The Mad Earl's Bride by Loretta Chase Page A

enveloped him and drew him in. Entranced, he walked to the edge of the sunken bath. Towels had been laid on the bottom and draped over the sides.
    His impotent rage dissipated in the sweet warmth and quiet.
    He flung off his dressing gown and climbed in, groaning as he slid into the steaming water and the heat stole into his aching muscles.
    A moment later, a small pillow slid behind his neck. His eyes flew open.
    Mesmerized by the delicious warmth, the inviting water, he had forgotten about the witch . . . and he was stark, screaming naked.
    “All you need to do is soak,” she said. “Lean back on the cushion. I’ll do the rest.”
    He couldn’t remember what the rest was and winced when the soft, icy bag settled onto his head.
    “I’ll hold it in place,” she said. “You needn’t worry about it slipping off.”
    The ice bag was the least of his concerns.
    He looked down into the water. The sunken tub was not the deepest one in the world. He could see his masculine possessions all too distinctly.
    Though it was too late for modesty, he drew a bit of towel over the place and set his hand over it to keep it from floating up.
    He heard a faint sound, suspiciously like a giggle. He refused to look up.
    “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” the witch said. “Admittedly, the others were live babies or adult corpses, but the equipment is essentially the same in all males.”
    Something stirred in his sluggish mind. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, trying to collect the elusive bits and pieces. The hospital . . . definite ideas and . . . principles. Her relatives’ puzzling obedience. Her lack of fear. The basin in his hands the instant he needed it . . . the quiet efficiency.
    He began to understand, but not altogether. Many women had nursing experience, and yet . . .
    He returned to the last piece of news. He could understand about the babies. Plenty of women saw infants naked—but adult male . . . corpses?
    “How many deathbeds have you attended, Miss Adams?” He kept his eyes closed. It was easier to think without trying to see at the same time. His eyes still hurt. Though the pain was easing, it was still there.
    “I am not Miss Adams any longer,” she said. “We are wed now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
    “Ah, yes. It slipped my mind for a moment. Because of the . . . dead bodies. I am vastly interested in your corpses, Lady Rawnsley.”
    “So was I,” she said. “But you will not believe the difficulties I encountered. Admittedly, fresh corpses are not so easy to come by. Still, that is no excuse for medical men to be so selfish about them. How is one to learn, I ask you, if one is not permitted even to witness a dissection?”
    “I haven’t the least idea.”
    “It is ridiculous,” she said. “I finally had to resort to challenging one of Mr. Knightly’s students. The condescending coxcomb claimed I would lose my breakfast and swoon and fall on the stone floor and get a severe concussion. I bet him ten pounds I wouldn’t.” She paused. “As it turned out, he was the one who went to pieces.” Her voice held a quiet note of triumph. “After I’d dragged his unconscious body out of the way—I did not wish to step on him by accident—I continued the dissection myself. It was most enlightening. You cannot learn a fraction as much from a living person. You can’t see anything.”
    “How frustrating,” he murmured.
    “It is. You’d think that proving myself once would be sufficient, but no. It was the one and only time I had the instruments in my hand and a corpse all to myself. All I won was permission to observe, and that must remain a dark secret, lest my family get wind of it. Even with the patients—the living ones—it was no good proving my competence to anybody. As long as Mr. Knightly was in charge, I might only assist, discreetly. He must rule absolutely, and mere females must obey orders, even when they are based upon the most antiquated