To distract himself, he said, “You seem to have experience dealing with injuries.”
“They were…um, commonplace in my family.”
He wondered why she’d hesitated in her reply. “Do you have brothers?”
“I have no siblings.” She gazed at her handiwork. “That’s much better.”
She seemed satisfied; at least one of them was.
“Now I’ll have a look at your hands,” she went on. “Remove your gloves, if you please.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
Her forehead pleated as she peered at his hands.
He wondered if she noticed that one was balled while the other was barely curled. In the time that she’d been working for him, he hadn’t been around her all that much. During those times, he realized with a twinge of humiliation, he’d taken pains to hide his condition.
“I’ll be gentle,” she coaxed. “There is no need to worry.”
“I am not worried,” he said tightly. “I said I’m fine.”
“You punched the living daylights out of that brute.” Her voice had a new, husky edge…lingering nerves, no doubt. “No one has ever come to my aid in such a fashion. It was the most heroic thing I’ve ever seen.”
Heroic?His chest expanded. At the same time, he was outraged that she’d gone this long without anyone to protect her.
“Why were you in the alleyway?” he said suddenly. “Did that bastard lure you there?”
“Not exactly. He was harassing an acquaintance, and I went to help.” A quiver entered Mrs. Wood’s voice. “But once she got free, she ran off and left me to fend for myself.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” he said bitterly.
Bloody hell, how he understood the truth of that adage.
“In this instance, I cannot argue.” She heaved a sigh. “But as your knuckles suffered for my folly, I ought to take a look at them.”
He yanked his hands out of her reach. “Leave it.”
“Why won’t you take off your gloves…”
He saw the instant comprehension hit her. Her eyes darted to his left hand, and her lips parted. Fury surged, but it wasn’t aimed at her. He was angry at himself—at his shame and inability to move on. Why in blazes did he bother hiding his injury? Why did he care that Constance had swooned the first time she glimpsed his hand without its glove? Or that the sight of it had once brought Mama and Gigi to tears? Even Papa had had to clear his throat and look away.
Suddenly, Ethan was tired of concealing his disability. Tired of caring about how it affected others around him. Tired of pretending that he was like everyone else…that he was the man he used to be.
“You want to heal me?” he clipped out. “Have at it.”
A perverse part of him wanted to strip off his left glove with dramatic flair…like a magician revealing a sleight of hand (a pun—wasn’t he the clever one?). Instead, he had to inch the snug black leather off his stiffened fingers one by one. During Ethan’s initial recovery, the physician had fashioned a glove to support his healing hand. He had continued to wear the covering, partially because the compression eased the contracture and aching, but mostly to keep away prying eyes.
In London, his ploy hadn’t worked. Polite society stared at his hand anyway, whispering about his infirmity behind waving fans and in the private rooms of the gentlemen’s clubs. Instead of hiding his changed state, the gloves became a magnet for curiosity and gossip. For scurrilous speculation about the nature of his damage and what had caused it.
To this day, only a few people—his physician, family, and trusted servants—knew how he’d injured his hand. Even Constance hadn’t been privy to the full details. Since she’d never asked, he’d spared her delicate sensibilities.
He managed to remove the glove, and he saw with grim surprise that Mrs. Wood had been correct: during the fight with Harlow, he had wounded this hand as well. Due to his dulled sensation there, he hadn’t felt the swelling or broken skin. Even though he’d punched with his right, in his rage he must have gotten in a few licks with his left too.
The torn skin was nothing compared to the permanent mutilation. Thick, pinkish scars welted his palm and the back of his hand. They were accompanied by the tracks of the stitches that had put him back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty of nursery fame, he was never again as he was before. His fingers were gnarled; he couldn’t fully straighten them or move them with anything near his former dexterity. Parts of his hand were numb yet still ached. He couldn’t grip, carry out fine movements, or play the piano.
The physician had told him that he was fortunate to have kept his hand. He knew he ought to be grateful, but at times he struggled.Bloody hell, he struggled.
Looking at his left hand, which felt like a dead weight, he saw more than mangled flesh and bone. He saw everything he’d once been. Everything he’d lost.
