Shrugging, she took a breath and triggered her terrified sense of taste. Surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. Or good. It tasted like the boiled cabbage she had at a St. Patrick’s Day party a few weeks ago. Chewing, she smiled up at Millie, whose eyes were bright with relief.
“It’s good. Thank you.” She nearly gagged on the lie.
“I’m glad you like it.” Clasping her hands in front of her, Millie announced, “Once you’ve eaten your fill, I’ll have one of the maids redress your wound?—”
“No. Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it myself.” Her abrupt comment left Millie eyeing her curiously. The idea of undergoing more medical care from anyone in the nineteenth century made her anxious. Despite having come a long way since trephining human skulls, they still bled people to rid them of infections.
No, thanks.
It couldn’t bethathard to change the bandages, right? She’d learned a few basics during her short time in nursing school, before Elgin sunk his claws into her dreams.
Millie patted her hand. “If you say so, dear. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Onceyou’vefinished redressing your wound, you can remove your, er, clothes, bathe, and put on the rose satin.” Once again, confronted with someone’s dislike of her clothes, she sighed into her boiled vegetables.
After two more torturous mouthfuls, she put down her fork and stood. “Where are the bandages?” As if by magic, a maid appeared holding a tray containing crisp white bandages, a bowel of water, and a small towel. Eyeing the supplies, a pang of disappointment shot through her.
This isn’t going to work.
There had to be an antiseptic she could use to clean the gash in her head. From what she remembered from her nursing 101 classes, distilled spirits were some of the best field antiseptics.
“Do you have any alcohol? Gin would be best because it’s clear, but if you don’t have any, maybe brandy or whiskey?”
Millie curled her lip. “Dear, no civilized household in England has whiskey, and gin rots the guts; however, we do have a rather large supply of brandy on hand. My nephew loves his brandy.”
Another strike against him.
With raised eyebrows, Millie dispatched a maid to retrieve the brandy. “What is the brandy for?”
How do I answer without sounding crazy?
“Umm, the alcohol in the brandy will clean my wound. It kills the germs that cause infection.”
What I wouldn’t give for my purse and gym bag. This splitting headache would have been gone hours ago with the glorious numbing powers of ibuprofen.
When the maid returned with the brandy, Haven made short work of redressing the wound, wincing only twice; once when the bandage stuck, and again when the alcohol burned like the fires of hell. After the clean bandages were in place, she gave herself a quick whore’s bath behind a dressing screen, and then a maid helped her dress.
“My God. Whoever invented corsets should be shot.” Struggling to get the words out, she fought hard not to unbutton her dress and get at the lung-crushing corset stays.
“Strangely enough, a man invented the corset. A king I believe.” Smiling, Millie agreed, “Yes, the corset is a dire trial every woman must endure for fashion’s sake. But if you cannot abide the thing, we can loosen it, and if it is still abominable, we will simply remove it.”
“And burn it.” Free of the corset, Haven sucked in air and glowered at the offending piece of clothing draped over the retreating maid’s arm. Her costume corsets for work were obviously modern versions—they didn’t suffocate, theyenhanced.
With the remaining maid’s help, she put the rose satin dress back on, then returned to sit in the chair beside the window, her loose hair softly moving in the breeze.
Millie settled onto the chaise by the fireplace.
After a few minutes, Millie asked, “Comfortable?”
Haven relaxed in her seat. “Yes, actually.” After another two minutes of stilted silence, she said, “This dress is just divine.”
Millie smiled. “You look stunning in it…doesn’t she, nephew?” Haven turned toward the door in time to catch a fleeting expression cross the duke’s face. For such a large man, he sure had light feet.
“Aunt Mildred,” he said, bowing to the woman who looked a lot like a cat who just ate the cream. “Miss Edwards. I hope you haven’t suffered too much at my hands.”
She looked at his hands. They were strong and long fingered. Perfect for work…or play.
She didn’t miss that he hadn’t answered his aunt’s question.
“You must know it wasn’t my intention to injure you and then deny you food. Please accept my apology.” His jaw worked beneath the flesh of his cheek. Obviously, he didn’t like apologizing. He probably didn’t do it often.
