Then to Belle’s shock, he loosed the fall of his trousers. She realized what he was about and hastily turned and stumbled out of the bed chamber. She heard the sound of Arundel relieving himself. It went on for some time, which had explained why he’d been rather desperate to find a chamber pot.
Finally, there was silence and then the murmur of her father trying to coax Arundel back into bed. “Belle!”
She poked her head into the chamber. Arundel was seated on the bed, one hand cupped over his bandage, which was again tinged red with seeping blood.
“Laudanum,” her father said, indicating the bottle, which had fallen to the floor but mercifully not broken. She went to retrieve it as her father took the washbasin to the window, opened it, and tossed the contents out on the street. She glanced over at the sound of the rain. It was still coming down in sheets and, though it must be nearly dawn, the sky was as dark as night.
“Lie back, Mr. Arundel,” she said, focusing back on her patient. Thank God he had fastened his trousers again. She would never have been able to keep her gaze from that part of his anatomy. She was too curious. “This will help with the pain.”
“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “I won’t become an opium addict.”
“I hardly think a spoonful of laudanum will cause you to start down that road.”
He gave her a narrow look, and his eyes were clear blue. He looked completely lucid, and the directness of his gaze made her swallow hard and want to duck her head to hide her scars. “And how would you know? Friendly with scores of opium-eaters, are you?”
“No, but—”
Her father snapped the window shut, muting the sound of the rain. “How about some medicinal sherry then?” he asked. Belle glanced up at him. She hadn’t known he kept any sherry—medicinal or otherwise.
“I wouldn’t say no,” Arundel said in a tone that was more like a growl. He was obviously in pain and also obviously quite unwilling to take the laudanum.
“I’ll fetch it, but you must do as Belle tells you.”
Arundel’s gaze went from her father to her. “Belle?” he asked.
Her cheeks felt hot, and the urge to turn her face so he would only see the right side all but overwhelmed her. She resisted, feeling defiant. Why should she care if this man thought her ugly or not? She might admire his beauty, but that was all.
Liar, a voice inside her said. You want him so much you all but pant every time you’re in the same room.
“Short for Isabelle,” she said, ignoring her rogue thoughts. “Obviously not a sobriquet I was given for my beauty. Now, lie back. You’re bleeding through the linen, and I’d rather not have to change the sheets in addition to the bandage.”
To her surprise, he did as she asked and laid down. As soon as he did lie flat, he seemed to deflate like one of the hot air balloons she’d seen in Hyde Park a few summers ago. He closed his eyes and went still, making a small sound of pain as she began to unwrap the linen from about his chest.
Knowing he was in pain quashed any sort of lecherous thoughts. She noted his skin was hot and dry to the touch. With such a high fever, she was surprised he was not delirious. But he was a large, strong man, and it would take more than a few hours of fever to fell him. “You are burning with fever,” she said as she unwrapped the linen that held the bandage in place. She hadn’t intended to speak, but she needed to say something to avoid the awkward silence. Had he seen her face? He hadn’t commented on it. Was he recoiling at her touch, even as she watched his muscles flex when she ran her fingertips over them in the course of her work? She wondered, if she wasn’t so disfigured and if he wasn’t injured, if he would have been aroused.
And then she wondered what the devil was wrong with her. Why was she thinking of arousing the man? Even if he wasn’t burning with fever and likely to die, she was a pockmarked spinster virgin of five and twenty. Her hopes of arousing a man were long past.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Arundel said.
Belle looked up at him in confusion and then remembered that before she’d been distracted by his chest, she’d remarked that he was burning with fever. “Very well. You’ve opened your stitches and your wound is bleeding.”
“That must be why my side feels as though someone is holding a hot poker to it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said as she removed the last of the wrapping and tossed it aside. She had to take a deep breath before touching the scarlet bandage. Belle felt the nausea rise in her throat and preoccupied herself by mentally inventorying the shop.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t stab me,” Arundel said.
She nodded, still focused on her mental inventory. Holding the bandage in place with one hand, she reached for a clean piece of linen. She would do this quickly—swap one for the other and discard the bloodied linen so fast she would barely touch it.
Belle removed the bloody bandage and moved to quickly cover the wound with the clean linen when Arundel grasped her wrist, stopping her. “Let go,” she protested.
“I want to see it.”
“No, you do not,” she said.
“Yes, I do.” He was maneuvering himself into a half-sitting position so he could view the injury. The action caused his chest to all but push into her face, and she caught the scent of him. She’d expected him to smell of fever and sickness, but he smelled faintly of bergamot and... hmmm, what was that? Cardamom? Belle leaned closer to sniff again and bumped her nose into his ribs.
“Are you feeling faint?” he asked.
“No.” She withdrew, not feeling faint but definitely experiencing a bit of dizziness. She’d never been so close to an attractive man who not only had an extremely nice chest but a scent almost as intoxicating as tea. She felt all but compelled to discover all the components of the scent that was uniquely him but managed to restrain herself, especially when she saw he was twisting to view the damage to his side.
Belle hastily averted her eyes.
“This hurts worse than it looks,” he said.
“It’s bad enough,” she remarked, opting not to point out that the doctor had been less than confident in Arundel’s chances of recovery, especially if he developed a fever.
He made a sound of agreement. “Two stitches are torn. Do you sew?”
Belle made a gagging sound. “No!”
He gave her a look she could only describe as dubious.
“Just because I’m a woman, you think I sew?”
“It has nothing to do with your sex. Most people know how to sew, else they wouldn’t have any clothing.”
He had a point. It was quite expensive to buy ready-made attire, and even when one did, it often had to be repaired or altered after long days of wear.
“I don’t sew...people.” She swallowed, trying to keep the bile down.
“Oh, I see.”
Belle stood and glared down at him. “See what? What does that mean?”
“You’re scared of blood.”
“I’m not!” She had no idea why she said she was not as she very much feared blood. It made her want to retch just thinking about it. “I simply don’t want to stick a needle through your torn flesh and piece it together with another bit of torn flesh.”