The Viscount Made Me Do It by Diana Quincy

“What use would I be on the hospital board of governors?” Griff asked Norman. “I don’t know the first thing about managing a hospital.”

“Most governors don’t. You wouldn’t be expected to do much.” Norman watched Griff massage neatsfoot oil into his wrist. “What the devil are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m rubbing this ointment into my wrist.”

“Whatever for?”

“It relieves some of the pain.” Given Norman’s disapproval of the bonesetter and her techniques, Griff refrained from mentioning Mrs. Zaydan.

“Laudanum would be more effective.”

“You know I don’t want to use opium. I prefer to keep my wits about me.”

“Suit yourself,” Norman said mildly.

Griff longed to illuminate his former guardian. To shout from the rooftops that the bonesetter had essentially saved his life. Miraculously, at night he could sleep a few hours at a time now. His shoulder no longer felt like an enemy combatant attached to his body. But Griff intended to wait and see if the bonesetter could repair the rest of his arm before telling Norman the truth.

The doctor filled two glasses of port. They were having after-supper drinks in the parlor rather than the dining room. It was a ritual they’d established soon after Griff had moved in and now continued whenever he was in London.

“As I was saying, having a nobleman on the hospital’s board of governors could mean a great deal. It would certainly assist with fundraising.” He handed a glass to Griff. “We are a charity hospital. We depend upon the generosity of our benefactors.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Attend board meetings four or five times a year, and host the occasional fundraiser.” He sipped his port. “Your father was on the board.”

Griff flinched. “You and I both know that I do not deserve to take his place.”

Dismay flooded Norman’s face. “I told you back then, and I am telling you now, you are not to blame.”

“We’ll never truly know, will we?”

“Yes, we damn well do. You did not wield the knife that killed your parents.”

“If only it were that simple.”

“It absolutely is. You were young. Boys get up to mischief. That is all.” It was a familiar refrain that Griff had heard repeatedly since confessing the truth to his guardian shortly after the crime.

“We weren’t even supposed to be there, Mother and I.” His fists clenched. “Father had to make an unexpected visit to the country house. I convinced Mother that we should go, too.”

“It was a terrible twist of fate. You are not to blame for any of it.”

Griff gulped a generous amount of port to ease the ache in his throat. “How deeply involved was Father in the running of the hospital?”

“Very. More than most governors. He paid careful attention to finances and cared deeply about patient care. Joining the board would be a way for you to honor your father’s legacy.”

Unlike his father, Griff didn’t sit on any boards. He mostly ignored his position and the influence that came with it. He’d acquired the title as a result of an unspeakable tragedy. One Griff blamed himself for. Any donations Griff made were given quietly. But maybe it was time to put his title to use to help people on a wider scale.

“Very well.” He sucked in his cheeks. “If you believe I can be of service.”

“Excellent.” Norman lifted his glass. “Here’s to your joining the board. And to your father, Jeffrey Ellis, the late Lord Griffin. A thoroughly decent man—sometimes to his own detriment.”

“How so?”

“Your father was idealistic, naive even. He found it hard to accept some of life’s darker realties. For example, he cared deeply, perhaps too deeply, about the fate of our patients.”

“Is it possible to care too deeply? Surely the poor deserve good medical care.”

“You are like your father in that way, too tenderhearted. As a doctor, I understand that loss of life is sometimes inevitable. Physicians must accept that they will not be able to heal all patients.”

Griff paused. It was unwise to mention the bonesetter, but he couldn’t resist. “What about others, people of skill other than physicians, who might be able to heal patients?”

“To whom do you refer?”

“There are physicians. There are surgeons. Each has his own specialty. Is it possible that a bonesetter might have his or her own area of expertise?”

Norman cackled and shook his head. “What is this about? Are you swiving the bonesetter? Has she gotten in your ear as well as your trousers?”

“No, I am not bedding Mrs. Zaydan. Her husband might take issue with that.”

“There is no husband as I understand it. She styles herself as a married woman to appear respectable.”

A thrill shot through Griff. She wasn’t married. “What else do you know about Mrs. Zaydan?”

“I’ve made some inquires. The woman is short-tempered, hardheaded and potentially dangerous.”

Griff scoffed. “Please. The woman is no more dangerous than I am.”

“She apparently put out the wrist of some young lord after she was called to tend to his injury. He is said to be in excruciating pain.”

“Maybe he deserved it.”

“I do not begrudge anyone who works to put food on their table,” Norman said. “But I must stand against supposed healers who peddle false promises to vulnerable people.”

