The Mad Earl's Bride by Loretta Chase Page B

theories.”
    Behind his closed eyes, Dorian saw the answer now, with stunning clarity.
    A day earlier, the insight would have had him leaping from the bath and running hell for leather for the nearest available mire.
    At present, a part of his mind suggested that fleeing was not an altogether bad idea.
    But he was so comfortable, his muscles relaxing in the steaming water, his tormented head pleasantly cool.
    And so he said, very mildly, “Small wonder, then, that you should leap at the chance to have a patient of your very own.”
    And before very long, a corpse of her very own, he added inwardly. Not that it mattered. If she wished to dissect his remains, he would hardly be in a position to object.
    She did not respond immediately. Dorian kept his eyes closed, savoring the scented mist drifting about him. Her scent was there as well, rich and deep, coiling with the lavender. He did not know whether it was the scent or his ailment that made him feel so lightheaded.
    “I was not implying that all members of the medical profession are imbeciles,” she said at last. “But I could not trust Abonville to distinguish among them. Bertie would be worse. He’d be sure to send for experts from London and Edinburgh, and he has such a knack for blundering.”
    “I understand,” he said. “You came to . . . save me.”
    “From medical bedlam,” she said hastily. “I am not a miracle worker, and I know precious few brain diseases are curable. Not that I know much about yours,” she added with a trace of irritation. “Mr. Kneebones is as obstinately closemouthed as Mr. Knightly was. I knew it was a waste of breath to argue with him. Words are rarely of any use. I shall have to prove myself, as usual.”
    Dorian recalled her brisk, unruffled mode of freeing him from the mire. He recalled the cool steadiness with which she’d met his attempt to frighten her away. He recalled her calm, efficient ministrations of a little while ago, when he’d been so disgustingly sick.
    He considered his present comfortable state. He had not felt so tranquil in months. He couldn’t remember, in fact, when he’d last felt so much at peace. Had he ever?
    He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t been angry with himself for his weaknesses and seething with resentment of his grandfather, who, like the doctors she spoke of, insisted on ruling absolutely.
    He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to look up at her. She kept the ice bag in place while her cool green gaze shifted to meet his.
    He wondered whether the cool detachment came naturally, or if she’d had to train herself to suppress emotion, in order to survive in a world that didn’t trust or want her. He knew what that was like, and what the training cost.
    “The damp does strange things to your hair,” he said gruffly. “All the little curls and corkscrews sprout up every which way, making a fuzzy red cloud. Even in dry air, it seems alive, trying to do whatever it is bent on doing. ‘What on earth is her hair doing?’ the medical men must ask themselves. One can’t be surprised at their failing to attend closely to what you say.”
    “They should not allow themselves to be distracted,” she said. “It is unprofessional.”
    “As a group, men are not very intelligent,” he said. “Not in a steady way, at least. We have our moments of lucidity, but we are easily distracted.”
    He was—oh, so easily.
    The room’s steamy fog had settled upon her. A fine dew glistened on her porcelain skin. Damp curls clustered about her ears. He thought of pushing the curls away and tracing the delicate shape with his tongue. He thought of where his mouth and tongue would go if he let them . . . along the moist flesh of her neck to the hollow of her throat.
    His gaze skimmed down to her neckline, then lower, to where the damp fabric clung to the curve of her breasts.
    Mine, he thought. And then he could not think about the future. He could scarcely think at all,
    “Some men