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Thus mollified, she stayed by his side until he spooned the last liquid of the soup and ate the last crumb of the oatcakes.

“Now, rest.” Without thinking, she placed a hand on his forehead. It was dry and warm, but not hot. She didn’t think he had any fever. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes.

Then it occurred to her how close she was. He was still sitting, she standing, right in front of him, so close she could smell his cologne, musk and mint and something sharper, was it camphor? The smell had lingered in the examination room as well. His body radiated heat, and suddenly her heart began to beat faster.

She pulled her hand away abruptly and cleared her throat. “As I said, you ought to get some rest.”

He opened his eyes and looked directly into hers. Green, sharp green. “Yes, Miss Hilversham,” he said softly.

Her stomach flipped.

Suddenly, she did not know what to do with her hands and twisted them in her skirt. She took a step back.

“Well, I shall return the tray to Mrs Marks. She will be pleased that you finally ate something. And I will leave you alone now to rest. You need not worry about us. About me and Phoebe, I mean. We will busy ourselves in the library. We have much to do.” Heavens, she was babbling. Confused, she picked up the tray.

His smile lit up his entire face, leaving her breathless.

“Yes, Miss Hilversham,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Chapter 13

He was burning, and it was a fever to which he didn’t know the cure. It consumed him, his entire body, from head to toe, and it had entered his soul and sizzled there, consuming him entirely, but what was even worse, it had entered his brain, too, with the result that he was incapable of thinking of anything else but her.

All he had to do was think of her and this blasted organ in his chest would start pounding with a frenzy. And when she was close, he felt a bliss that was entirely incomprehensible. It simply defied all logic.

When she’d placed her cool, soft hand on his forehead, he was in paradise. He’d forgotten his weariness, his pain, and all he felt was the nearness of her, of wanting to be touched. He wished he could cling to that hand and never let it go. It had taken all the strength in his body not to reach out and plant a kiss on it.

He dragged a hand over his face.

When had all this begun? From the moment she’d set her foot into the parlour room of the seminary, he supposed, yet back then he’d been certain it was a fleeting sentiment that would eventually pass. He’d been half amused at himself at the violence of his feelings for a complete stranger. Surely, that was not normal. It couldn’t possibly be real.

He’d studied his own feelings as a proper scientist ought, struggling for detachment as he made brief, daily notes in his journal.

Yet it hadn’t passed, and it had become worse. With every day he saw her, it grew, this desire to know her better.

And she, she’d never outright feared him as everyone else did. It was gratifying, refreshing, not to see the wariness in her eyes that he encountered in everyone else’s. He certainly hadn’t tried very hard to appear in a more positive light.

He sighed deeply. He knew better than anyone that he was a difficult man whose reputation was not entirely undeserved. Not the madness part, that was, of course, nonsense. But in terms of him appearing as a gentleman. The fact that he did not care about the strictures of society, about rules, the regulations of the ton. He’d always been an outsider. He’d never considered any of that relevant.

What did he have to offer her? A life secluded in a damp and dark manor house in the deepest countryside, far away from any kind of genteel society, with the most tenacious rumours clinging to him. He couldn’t give her, or anyone, the kind of life she deserved.

He dried his hands and tossed the towel away impatiently.

This was insupportable.

This entire situation.

This ache in his chest, this intolerable yearning.

Bah.

He’d hoped that work would help, so he’d thrown himself into his endeavours to push it all away and forget her, but it wasn’t working, not with her beside him in the examination room, as a very useful assistant.

The woman wasn’t squeamish in the least and had backbone. She never even flinched at the sight of blood, nor did she express disgust at the draining of abscesses and the dressing of ulcers. She was cheerful and kind, and quick to understand what he needed. She’d learned the names of the instruments quickly, and best of all, she was good at distracting patients when the treatment became painful.

He respected her tremendously.

It didn’t help in the least to have her moving around him, smelling the scent of violets that hung about her, to feel the gentle brush of her skin against his hand when they touched. He had to repress a sharp intake of breath every time as he felt his entire body tighten.