A foggy memory of an insolent nurse tugged at him. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Surely, that had been a nightmare. His gaze swung to the chest of drawers and the amber bottle and medical bag set atop it.
Hell, not a dream! He cleared his throat.
The woman spun around.
The first thing that caught his attention was the porcelain bedpan clasped in her hands. The second thing was her eyes. They were dusted with long lashes that swept outward, elongating their almond shape, and so dark, that at this distance, he couldn’t discern her pupils from her irises.
He examined the rest of her face with its straight nose and full, wide mouth. Her skin was far from fair, and her hair, pulled into a chignon, was as black as a moonless night. She looked Mediterranean. Lovely in a foreign, exotic way.
A sharp pain shot up his leg, reminding him of the last time he’d allowed himself to become involved with a woman with unusual eyes set in an attractive face. He ran his hand over his bandaged thigh and silently cursed that lunatic Adele.
He bestowed the woman with a scowl meant to terrify.
She smiled.
He narrowed his eyes.
She stepped closer.
Baffled, he scratched his head. Perhaps it wasn’t the same woman. She didn’t appear the least bit repentant, and he was doing everything to intimidate her—short of baring his teeth and snarling like a rabid dog.
“Good morning, Lord Westfield. I hope you slept well.”
By God, the she-devil! He recognized her soft, cultured voice and the faint, enticing scent of lavender and lemon drifting off her skin.
“Didn’t I sack you?”
Laying the bedpan upon the counterpane, she tipped her head sideways. Her dark, expressive eyes widened. “Did you?”
“You bloody well know I did.”
“Are you ready for your breakfast, my lord?”
Didn’t this woman realize he was the Earl of Westfield? A man one dealt with quite prudently, if one had to deal with him at all. A man revered by some, despised by others, and feared by many. He cocked a brow. The affectation usually sent his servants scattering like marbles across the prow of a heaving ship.
Her serene smile didn’t waver. “Before you breakfast, I’d like to redress your wound.”
“Are you hard of hearing?” he asked in an elevated voice.
“No, my lord.”
This had to be someone’s idea of a wicked joke. “Ah,” he said, feeling enlightened. He peered beyond her to the open doorway. “Lord Simon Adler is hiding in the corridor and having a jolly good laugh over this, isn’t he, the bounder?”
She followed his gaze to the door. “If he is, I’m not aware of it.”
He raked his hands through his hair and slumped deeper into his pillows. He’d not prayed in years, but he contemplated asking for divine intervention or, better yet, a lightning bolt.
“Listen carefully to what I’m going to say, madam. You—are—sacked.”
“You cannot dismiss me.”
He inspected her attire. Though her hat was an oddity, her other garments didn’t contradict her sanity. Her dress was not on backward, her buttons were correctly fastened, and she didn’t wear her drawers atop her head. Nevertheless, she suffered some disorder of the mind if she thought he lacked the authority to discharge her.
“This is my house, madam. I assure you I can dismiss you. Now remove yourself from my premises.”
“My lord, your sister retained me, and Lady Prescott informed me that only she may dismiss me.” She started to fold back his counterpane.
“What the devil do you think you’re about, Miss . . . ?” Damn, the woman had him so rattled her name eluded him.
A wan smile settled over her visage. “Miss Sophia Camden.”
“Miss Camden, my sister is apparently trying to cast me into an early grave by sending you here. Furthermore, she has no authority in my house. She cannot force your services upon me. Moreover, if you touch my bedding again I’m going to pull you down, brace you over my legs, and set my open palm to your derrière.”
Red suffused her honey-colored cheeks. “Y-you wouldn’t dare.”
“It would be a grave error on your part to dare me. I have a terrible weakness for them.”
She stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. “Your wound is in need of re-dressing, and since I’m the only one here qualified, I implore you to let me attend to it. Dr. Trimble will not call on you today.”
He pointed at the door. “Out!”
With an exasperated expression, she turned and picked up her medical bag.
