“I’m certain he did.” The Duke’s tone was dry. “But there are better treatments than simple binding.”
His hands moved across the desk, fingers trailing along the polished wood until they encountered her arm. Joan suppressed a shiver at the contact. Even through the fabric of her sleeve, she could feel the warmth of his touch.
His fingers were long and elegant, hands that had clearly never engaged in manual labor. They moved with surprising gentleness as they traced up her forearm to her wrist, feeling the contours of the bandage.
The Duke’s fingers paused at her wrist, pressing gently against the bandage. “Here?”
“Yes,” Joan whispered.
Without thinking, she reached out with her good hand and guided his fingers to the exact location of the worst pain. The moment their hands touched, Joan felt a jolt of sensation that had nothing to do with her injury.
The Duke’s fingers pressed carefully against her swollen wrist, testing the extent of the damage. “Does it hurt?”
His voice had dropped lower, become softer. Joan found herself leaning closer without quite meaning to.
“Yes,” she breathed.
They stayed that way for a moment, her hand guiding, his fingers gentle against her injury.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the spell. The Duke withdrew his hand and sat back as Jenkins entered carrying a polished wooden box.
“The medicine box, Your Grace.”
“Leave it on the desk. You may go.”
“Your Grace.” Jenkins set down the box and departed, though not before Joan caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
The Duke reached out, his hands finding the box. “Open it and remove the green bottle. It should be in the upper left corner.”
Joan did as instructed, her fingers slightly unsteady as she worked the latch. Inside, the box was divided into neat compartments, each containing different bottles and tins. She located the green bottle, made of thick glass with a cork stopper, and lifted it carefully.
“Yes. Give it to me.”
Joan placed the bottle in his outstretched hand, watching as he worked the cork free. A medicinal scent filled the air.
“Your wrist, Miss Sinclair.”
Joan extended her arm once more. The Duke’s fingers found the edge of the bandage and began unwrapping it with surprising skill. The linen fell away, revealing her swollen, discolored wrist in all its glory.
“This will hurt a little,” the Duke said, tipping the bottle to coat his fingers with the thick ointment inside.
Before Joan could brace herself, his fingers pressed firmly against her injury, rubbing the medicine into her skin with heavy strokes.
Pain exploded through her wrist, worse than the initial injury. Joan let out an involuntary yelp, her whole body going rigid.
“Your Grace! Please, be gentle!”
The Duke continued his ministrations, his expression serene. “I am being gentle, Miss Sinclair.”
“No, you are not!” Joan protested as another wave of pain made her gasp. “Can’t you hear me? This hurts terribly!”
Archimedes, disturbed by Joan’s cries, leaped from the Duke’s lap and padded across the desk to her. The cat settled in her lap, purring sympathetically and rubbing its head against her free hand.
The Duke’s mouth curved into what could only be described as an evil grin. His fingers continued their torture of herwrist, rubbing the ointment in with what seemed like unhurried thoroughness.
“I apologize, Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice dripping with false contrition. He handed her the bottle, his fingers brushing against hers as she took it. “Put this back in the box. The medicine will take effect in a few minutes. The pain will fade, and the swelling should decrease by tomorrow.”
Joan fumbled the bottle back into its compartment, her cheeks still burning. She closed the box with more force than necessary and set it aside, acutely aware of the Duke’s continued amusement.
