her, and he didn’t want to be saved. The world outside, with its expectations and conventions, fell away, replaced by the intoxicating sensation of her lips on his, her body pressed against him.

She was so small, so light. Her lips were even softer, even fuller than he imagined. He brushed his tongue lightly against them, and her mouth parted, taking him in. One caress of his tongue against hers, and he was all fire, all need, all tingling ache.

How many ladies had he had in his arms since Lady Charity? How many times had this led to him in a woman’s bed, taking her with just one thought in mind—forgetting the woman who had hurt him like no one had before.

For the first time in his life, Richard felt like he may find his purpose. This wonderful, extraordinary woman who was brave enough to break all the rules made him see that. He would make her proud, he decided. He would find a way to make a difference, to matter.

But for now, he was content to stay lost in her arms, breaking all the rules with her.

Breathing hard, she pulled away and stood, and he was left with empty, cold air around him.

“We can’t do this, Richard,” she said, her hands covering her mouth.

Richard… He liked hearing his Christian name on her lips more than he wished to admit.

“Whyever not?” He brushed his knuckles against her skin. “My betrothed. You wanted to break all the rules, didn’t you? I’m exactly the right man to do that with.”

Her face was flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She was just as affected as he was. She bit her lip, her fingers lightly touching his cheek, a sparkle in her eyes that he had not seen before.

“I…” she started, her voice wavering slightly. He shushed her gently, placing his fingers against her lips. He didn’t want her to speak, not now. He didn’t want her to say anything that might spoil this moment.

“Jane…” he said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and filled with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. He lowered his hand from her lips, intertwining their fingers again. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, the intimate touch sending another wave of warmth flooding through him.

A part of him was worried about what would happen next, about what he might be starting. But another part, a larger part, was excited about the possibilities, about the future he could build with Jane, about the difference he could make with her by his side.

“Lie here,” he told her as he moved over to give her space, his voice hoarse. He didn’t want her to leave, to go back to the world outside, where their classes and stations would come into play again. Here, in her room, it was just Jane and him.

She nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, and she climbed up onto the bed and stretched next to him. He liked her there, liked her scent, the outline of her body under her simple gray dress. Heavens, she belonged in the finest of fabrics and the best fashions, although he would take her in any shape or form.

He reached out, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her closer. She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed out on his bare skin, the touch searing him through the bandages. He looked down at her head. The weight of it, her scent in his nostrils, did something soothing and wonderful in his chest.

They lay quietly for a while, and he just enjoyed the feel of her against him, warm and light. His cut ached and felt hot, but he’d take so many more cuts like that just for another night where he could hold her.

It must have been the effect of the potion he took and the brandy she drank—soon, she began breathing evenly against him, and he was pulled down into the lulling warmth of sleep.