“Miss Camden.”
She spun around.
He jerked his chin toward the medicinal bottle. “Take that bitter concoction with you.”
She slowly shook her head. “No, I wish you to keep it. For if your wound festers and septicemia sets in Dr. Trimble will need to amputate your leg, and once the anesthesia wears off you’ll be pleased to have it. Indeed, you’ll take a fancy to that concoction.” She strode to the door.
The devil take her. The conniver attempted to manipulate him. As if taunting him, another knifelike pain stabbed at his thigh. He gritted his teeth. “Miss Camden,” he called as she stepped over the threshold.
She pivoted around.
“I wish you to attend to my leg before you leave.”
Her expression remained impassive as she set the medical bag down, returned to the bed, and folded back his blankets, exposing his legs. Her adept hands began removing the bandages.
“Have you experienced any numbness in your leg or foot?” she asked.
“No.”
Her fingers removed the last strip of cloth. She examined the thin cotton that covered the ghastliest area of his puckered and sutured skin. She didn’t appear repulsed.
“Do you work on a surgical ward, madam?”
“I do not.”
“Then tell me what medical training you’ve received.”
“I have spent the last couple of years working with Dr. Trimble. It is from that employment, along with reading in his extensive library, that I have gained my knowledge. I am Dr. Trimble’s medical assistant.”
“I’ve met Trimble’s assistant. Pudgy man with a crag-laden face and leathery skin.” He swept his gaze over her. “You’ve had a miraculous transformation.”
“That is Mr. Bailey. He’s Dr. Trimble’s surgical assistant. I assist Thomas . . . I mean Dr. Trimble with his female patients.”
A woman assistant? He’d never heard of such a thing. The warmth of her fingers skimming his thigh and the heat they evoked drew Hayden’s gaze back to the wound. He reached out to scratch the marred skin.
“No, no, do not touch.” She elbowed his hand away. “I’ve read Dr. Joseph Lister’s study on antiseptic principles. Keeping the wound clean is imperative. I only uncovered the dressing to discern if the injury was seeping. Fortunately, it is not.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Hayden nodded. Not only had God endowed Miss Camden with stunning eyes, she was intelligent. His gaze slid over her. She wore a gown devoid of embellishments, and if her starched collar went any higher it would be lethal. Worse, not a single tendril escaped the stranglehold of her chignon. It looked too austere, more suited to a matron of advanced years, and though not in the first blush of youth, she wasn’t much older than twenty-three, possibly twenty-four.
She bent a little farther over his leg, and he cocked his head to the side to get a better view of her shapely bum. A favorable asset, indeed. That single sight, alone, tempted him to let her stay. His gaze shifted to the bedpan. No, he’d not have her shoving that deuced thing under his arse every day, let alone removing it. He still had some pride left.
“I shall dispatch a note to Dr. Trimble informing him I’d prefer a male attendant.”
“My lord, why not give me the opportunity to prove my competency? A so-called trial period. Shall we say ten days?”
“No, Miss Camden, no trial perio
d.”
She finished bandaging his leg and looked him squarely in the eye. “Consider it a dare.”
Wasn’t she a sly little imp with a great deal of cheek, using his own words against him? The mischievous glint in her dark eyes sent an odd, nearly forgotten jolt of excitement through him.
“A dare, you say?”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she smiled—a pretty, full-mouthed smile that dimpled her cheeks. “Yes, my lord.”
Hayden scrubbed a hand over his chin while contemplating her. He always fancied a battle of wits against a worthy adversary, and this was possibly just what he needed, since lying in this godforsaken bed bored the hell out of him. And he could always have his valet assist him with his more personal needs.
“I accept your dare, madam.”
As if she’d outsmarted him, her smile grew wider.
“Miss Camden, you understand a dare is only entertaining when the loser offers a forfeit. We must make this interesting and place a bet on the outcome.”
“A bet?”
