Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (17 page)

The panic that seized her made her wish the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
Had the man been awake the entire time? Was he just pretending to sleep while I stood there sighing and cataloging him like a trollop?

“I . . . I was just . . . Here are the items from Fitzroy's.” She backed up, nearly tripping over Carter, and put the package on the table by the door, her hands trembling terribly. “I'll be upstairs if—”

It was simply too much. She turned and fled the room, the sound of her heels pounding out a drumbeat of retreat that Gayle was convinced would echo her humiliation through every room of the brownstone.

Chapter
13

Cleaning up the laboratory was a simple task that kept her hands busy, but unfortunately still left enough energy to think too much. She'd refused a dinner tray and decided to work into the night until she'd exhausted herself and regained the intelligent self-control she was so proud of. Gayle swept the floors, wiped down the windows and wrought iron framework, and then began washing and drying all of the empty glass vials and jars.

Anything to avoid being still.

Gayle bit her lip and set the last wet jar out of the sink and onto the wooden tray. Her plan was to carry the tray over to the table by the window so that the light and air in the morning would finish drying them.

She grabbed the handles and lifted the tray, then gasped at the weight of it. Anyone less stubborn would have emptied a few of the contents to lighten the load, but Gayle was too distracted by the jumble of her thoughts to consider it.

The shock of the revelation made her fingers go numb and breathless, the heavy tray of vials and delicate glass containers sliding out of her hands and striking the hard floor with a soul-jarring crash. The expensive crystal shattered in an explosion of sound, and she cried out in horror at the clumsy mistake.

Gayle quickly began to kneel to try to salvage something from the shards to ward off her useless tears.
He'll be furious when he sees . . . and what am I doing? Acting like a mindless ninny because I've lost my heart to a man who barely tolerates me.

“Don't move.” His voice was gentle but firm from the doorway into the lab.

“I'm sorry for the dreadful mess. I can clean it—”

“Don't! Move!” It was a firmer command, arresting her movement this time as she registered the unexpected urgency in his words. Gayle straightened, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, unsure if he meant to lecture her where she stood or if the mishap were somehow worse than she'd estimated.

He lit several lamps to ensure that he'd have the light he needed to see and came toward her.

Before she could ask what he intended, he'd bent over to use his handkerchief to brush aside the largest sharp pieces from a small area in front of her. And then he knelt on one knee and gingerly began plucking the glass slivers and tiny shards from the hem of her skirt. In the glow of the lamplight at her feet, she now realized that the last few inches of her skirt had transformed into a glittering display of nearly invisible bits of broken glass.

“I could just shake them out, Dr. West.” She had to swallow, for a lump had formed in her throat at the sight of him at her feet—so intimately close, so tenderly focused on his compassionate task.

“Just stand still, Gayle.”

And there she was—trapped in an impossible moment of chivalry.

He worked efficiently and quietly, cleaning up a small section of the hem of her skirts and petticoats to brush it with his handkerchief-wrapped fingers, pulling out the glass that remained, then clearing the floor to allow himself to shift over a few inches and repeat the process.

“You don't have to do all this.” She was breathless at the sensation of his hands moving against her skirts, never making contact with her ankles or slippers, but still
there
, his head bent and level with her thighs, his forehead a scant inch from the pleated fabric, and the temptation to reach down and touch his hair was making her dizzy.

“I'd rather this than finding my kit to teach you how to pull glass splinters out of your ankles. I imagine they're too pretty to be scratched up needlessly, Miss Renshaw.”

“I don't think you're supposed to imagine what your apprentice's ankles look like, Dr. West.”

He laughed but didn't cease his efforts. “I'll do my best to refrain from doing so, Miss Renshaw.”

“I'm . . . This is awkward, Dr. West. You wouldn't do this if I were a man.”

“You're absolutely right. I would have gotten the scissors and just offered to let you cut off your pant legs and then I'd have left the matter of your stockings to you.”

“Oh.” She tried to ignore the shocking image of Rowan cutting her out of her clothes. “I see.”

He mercifully changed the subject. “It was a long day.”

She shook her head. “It was a wonderful day.”

He smiled. “Wednesdays in this house are not everyone's idea of wonderful, but I'm glad you thought so. The hours fly for me on these days, and there is a selfish pleasure to having everyone about to lend a hand. Even if Mrs. Evans does fuss a bit at the state of her floors afterward.”

“So many different patients on a single day—I loved it!”

