Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance Read Online Free Page B

hardly an impediment to marriage. Her beauty was certainly unparalleled. What troubled him was that the more time he spent in her company, the less confident he was that he actually liked the woman.
    He pushed the burdensome thoughts away and turned his focus to Dr. Michaelson, who had finished his notes and set aside his journal. “Your former physicians,” Michaelson said, coming to stand before him, “what course of treatment did they recommend?”
    James gave a loose shrug. “Laudanum for the pain. Though as you doubtless noted when you entered, I prefer scotch. The effects on pain are similar, but it doesn’t bring on the spells of nausea. Other than that, I was to rest and remain off the leg until it heals.”
    “But instead of healing, the limb has grown increasingly weak, hasn’t it?”
    James bit back his instinct to deny the physician’s diagnosis. To claim his leg was healing just fine, thank you very much. Instead, he gave a terse nod and admitted the truth. “Quite.”
    “I’m afraid, based on the cases I’ve seen, that’s not uncommon. Your mother mentioned I have unorthodox methods. She is correct. You see, during my tour in Crimea I noticed something astounding. Poor men heal faster than rich men.”
    James blinked, certain he’d heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon?”
    “The question is, why does that occur?” Michaelson continued, warming himself to the topic. “Not because poor men have stronger constitutions, but because they do not have the luxury of hiring servants to wait on them hand and foot. The poor, particularly those injured on the battlefield, moved. In my experience, using the limb helps quicken the healing.”
    Dr. Michaelson paced the room as he spoke, his passion for his work evident. “I should like to present my findings to the Royal Academy of Physicians next month, and a case like yours is exactly what I need to prove my theory.” He went on to describe in precise detail the nature of James’s injury, the shattering of bone and the ensuing muscle atrophy.
    Apparently his course of treatment consisted of a regimen of daily exercises to strengthen the limb, followed by deep cleansing, massage to stimulate the muscles, and monitoring for infection.
    James allowed the man to continue, but declined the treatment the moment the physician paused for breath. Not only did the ordeal Michaelson proposed sound like an uncomfortable waste of time, James had no desire to act the part of medical specimen and hold his injuries up for public scrutiny.
    Dr. Michaelson appeared momentarily crestfallen, but had the good grace to shrug it off. “A shame. I had hoped to set a new standard of treatment for our injured soldiers. But of course I shall respect your decision.” Turning away, he began to pack his instruments.
    Nurse Riley collected James’s shirt from the bench where Vanessa had dropped it. As she held it out for him to slip on, his gaze was drawn to the buttons of her gown.
    Ladies with whom he socialized generally wore gowns that buttoned down the back. It took particularly nimble fingering to casually loosen those buttons while locked in a rapturous embrace. That was a skill that James, like most healthy boys in London, had perfected by the age of thirteen.
    On the other side of the spectrum were the class of women—servants, women who worked in trade, nurses and the like—who did not have maids to assist them when they dressed. Of a practical necessity, their gowns buttoned down the front. And in Nurse Riley’s case, when those buttons strained against breasts that were magnificently full and generous, well, something altogether glorious happened. The gown occasionally pulled open, permitting one a peek within. James did not hesitate to avail himself of that opportunity.
    Following the line of his stare, Nurse Riley momentarily froze, locked in a pose reminiscent of a startled young deer about to flee. Their gazes connected. Embarrassment flushed her face as she