Page 31 of The Lady is Trouble
“Jules”—she crossed to him without hesitation—“you’re bleeding.”
His head fell back against the door. “I think bled is more apt.”
He didn’t stop her as she separated ruined linen from his skin, his only response a harsh inhalation sucked between his teeth. His acquiescence alarmed her more than his bruised, torn flesh. “This is going to require stitches,” she said and probed hesitantly, her stomach tightening as he winced. “At least it’s a clean cut.”
Like a knife would make.
Since it seemed the door held him up, Piper chose to let the presumption remain unsaid. Another time, another conversation.
“Didn’t one governess quit”—he stood, lock-kneed as if the floor were undulating beneath him—“over your horrendous stitching skills?”
“Are you expecting daisies on your arm?”
He huffed out a startled laugh. “No.”
She nodded, convinced enough for the both of them. “Then, my inferior skills will suffice. You need help. And for once, I’m going to give it.”
He didn’t seem to know how to take this, testing his shoulder with a stretch and an accompanying groan.
Had he ever let someone take care of him, she wondered?
As he calculated benefit-lose, a trickle of blood trailed down his arm and over his closed fist, and any opposition seeped away as if through a cracked teacup. With a sigh, he slid to the floor, propelling his long legs in an elegant stretch before him. His smoky eyes held hers the entire way down, daring in some manner she couldn’t define.
She raised a brow. Tapped her toe on the floor, then mimed pulling a needle through fabric. Or in this case, skin.
“Desk. Bottom drawer. Left.”
Much like Simon’s directive for return of the sketch.
The mahogany desk would have made for fascinating study had she the time to search it. Mixed among the explosion of art supplies was proof of Julian’s responsibilities: ledgers, mail, copious notes in his precise script. Silver spectacles lying by a book on Renaissance artists that was wedged open with a paintbrush. She took measure of the man, her heart breaking as she realized how little she truly knew of him.
Knocking aside emotion that did neither of them any good, she crouched behind the desk, finding needle and thread, scissors, bandages, a bottle of brandy, and an ointment that smelled horrific but promised much according to the label.
It seemed Julian prepared for a crisis.
Before rising, she hastily replaced the sketch, glad to be rid of a talisman she’d been unable to stop touching since Simon gave it to her.
Julian analyzed her with calm precision as she crossed to him, his hooded gaze having settled to the color of the mist that chaperoned her morning rides. She seethed inside but tried to hide it. That she’d not known this about him seemed a betrayal.
When it was simple.
His passion resided in this dwelling—and his passion was nother.
“No questions?” he murmured, breaking the charged silence.
She dropped to her knee before him, placing the supplies at her side. “Yes.” Tucking back a lock of hair that had broken free of her chignon, she took the needle in hand. “How do I thread this thing again?”
He laughed roughly and closed his eyes, permitting her attendance. There were no battle lines drawn, as even a playing field as they’d ever entered. She took this discovery and held it close: his interminable self-possession could be disabled, the man beneath accessible should he allow the breach.
Piper knotted the thread, seizing the opportunity to examine him without his vigilant gaze holding her back. There were discoveries—a crescent scar beneath his nose, freckles scattered across his cheeks—when she’d once known him well enough to sketch a portrait not only of his gorgeous body but his dazzling mind.
He stiffened at the slide of needle through skin. At some point, she handed him the brandy, which he drank liberally. She wished to drink herself but worried it would affect her steady hand as she was no nurse, and this task was making her woozy. “So, this is how you can help me.” She dabbed blood from the wound with a discarded paint rag, praying for an even stitch. “Cataloguing the auras.”
He swallowed, his throat doing a supple pull above his open shirt collar, the slice of bronzed skin in startling contrast to the creamy linen. Peeking through the collared vee was a liberal amount of dark, coarse hair. Face flushed, she tracked back to her task. “Your little secret,” she said, appalled the statement sounded wounded when it arrived.
“I was punished if the staff found paints in the house. And by punished, I mean savagely beaten and locked in my bedchamber without food or water until the viscount’s temper settled. Which could be days. He thought art for the lower classes. Though painting gave me the only relief I found from the visions until I met you, so I kept going back to it, withstanding the abuse until I couldn’t withstand it any longer.” He gave a dismissive wave with his good hand, a release of two fingers from the brandy bottle. “It was my savior. Mynormal. Some days, my reason. When I ran, my art came with me, and my bastard of a father didn’t.” His lip curled. “Although the viscountcy remains.”
“Why hide it…” She tied off the thread and clipped the loose ends with a snip, avoiding his gaze should those soulful eyes of his slide open. “Why hide it from me?”