He moved again, now kneeling almost directly behind her. “Good. I was afraid I'd exhausted you and caused this—”

“I am
not
prone to accidents.”

“Of course you're not.”

“Please don't mock me. How is it that every time I wish to convey how reliable I am, something happens and one of us is kneeling on the floor over some mess I've made?”

“Fate,” he replied gently.

“Why are you so . . . kind to me? You needn't be. I mean, I don't expect you to be kind, Dr. West.”

“Perhaps that's why.”

She closed her eyes, wishing she knew how to fight off the sentimental tears that threatened and ward off the maelstrom of emotions inside of her.
I am not falling in love with this man—I won't! I've come too far to surrender my dreams and transform myself into a joke.
“I'll pay for the glass. I'll replace all of it, Dr. West.”

He shook his head. “There's no need for that. I'd needed an excuse to visit the glass shop and—”

“I'm not Ada Featherstone! I'm not some addle-headed woman that you need to coddle! You have every right to be angry, Dr. West, and I insist on being allowed to restore what I've broken.”

“Gayle,” he spoke softly, the use of her first name capturing her attention. “Trust me when I say this. There may well be an extensive list of things that invoke an angry reaction from me, and God knows, I'm not always very good at keeping myself in check, but broken glass—hasn't been on the list for a very, very long time.”

Rowan sat back on his heels and shifted again, this time returning to his starting position in front of her to survey his progress. “I'm almost done, Gayle. Just hold still for another few seconds, and allow a small liberty.”

“A s-small liberty?” she asked, but the answer was swift and left her speechless as his hands lightly trailed up her ankles and calves, circling the muscles there to gently caress her up to the back of her knees.

“Just one last check for any glass slivers that may have strayed onto your stockings.”

“Oh!” His touch was efficient and feather soft, but the miasma of fire and delight that spread up her limbs to form a molten pool between her hips was intoxicating. Her knees turned to rubber, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stare at the ceiling as a thousand wicked thoughts nearly overcame her. The splay of his warm fingers were telegraphing electric sweet storms all over her body, and she wasn't sure she could survive another pass of his hands without betraying herself with a moan or a sigh.

“Ah, there's one.” He sat back on his heels and sucked a small piece of glass from an index finger to discard it with the rest. “Not life threatening, Miss Renshaw, but you don't deserve a miserable end to a wonderful day.”

She nodded in stunned silence, one hand gripping the worktable's edge to keep her steady on her feet and the other pressed against her chest to keep her heart from pumping out of her ribcage.

“Well, I've pushed it under the table far enough for now, and Florence can bring up a dustpan in the morning to clear it. As for this, I'll just throw this handkerchief into the bin.” He stood like a graceful panther rising from the floor. “You should get some rest, Miss Renshaw.”

All she could do was nod, like a mute child, miserably blushing but hypnotized by him.

“Good night, then.”

Rowan left her there, returning to the second floor, and Gayle began to cry.

Chapter
14

Mrs. Evans finished dishing out the lamb stew, and then deliberately put another large spoon of meat onto Rowan's plate. “You're getting thin in the face, doctor.”

“I'm not, but I'll eat my delicious, hearty lunch all the same and send my compliments to Cook, please, for another Thursday meal that has me completely recovered and in good spirits.” He took a bite or two before Mrs. Evans finally withdrew a satisfied woman. “She hovers but she has a good heart, and I know for a fact that she's one of your staunchest defenders below stairs.”

“Is she? I think she's still convinced that I'm going to burn the house down.”

Rowan laughed. “That may also be true.”

“And who is she defending me against?” Gayle tasted some of the stew from her own plate and savored the dish. Mrs. Wilson's skills were incomparable and a welcome amenity. “Do I have enemies in the house?”

“Evil doctors who might forget to see that you have tea in the afternoons during grueling sessions about diseases of the bones.”

“I don't like tea.”

“How startling and unladylike of you!” he teased. “Well, that warrants a recitation or two. Let's see. Shall we discuss the symptoms and signs of cholera?”

“I had rather discuss a cure.” She pushed her plate aside. “Is there no treatment known for it?”

“Every physician I know claims to have the answer to that question, but I haven't heard proof of one. Snow recommends an intravenous injection of saline fluid, but it's somewhat hit and miss by all reports. The best cure is to prevent its spread.”

“From contaminated water.”

“You are a good student, Miss Renshaw. Can you name the—”