“Yes.” She was oddly touched by his matter-of-fact response. No pity, no awkward attempt to change the subject. “I use a salve sometimes, but tonight it’s particularly persistent.”
“May I?” He gestured to the chair opposite his.
She hesitated only briefly before making her way across the room, settling into the offered seat.
“Would you like some?” He indicated the decanter of brandy on the small table between them.
“Please.” She accepted the glass he poured, taking a sip and feeling the liquid warmth spread through her chest. “What’s keeping you awake?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Old ghosts. Nothing of consequence.”
“It must be significant to drive you from your bed at this hour,” she observed.
He studied her for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind. Then he sighed, setting down his glass. “Have you ever met Carlisle’s valet, David?”
The unexpected question caught her off guard. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
A smile tugged at Hereford’s lips. “You’d remember if you had. The man is impossible to miss—dresses himself and, tragically, Carlisle in the most appalling color combinations imaginable. Purple waistcoats with orange trim, emerald cravats paired with yellow striping. The man has a positive genius for chromatic discord.”
“And Lord Carlisle permits this?” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue.
“Permits it? He actively encourages it.” Hereford’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his expression warming with amusement. “Says he owes David whatever small pleasures he can provide.”
“Owes him?”
“David saved Carlisle’s life before he was an earl, back when he was working the docks.” Hereford leaned forward slightly, his glass cradled between his hands. “A two-ton shipment came loose from its moorings—would have crushed Carlisle entirely if David hadn’t pushed him clear.”
“How heroic,” Amelia said softly.
“Indeed. Though David paid a terrible price.” Hereford’s expressionsobered. “The shipment caught his leg instead. It had to be amputated above the knee.”
Understanding dawned in Amelia’s eyes. “So, he suffers from ghost pains as well.”
“Yes. When Carlisle received his earldom for providing ships during the war, he immediately made David his personal valet, though the man knew nothing about proper gentleman’s dress.” Hereford’s smile returned. “Thus, the predilection for color combinations that would make a peacock weep with envy.”
Despite her discomfort, Amelia found herself smiling. “This is all interesting,” she said, “but I don’t quite see how it relates to your sleeplessness.”
Hereford’s expression turned slightly sheepish. “Not my sleeplessness but yours. You see, David developed a method for managing his ghost pains—a particular type of massage that targets the muscles above the amputation site. He showed Carlisle, who—” He hesitated, slowly rubbing the stubble on his jaw. “After perhaps too much brandy one evening, Carlisle enthusiastically demonstrated it to me when I mentioned a hunting acquaintance with a similar affliction.”
The image of the rugged Earl of Carlisle, tipsy on brandy, eagerly demonstrating massage techniques on Hereford was so incongruous that Amelia couldn’t suppress a soft laugh. “That must have been quite the demonstration.”
“Oh, it was theatrical in the extreme. David supervised, criticizing Carlisle’s technique and his ‘inadequate appreciation for the finer points of pressure application.’” Hereford’s impression of what must have been David’s haughty tone was remarkably good. “But the method itself proved effective for my acquaintance.”
He hesitated, studying her with suddenly serious eyes. “I could try it, if you’d allow it. David was quite thorough in his instructions, and I have a decent memory.”
The offer hung in the air between them, weighted with implicationsthat extended far beyond a simple therapeutic gesture. It would require trust, vulnerability, physical contact outside the bounds of their careful arrangement. Well, they’d been there already, had they not?
“A valet with a missing leg who dresses his master in terrible colors taught you a massage technique while drunk?” She couldn’t help the skepticism in her voice, though there was humor there too.
“When you put it that way, it does sound rather implausible,” he acknowledged with a self-deprecating smile. “But I promise the method proved sound, even if its transmission was somewhat unorthodox.”
She believed him, which was perhaps the most surprising realization of all. Despite their earlier argument, despite the walls she’d built around her heart, she found herself trusting the sincerity in his eyes.
“All right,” she said quietly.
Charles set down his glass and moved to kneel before her chair, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “May I?” he asked, hands hovering near but not touching her wrapped stump.
Amelia nodded, unable to form words as he carefully unwrapped the bandages, exposing the scarred flesh beneath. She tensed, waiting for his reaction. But none came. He studied the limb with clinical interest, his expression never changing from one of focused concentration.
