His arms tightened, and there was a quiet catch in his throat, as if he weren’t certain whether to breathe in or out.
In the next moment, he had released her and collapsed to a seated position in an uncharacteristically clumsy movement. His long arms curled around his bent legs, and he rested his forehead on his knees.
Alarmed, Garrett lowered to her knees beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“Strained muscle,” he said in a muffled voice.
But it appeared more serious than that. His color was high, and he seemed on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Do you feel dizzy?” Garrett asked in worry. “Light-headed?” She laid her palm against the side of his face, testing his temperature, and he jerked away from her touch. “Let me check your pulse,” she said, reaching for him again.
Ransom snatched her wrist, his gaze meeting hers in a blaze of unearthly blue. “Don’t touch me, or I’ll—” Breaking off, he rolled away and rose to his feet in a single easy motion. He went to the opposite wall and braced his hands against it, his head lowered.
Garrett stared after him, her jaw sagging.
Before he’d turned his back, she’d caught a glimpse of something that was most definitely not a strained muscle. It was a different kind of problem altogether.
As the fencing trousers displayed so flagrantly, he was aroused. Prodigiously, impressively so.
Color invaded Garrett’s face until her cheeks felt scorched. At a complete loss for what to do, she remained kneeling on the floor. All her skin felt tight and seared, and she was filled with a sense of . . . well, she didn’t quite know what it was . . . not embarrassment, although her complexion had turned beetroot red. Not pleasure, exactly, although her nerves thrummed with giddiness.
She had never been a woman whose presence excited the male ardor. Partly because she’d never cultivated the skills of flirtation and feminine charm. Also because when she first met a man, she was usually jabbing him with suture needles or injection syringes.
“Would . . . would it help if I fetch a glass of cold water?” she dared to ask, in a timid voice that didn’t even sound like hers.
Ransom replied with his forehead leaning against the wall. “Not unless you pour it down my trousers.”
A strangled laugh was wrenched from her throat.
He turned to give her a sideways glance then, a flash of hot, infinite blue, conveying the force of a desire as immolating as a lightning bolt. Even with Garrett’s reams of knowledge about the workings of the human body, she could only begin to comprehend all that was contained in that blistering look.
His voice was dry and fractured with self-mockery. “As you said, Doctor . . . there’s a part of every man that’s untamed and unsubdued.”
Chapter 5
“What did he say after that?” Lady Helen Winterborne whispered across the tea table, her blue-gray eyes as round as silver florins. “What did you say?”
“I can’t remember,” Garrett confessed, amazed to feel her face heating up even now, three days later. “My mind turned to mush. It was so unexpected.”
“Had you never seen a man . . . in that state?” Helen asked delicately.
Garrett gave her a sardonic glance. “I’m a former nurse as well as a physician. I daresay I’ve seen as many erections as a brothel madam.” She frowned. “But never one that had anything to do with me.”
Helen hastily crammed a linen napkin against her lips, muffling a laugh.
As was their weekly habit, they had met for lunch at the renowned tea room of Winterborne’s department store. The tea room was a serene refuge from the heat and bustle of the day, a tall-ceiled, airy room decorated with frothy green potted palms, the walls lined with mosaics of blue, white, and gold tiles. The main floor was crowded with ladies and gentlemen clustered at the round tables. Each corner of the tea room featured an inset alcove where the table was set back enough to allow for private conversation. As Winterborne’s wife, of course, Helen was always seated at one of the alcove tables.
Garrett had been friends with Helen ever since she’d been hired as one of Winterborne’s staff physicians. She had quickly discovered that not only was Helen kind, sensible, and loyal, she could also be trusted to keep her mouth shut. They had a great deal in common, including a commitment to helping those less fortunate. In the past year, Helen had become the patroness of several charities benefitting women and children, and worked actively for reform causes.
Recently Helen had insisted that Garrett start attending some of the fundraising dinners and private concerts she and Winterborne hosted. “You can’t work all the time,” Helen had told her in a gentle but resolute tone. “Now and then you must spend an evening in the society of others.”
“I’m in the company of people every day,” Garrett had protested.
“At the clinic, yes. But I’m referring to a social evening, when you put on a nice dress, and make small talk, and perhaps even dance.”
“You’re not going to try matchmaking for me, are you?” Garrett had asked suspiciously.
Helen had given her a chiding smile. “There’s no harm in making the acquaintance of a few unmarried gentlemen. You’re not opposed to the idea of marriage, are you?”
“Not exactly. But I’ve never been able to see how my life could accommodate a husband. He couldn’t be the sort of man who insisted that the household revolve around his needs, nor could he expect me to be a traditional wife. He would have to be as unconventional as I am. I’m not sure such a man exists.” Garrett had shrugged and smiled wryly. “I don’t mind being ‘on the shelf,’ as they say. It happens to be a very interesting shelf.”
“If he’s out there,” Helen had told her, “you certainly won’t find him by staying at home. You’re coming to our next dinner, and that means we must have a new evening dress made up for you.”
“I have an evening dress,” Garrett had said, thinking of her sapphire brocade, which was a few years old but had worn like iron.
“I’ve seen it, and it’s very . . . nice,” Helen said, damning the garment with faint praise. “However, you need something more festive. And lower cut. No women our age wear high-necked evening gowns—those are only for young girls or dowagers.”
Acknowledging that fashion was not necessarily her forte, Garrett had agreed to visit the store’s in-house dressmaker, Mrs. Allenby, after tea with Helen today.
Her thoughts were drawn back to the present as Helen regained her composure and murmured, “Poor Mr. Ransom. It must be dreadfully embarrassing for a man to be caught in that state.”
“No doubt it was,” Garrett said, nibbling at a miniature sandwich made of a nasturtium leaf and cream cheese pressed between two thin slices of French roll. But Ransom hadn’t seemed embarrassed. A ticklish sensation wove through her as she recalled the look he’d given her. A starving-tiger look, all desire and instinct. As if it had taken every last flicker of his will to hold himself back from her.
“How did the lesson end?” Helen asked.
“After we had changed into our street clothes, Ransom met me outside, and hailed a hansom cab for me. Before I climbed into the seat, he thanked me for the time we’d spent together, and said he regretted very much that we couldn’t meet again. I can’t remember what I said, only that I extended my hand for him to shake, and he . . .”