“I will allow your medicinal treatment, short of removing my breeches.” Tossing his coat on the settee, he tried to regain control. Arms spread wide, he offered himself to her. “This ought to be sufficient.”
Her laugh sprinkled the air. “Your torso is not the body part in question.”
Lips clamped, he dammed a tide of sensual words that wanted to come out. Mrs. Chatham’s brows arched with challenge. He arched his too. They were in another draw. Frustrating, invigorating, and breathtaking all at once.
“Your Grace,” she chided. “It’s a simple thing, and it solves your problems.”
Was he being foolish? Total surrender was not a familiar skill. Negotiation was.
“What if I put my clothed leg in the butter churn?”
The widow’s mouth made a pretty moue. Her gaze dipped south, landing on his placket, dithering there a moment before sliding over to his thigh. “No. That wouldn’t work. The point is to have hot water against your
His gut clenched, and his ballocks twitched.
Sweet Mother of God!
He’d spend himself. Right here, midday.
Flesh grew heavy against his placket. Parts of him were far from troubled with the makeshift-physic-turned-siren standing before him.
Steam curled up from the butter churn. Cheeks glowing with a pretty sheen, Mrs. Chatham could be an enchantress, dribbling oil from the jar, conjuring a spell. Her fingertips stirred the water and he was lost.
“You might be surprised to know this treatment is quite ancient. It comes from an antiquated book my father purchased.” She stopped her enigmatic stirring and flicked wet fingers. “He collects old books on the healing arts,” she said by way of explanation. “He kept poring over one tome in particular because it addressed wounds of muscle and sinew. He was relentless, writing fellow physics far and wide. The book was of eastern origin, and while he couldn’t read the text, he grasped the scribe’s illustration on this one remedy.”
“That must’ve been quite an illustration.”
Mrs. Chatham lured him. “Oh, it was. Finally, a friend in Venice helped him. He told my father the text referred to oil of amber. The patient must soak in it and—" she fixed a naughty glint on him “—have it
“Your father administered this?” His placket and his voice were distinctly taut.
“Certainly not. He advised wives what to do, and they tended their husbands, of course.”
“Of course.”
Lambent sensuality danced between them. He was glad his waistcoat’s hem landed atop his thigh—all the better to hide nature’s response. A pulse ticked visibly at the base of Mrs. Chatham’s throat. He wanted to kiss the tiny throb. There was much to explore about his neighbor, her smooth jawline, her incredible mouth, and he had the afternoon to do it.
If he seized this chance.
A hint of laughter outside doused icy water on his ardor.
The ball. Averting his gaze, he stepped back. He wasn’t a feckless man to blithely tup a woman by day, and court another by night. Especially under the same roof. Flesh in his smalls might plow happily onward, but right was right…for all the bloody good it served.
He clapped a hand on his nape and squeezed tense muscles. Perhaps his brains were in his ballocks because he was sorely tempted to let them have sway.
“Mrs. Chatham…”
“Don’t worry, Your Grace. I’ll administer the oil as quickly as possible and leave. I did not expect to stay in the room while you are in a state of undress.”
His shoulders sagged. She was sage and kind. They both understood his predicament without having to say it aloud.
She stuffed the cork back on the vial. “I told the dowager I’d put you in the least compromising position.”
He dropped his hand to his side as a dull ache flared along his outer thigh. The injury and mention of his mother doused the mood.
“Then who will attend me?”
She shrugged. “I can come back.”
“I would hope you would. I am in this predicament because you suggested it to Her Grace.”
She smiled fully aware that he, like his brothers, would do anything to restore their mother’s happiness. “Have you a banyan? You could wear it and—”
“And be stripped to my smalls underneath? Out of the question. There must be another solution.”
She set the jar on the floor and angled her head for a side view of his leg. “What if I cut the outer seam of your breeches? That way you keep your clothes on.”
Blessed relief filled him. “A fine idea.”
“Have you scissors in here?”
“In the top-right drawer of my desk.”
She retrieved them and hurried to his side. Staying mostly clothed restored his sanity and gave him a barrier from the invasion that was Mrs. Chatham. Hands on his hips, he stared ahead and let her undo the button at his knee—anything to keep from visually consuming the bounty of her cleavage.
