Regency: Rogues and Runaways: A Lover's Kiss / The Viscount's Kiss

She entered her room, to find Sir Douglas Drury sitting on her bed, as calm and composed as if he had just dropped by for a drink or a game of chance.

“I should have known it would take more than a blow to the head to ruffle you,” Lord Bromwell said with a relieved smile as he went to his friend. “Still, that’s a nasty lump and you can’t fool me completely. You’re sitting up so straight, I’d wager you’ve got a broken rib.”

“I don’t believe it’s broken,” Sir Douglas replied with barely a glance in Juliette’s direction. “Cracked, perhaps, and likely I’ve got a hell of a bruise.”

Ignoring him in turn, Juliette moved to the side of the room and took off her bonnet. Now that Lord Bromwell was here, there was nothing more for her to do except—Mon Dieu, she’d forgotten all about her work!

She would have to say she had fallen ill. She hadn’t missed a day yet for any reason and wouldn’t get paid for this one, but surely Madame de Pomplona wouldn’t dismiss her if she said she’d been sick.

Juliette hoped not, anyway, as she returned her bonnet to the chest.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Lord Bromwell put his hand to his friend’s right side and press.

The barrister jumped. “Damn it!”

“Sorry, but that’s the only way I can tell if you’ve broken a bone,” Lord Bromwell replied. “You’re right. The rib’s not broken, although it could be cracked. I’ll bandage you before we leave, just in case. I wouldn’t want anything to get jostled before you can be seen by your own doctor.”

Lord Bromwell turned to Juliette. “Do you have any extra linen?”

She shook her head. Did it look as if she had linen—or anything—to spare?

“An old petticoat, perhaps?”

“I have only the chemise I am wearing.”

“Oh,” he murmured, blushing again.

“Buy her damn chemise so I can go home,” Sir Douglas growled.

Lord Bromwell gave Juliette a hopeful smile. “Would that be possible?”

She didn’t doubt he could afford to pay well, and she could always make a new one. “Oui.”

He pulled out a tooled leather wallet and extracted a pound note. “I hope this is enough.”

“Oui.” It was more than ample. Now all that remained was to remove the chemise he had purchased.

“Turn your back, Buggy, to give her some privacy,” Sir Douglas muttered. “I’ll stare at the floor, which will likely collapse in a year or two.”

She would have expected Lord Bromwell to realize why she’d hesitated before Sir Douglas did and was surprised he had not. Nevertheless, keeping a wary eye on both gentlemen who looked away, she quickly doffed her dress and her chemise, then pulled the former back on.

She held the latter out to Lord Bromwell. “Thank you,” he said as Sir Douglas raised his eyes.

She had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he was imagining what she’d look like dressed only in the flimsy white garment.

Even more uncomfortable was the realization that she wasn’t as bothered by that idea as she should be. If she were to be attracted to either of the men in her room, should it not be the kind, gentlemanly one?

Except that he had not needed her help, or spoken French like a native, or kissed her as if he loved her.

“Now then,” Lord Bromwell said briskly, breaking into her ruminations. He had finished tearing her chemise into strips. “Off with your shirt.”

Sir Douglas glanced at Juliette as if reluctant to remove it when she was in the room.

“If it is modesty that is hindering you, Sir Douglas,” she said with a hint of amusement at this unexpected bashfulness, “I shall turn my back.”

“It is not modesty that prevents me from taking off my shirt,” he coolly replied. “It’s pain.”

“Oh, sorry!” Lord Bromwell cried. “I’ll help.”

Sir Douglas quirked a brow at Juliette. “Perhaps Miss Bergerine would oblige.”

What kind of woman did he think she was? “I will not!”

“My loss, I’m sure. Well, then, Buggy, it’ll have to be you.”

With a disgusted sniff, Juliette grabbed the wooden stool, carried it across the room and set it under the window, determined to stare out at the brick wall across the alley until they were gone.

“I thought you were going to bandage me, not bind me like a mummy,” Sir Douglas complained.

“You want it done properly, don’t you?”

Juliette couldn’t resist. She had to look. She glanced over her shoulder, to see Lord Bromwell wrapping a strip of fabric around Sir Douglas’s lean and muscular torso. His shoulders were truly broad, not like some gentlemen who had padding in their jackets, and there was a scar that traversed his chest from the left shoulder almost to his navel.

“Not a pretty sight, am I, Miss Bergerine?”

She immediately turned back to the window and the brick wall opposite. “If that scar is from the war, you are not the only one who suffered. My father and brother died fighting for Napoleon, and my other brother… But I will not speak of them to you.”

“I’ve not bandaged you too tight, have I?” Lord Bromwell asked quietly a little later.

“I can still breathe. But I must say, if this is how you tended to your shipmates, I’m surprised any of them survived.”

Sir Douglas had to be the most ungrateful man alive, and she would be glad when he was gone, Juliette decided.

“They were happy enough to have my help when they got sick or injured,” Lord Bromwell replied without rancor.

He truly was a kind and patient fellow.

“There. All done. Now let’s get your shirt back on. Right, lift your arm a little more. That’s a good lad.”

“Need I remind you I am neither a child nor mentally deficient?”

“So stop complaining and do as you’re told.”

“I am not complaining. I’m attempting to get you to stop talking to me as if I were an infant.”

“Then stop pouting like one.”

“Sir Douglas Drury does not pout.”