“Indeed. If you complete the ten days, I will add a substantial bonus to the pay my sister has promised you. Furthermore, I will not dismiss you until your services are no longer required. However, if you resign before the allotted time . . .” He tapped his finger to his chin. “I’m not sure what my prize should be, but I shall think of something worthy of my victory.”
“I have no desire to place a wager on the outcome, but if you insist, we could make a gentleman’s bet.”
Had she not heard that contrary to his birth, he was not a gentleman? “Ah, apparently, you are not so sure of yourself,” he goaded.
She nibbled her lower lip.
“Forget it, Miss Camden. You would lose anyway.”
A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. She thrust out her hand for him to shake. “I’m quite sure of my abilities. I agree to your terms.”
He grasped her delicate hand. A pleasant warmth settled against his palm. He was going to enjoy giving the efficient Miss Camden a go-around she would never forget and ultimately claim the victory and his forfeit.
“May God be with you, Miss Camden.”
Chapter Three
Sophia tried not to swallow the lump forming in her throat as she stared at the devilish gleam in Lord Westfield’s blue eyes.
When she had entered his bedchamber this morning, she’d expected to see a craggy face harmonious with the vulgar-tongued devil who had snapped at her during the early morning gloom. But the light of day revealed the unexpected. Westfield was perhaps thirty, a good five years younger than his sister, Lady Prescott. And if one could label a man beautiful, the word seemed apropos. His brown hair was wavy, his jaw square and stubborn, and his high cheekbones pronounced, but not too angular. And his eyes were a fascinating color. Not a diluted blue but an intense shade, like an artist’s rendition of the Mediterranean Sea.
Still holding her gaze, Westfield ran a hand over his darkly bristled jaw.
What the deuce had she got herself into daring this rascal? She could practically see the cogwheels turning in the man’s head as he calculated his next move. A move he hoped would leave her owing him a forfeit. Her stomach knotted.
“Miss Camden, you said you assist Dr. Trimble with his female patients?”
She nodded.
“So, you don’t usually attend male patients?”
Perhaps she shouldn’t have admitted that. Did he think it made her less qualified? “I work predominately with women, but I attend children as well, including boys.”
“A boy’s body is not the same as a man’s.”
So this was his game. The bounder thought he’d scare her off with immodest talk. “Anatomically, my lord, boys are not much different than men. Of course, there are the obvious differences. Their muscles are not as defined, they have less body hair, and they are still experiencing growth.”
“Exactly what is still growing?” The scoundrel flashed a boyish grin. An illusion. Such a bold question attested to the fact.
“Their stature of course.”
“Obviously, madam, but can you not offer me something more specific?”
Wicked, wicked man! “Indeed, my lord. Their feet.”
He let out a hearty laugh. “That’s not the answer I was seeking, Miss Camden, but possibly Dr. Trimble’s anatomy books aren’t as comprehensive as you believe.”
“Dr. Trimble’s journals and illustrated books are rather detailed,” she responded tartly.
“Really? Perhaps next time Trimble is here, I shall ask him about his infamous books. I will inform him how you told me all about their detailed illustrations, inciting my interest in them.”
Heat burned her cheeks. The scoundrel was beyond the pale, twisting her words around. Well, Thomas would not believe him. She moved to the foot of the bed, intent on pulling Westfield’s bedding back over his body. He trapped the navy blue counterpane under his good leg, then flashing a smile, he folded his hands behind his head.
“Miss Camden, I’m in need of a hot sponge bath. And you, my dear woman, are about to get a true lesson in anatomy.” He motioned with his chin to a door at the side of the room. “You’ll find a clean nightshirt in my dressing room.”
The smile on his face clearly revealed he thought he’d won. That, at any moment, she’d scurry out of his bedchamber, down the stairs, and out the front door as her predecessor had. The unscrupulous man was in for a shock. “Yes, right away.”
He blinked. “You’re going to bathe me?”
“Did I not mention, my lord, Lady Prescott wishes me only to deal with your medical care? The honor of bathing you shall fall soundly on your valet, Mr. Mathews.”
