At the beginning of her treatment each night, she had to grit her teeth through the pain of it, but after a few minutes, the pain faded, and the relief set in. In the years of her self-treatment, the shape of her foot had changed, but only a little. Her toes were not so stiffly curled, she could manually separate and straighten them whereas they had seemed like stone before, and the arch of her foot was not so tightly bound.
When she finished the treatment, she wrapped her foot in a linen dressing and spent a shorter but equally satisfying time massaging her good foot. She relied so fully upon the strength of her left foot that this ministration was as important as the attention given to her right.
After she’d finished with both feet, she cleaned her hands with some alcohol and a cloth she kept in the same drawer as the oil and put away all her supplies. She then adjusted herself in the bed and pulled the cord to alert Corinne to tell Duncan she was ready.
Hazel suspected Corinne felt awkward about her role in this arrangement, and she wished she could apologize for all the discomfort but knew that would make it even more uncomfortable for both of them.
She was smoothing the bedcovers over her lap when Duncan burst into the room as though someone had warned of a fire. His eyes were bright as he searched the room and then stopped to look at her. Really look.
She looked away first as she adjusted her position against the headboard, hating the awkwardness and fearing there would be more of it before it improved.
He remained in the doorway, hand on the knob of the door that was still open. “Your hair is down.”
Hazel fingered the end of the braid thrown over her shoulder. “I sleep with it in a braid. Most women do.”
“Catherine did not,” he said, still standing there. “She twisted it on her head and wrapped it in a scarf that she knotted in the front.”
Hazel was not sure if she was supposed to comment on Catherine’s hair preferences but did not want to engage in conversation right now. Due to Duncan’s excited mood, he could go on indefinitely. He always talked a great deal when he was anxious or excited. “Would you please close the door, Duncan, and come to bed . . . er . . .”
He closed the door and immediately began fumbling with his cravat while kicking off his shoes. She had to close her eyes against the eagerness of his movements, and then took a breath, hoping it would give her the strength to say what she’d wished he’d known without her having to point it out. That he could not understand some things without it being specifically stated was annoying.
“This arrangement does not change my feelings regarding physical intimacy,” she said while looking at the bedclothes.
“I did not expect that it did.”
Her eyes snapped up. “You didn’t?”
“No.” He unwound his cravat from his neck. His feet were already bare.
She looked into her lap, feeling foolish for having presumed. “All right, then, go about your . . . undressing or dressing or . . . well, get ready for bed . . . er, sleep.”
She heard his movements slow and dared to look up. He stood in the center of the floor, his shirt in one hand, his feet bare on the rug and his arms at his side. She looked away from his naked torso, heat rushing up her face.
She hadn’t seen a man without a shirt since the time Harry had undressed to his shorts and dove into the pond, splashing her in the process. Harry had been thirteen years old, skinny and smooth-skinned. Duncan was not quite so skinny, though he was not portly, and his chest was covered with curling dark hair that looked disarmingly soft and tapered down the center of his stomach.
She looked away and pointed to the chair next to the bureau. “Corinne put your nightshirt, there.”
She kept her gaze averted until she heard him moving toward the chair. Then she looked again, watching his back as he unfolded the nightshirt and slipped it over his head. He fiddled with the front of his trousers, which then slipped down his legs and pooled at his feet. The warmth in her cheeks was not only from her embarrassment, but then it was natural to be curious, wasn’t it? When would she ever have another chance to see a man in such a state? Seven months from now, such opportunities would never present themselves again.
He collected his clothing from the floor and folded the articles onto the chair. Then he came to the side of the bed opposite of Hazel. He did not get under the covers but stood there for several seconds.
Hazel snuggled down into the bedclothes, but still Duncan did not get into his side of the bed.
“Are you all right, Duncan?” Hazel finally asked.
“It does not hurt when you touch me,” he said fast and loud.
Hazel paused, trying to determine the context of his words. “What?”
Duncan stared at his feet and took a breath, his head bowed so she could see only the unruly swirls of his hair caused by his having disrobed so quickly. “I do not like to be touched, especially when I am not expecting it. A shock goes through my body and makes me feel very anxious. Catherine taught me how to tolerate some interactions, like shaking hands, but touching is not something I enjoy. Sometimes, though, when you touch me, I understand what other people must feel when they . . . put their arms around each other. I have been experimenting and had hoped—”
“Experimenting?” Hazel said, shocked enough to speak.
“Every scientific discovery is made through hypothesis, trial, error, reconfiguration, and new attempts toward proving the theory. My hypothesis is that I can enjoy touch when it is shared with you, and so I have been using trial and error to see what types of touch are enjoyable and which ones are uncomfortable.”
“I do not touch you, Duncan. The times I have, caused you to jump and reprimand me.”
He lifted his head, his disheveled hair falling loose around his face. He looked just to the side of where she lay in the bed. “Those are the types of touch I do not like, the kind that send shocks. On our wedding day, we shared a kiss, and it was very pleasurable. At church on Christmas Day, we sat very close together in the pew. I could feel your leg touching mine through your skirts and my trousers. Your shoulder rested against mine as well. It did not hurt.
“Sometimes, when I hand you a book or you give me a cup of tea, our fingers brush against one another, and it does not shock me. I have placed my hand on your back when we go into a room, offered my arm when we are walking, and once you brushed my hair from my forehead and told me I needed to get a haircut.”
Hazel did not remember any of those specific instances besides the kiss on their wedding day. She mostly remembered the few times she had touched him and he had jumped as though she’d burned him. Hearing his account of the interactions he had been cataloguing for months made her feel something she did not fully understand. Desired? Not quite.
“My ultimate goal has been to hold your hand, as that is an action I very much disliked when I was a child, but to do so would draw attention to the experiment and could therefore skew the results, so I have not initiated that action. Sharing a bed for the first time since making our vows seemed an excellent opportunity to try a new level of experimentation, however.”