What did it mean? What would it change?
She swallowed, hard, but her throat was so dry it did no good.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.
It didn’t mean a thing. Nothing more than spreading her legs for Dr. Edmonton or Bernard and then taking their money for rent. Obviously, David was better. In the morning, he would tell her who to send for and then he would be gone.
Her peace, her privacy, her independence would all be intact. Yes, he’d seen a part of her that no one else ever had, that no one ever should have seen, but she’d never have to face him again.
A masculine snore drew her back to herself. Faint rays of morning light played over his sharply drawn, handsome features.
Softness and warmth melted through her. She wanted to return to the bed and lay her hand on that stubble-darkened cheek. To trace his square jaw line. Fear arose within her anew.
He had to go.
As soon as possible.
Chapter Four
Jeanne stood by the bedside and smoothed David’s forelock back. The strands, fine and silken, slid against her fingers, the color so black it shone with bluish lights in the morning sunshine from the window.
What the devil was she doing? She was supposed to be testing his temperature. She laid her hand upon his brow. A little too warm but not scorching.
He had to go back to his life today. A whole day had passed since the night he had…they had…heat flashed through her body at the memory, wetness seeping from her core. Desire. She had no wish to re-ignite it by putting a name to what had occurred.
The incident.
That’s how she ought to refer to it. If she needed to refer to it at all.
It wasn’t important. The important matter was getting David well enough so he could leave. But David had slept, still and without moving, for a whole day and night since the incident. Then this morning, there had been the awkward and strangely embarrassing necessity to help him with the chamber pot. She’d assisted Papa with such matters so often it had become simply a routine.
David wasn’t Papa. She didn’t owe him a thing.
David needed to leave.
“Intimacy.” She said the word aloud. It tasted foreign on her tongue but it sounded so harmless. The consonants and vowels gave no hint of its dangers.
After David had emptied his bladder, he’d fallen back into the bed and into slumber. Surely he couldn’t sleep much more? What could she do to hasten his departure once he did awaken?
A bath and a shave. Yes, a gentleman wouldn’t wish to be seen, even by his coachman, looking like a castaway from some remote island. But Papa’s shaving items were gone, stolen from him at the asylum…along with the last of his dignity. A sudden pain stabbed her chest. She inhaled sharply, trying to ease it. Oh goodness, she’d simply send Wat, the neighbor’s son, for some shaving items. And some beef and ale, something sustaining to feed David. And fresh fruit, whatever was available. He was so weak, he needed to be built up again—
The softness centering in her chest halted her train of thought. She shook herself with ruthless vigor.
No, don’t feel about this. It is just a practical matter. Just do whatever is needed to be done to send the stranger on his way.
Her life shouldn’t be this complicated. And it wouldn’t be any longer, as soon as David was gone.
Walter returned with the shopping and Jeanne set beef stew to cook. She swept the garret from corner to corner. Read a novella. Ate beef stew with ale. And still David slept.
She then tried to write but to no avail. Now it was evening. With eyes strained from staring at a blank page, she watched the little white flakes flutter-dance in the light from a street lamp. Her tired gaze grew bleary. She shivered and hugged her shoulders. There was nothing left to do but crawl into bed and forget another day of failure.
Jeanne undid her wrapper and lifted the coverlet. David’s scent wafted up to her, familiar, beguiling. She slid between the sheets, and warmth from David’s body welcomed her, surrounded her, and melted away the tension in her muscles. She sank into her pillow and closed her eyes. A sort of bliss spread in her chest and her belly, into her limbs, making them heavy, so heavy. Silvery white softness, like fluffy clouds, enveloped her mind, the gentlest embrace of slumber.
“Thérèse.”
Awareness crept in.
Don’t think. Don’t spoil it.
She was on her side, facing away from him. His hands gripped her hips. The firm ridge of his erection pressed into her buttocks. She arched back, pressing him. But she wanted to see it. To hold its velvety steel firmness in her hand, to stroke him and feel every pulsation. She was naughty like that, yes. Men didn’t really mind her proclivities—why should she feel ashamed? Bernard had even once allowed her to bring him to crisis with her hand and to watch.