“Damn Edith and her prudish morality,” he mumbled.
Sophia tapped her fingernail against the side of the bedpan, drawing his attention to the porcelain bowl. “He will assist you with the bedpan as well. I trust the urge to shove someone’s head in it has passed?”
He scowled.
“If you’ll excuse me, I shall inform him you’re ready for his assistance.” Sophia curtseyed and exited the room.
She pulled the bedchamber door shut and leaned against the hard surface. Closing her eyes, she expelled a heavy breath as the memory of Lord Westfield’s body flashed before her. Never in her life had she seen a man with such an impressive physique. In truth, Thomas’s medical books with their abundance of illustrations had not prepared her for dealing with a man who possessed legs like Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. It had been rather difficult to feign indifference.
And now she’d foolishly allowed the man to up the ante and add a wager to her dare. Why had she acted so impetuously? It would have made sense if she needed the funds, but she did not. However, his lordship’s reticence to let her tend to him had made her feel inadequate, reminded her of Great-Uncle Charles’s cruel words about her limited worth. She’d wanted to prove her competence. To show his lordship she could care for him as well as any man.
But to dare him was rash. To add a forfeit lunacy! The scoundrel would use every wile in his arsenal to thwart her. This would not be a means to prove her intelligence, but a game to ease Westfield’s ennui. She straightened. Well, she’d not turn back now and owe him some unknown prize. She had contended for years with Great-Uncle Charles’s sharp tongue; surely, she could survive whatever Westfield heaved upon her.
But she needed to raise the stakes.
She spun around and rapped on Westfield’s bedchamber door.
“Enter,” his deep voice called.
With shoulders squared, she marched to the foot of his massive bed. “If I win the dare, my lord, there is something else I want.”
He arched a dark brow.
She gathered her courage and barreled forward. “Do you know Russell Gurney?”
“From the House of Commons? Of course.”
“Mr. Gurney hopes to change the law that excludes women from taking the examination to be physicians. If I last the ten days, I wish yo
u to support his efforts.”
His blue eyes widened. “Do you wish to be a physician, Miss Camden?”
She stiffened her back and held her chin high. Whenever she revealed this fact, she opened herself to derision, especially from Great-Uncle Charles. But everyone she’d loved had died, and perhaps if she became a doctor, she could stop others from losing those most important to them and experiencing the loneliness that sometimes crept over her.
“I do, my lord. One who treats women.”
The room grew quiet and even though his lordship’s face didn’t show scorn, a bead of sweat trickled down her back.
“Very well, Miss Camden. If you win, I’ll throw my political weight behind this issue.”
The air held in her lungs eased out. “You will?”
“Whatever else I am, madam, I am a man of my word.” He grinned. “But first you must complete the dare to avoid owing me a forfeit.”
She intended on winning. Yes, she’d prove her competence and tenacity, no matter how much his lordship tried to unsettle her. She had to. The stakes had become too dear. With his lordship’s political muscle, she might just attain her dream of becoming a physician.
* * *
The following morning, at nine thirty sharp, Sophia strode to Westfield’s bedchamber door. Yesterday, his lordship and she had engaged in a battle of wits throughout the day. He had complained incessantly, cursed like a sailor three sheets to the wind, and asked her a multitude of tedious and wicked questions about human anatomy. She’d refused to answer him, and he’d flashed that boyish grin of his, knowing he unsettled her.
Fortunately, his lordship had spent the better part of the evening preoccupied with ledgers, folios, and documents all scattered about his bed like the leaves of a maple on a winter’s day. Peculiar behavior for a man linked to a coterie of nobility known for their indolence and frivolity.
She rapped a quick staccato against the thick oak door and entered his bedchamber with a fair amount of resolve. Westfield’s large frame was sprawled, belly down, over the massive bed, and he stirred upon her entering. She moved to the windows and flung the heavy blue curtains wide. The room flooded with the grayness of the stark morning.
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 2