“I doubt the young lordship was helpless. His papa’s fortune and position no doubt provide quite a nice cushion.”

“I would be careful around her if I were you.”

Griff understood Norman’s skepticism. But the bonesetter wasn’t a complete fraud. Griff’s shoulder proved that.

Hanna tried to concentrate as she worked on Mr. Thomas’s wrist. Even as the warm woodsy scent of his shaving soap drifted over her.

They sat opposite each other at a corner of her desk, which allowed her easy access to his wrist. Proper treatment required proximity, which was never an issue with Baba’s male patients. But Mr. Thomas was not the usual specimen. His nearness prompted delicious anticipation to swirl through her. And the shiver that ran down her spine when she first put her hands on Mr. Thomas had nothing to do with the room temperature.

If anything, she felt overheated. If she weren’t intent on preserving her modesty, she’d cast off her fichu to feel blissful cool air against her bare skin. The practical part of Hanna’s brain understood that this attraction was purely biological. An undeniable part of life. Yet that didn’t keep Hanna from feeling flustered whenever Mr. Thomas drew near.

“How much mobility will I have in the wrist once you’re done?” he asked.

She could sense his direct gaze on her face. She kept hers on his wrist. To meet his eyes, to look into them, when they were so close to one another felt too intimate. “I expect you shall have almost complete mobility. Once your wrist is restored, the pain should diminish considerably. Or it could disappear completely.”

His cool gaze went to the drawing of the skeleton on the wall. “That’s a macabre piece of art.”

She glanced up. “It’s a Bidloo drawing.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Not exactly. He was a Dutch anatomist and royal physician who lived in the last century. I find his work fascinating. That’s a copy, of course, not an original work.”

Applying pressure, her fingers traced a path over his palm, past his wrist and up his inner forearm. Mr. Thomas cut a formidable presence, but this part of a man—so soft, pale and smooth to the touch—spoke of vulnerability, contrasting sharply with the quiet physical strength of the rest of his body.

“I am still amazed by what you were able to accomplish with my shoulder,” he said.

“How is the pain?” At least her voice, strong and brisk, didn’t betray the flighty way she felt inside.

“In my shoulder? Almost completely gone.”

His wrist was ready. The sooner she got this man out of her examining room, the more quickly her usual rational thinking and clinical detachment would reassert itself. “Please stand.”

He came immediately to his feet, showing none of the hesitation or skepticism from his previous visit. He remained aloof, an invisible shield between him and the rest of the world still firmly in place, but she sensed his blossoming confidence in her skills. The realization delighted her, even though Hanna shouldn’t care what this arrogant man thought of her.

Standing at his side, she took his left wrist in one hand and wrapped her right hand around his thumb, her fingers pressing into his palm.

“Will you warn me before you do your worst?” he asked.

“Do not worry.” She pressed her thumb into a point in his wrist. “Does this hurt?”

He gritted his teeth. “Like the devil.”

“That’s the joint that is out of place.” Exerting steady traction, she rotated his hand slightly downward. “Try to relax.”

Very quickly, before he could draw another breath, she flexed the joint to its full extent until his fingers faced downward. Then, just as sharply, she brought his hand up again so that it was completely extended, all the while keeping her thumb pressure on the sore spot.

He grunted from the unexpected burst of pain. “You promised to warn me,” he rasped.

“No, I did not promise.”

His mouth drew flat. “You gave me your word.”

“Actually, I did not. I believe I said something along the lines of ‘Do not worry.’”

“You deliberately misled me.”

She suppressed a smile in the face of his outrage. “Since when do men of your sort believe a woman’s word is of any worth?”

“Yours certainly isn’t,” he muttered, still clearly affronted. “And what do you mean by ‘of my sort’? What sort is that?”

“You were clearly born into privilege.”

He stiffened. “Why do you say that?”

“It is not something a person can easily hide. It is evident in how you speak, the words you use, how you carry yourself. Your clothes, while not flamboyant, are well-made and of good quality. Should I go on?”

“Only if it will keep you from bending my wrist in unnatural ways.” He paused, examining her face. “You’ve certainly noted a great deal about me. I didn’t realize that I was being examined so closely.”

“You weren’t.” She flushed and shifted her attention down to his arm. “Please move your wrist. If you are quite finished with your complaining.”

“It’s done?” He tested his wrist, gently and slowly flexing and extending it. “It’s . . . incredible . . . The pain is gone.”

“You must begin moderate use of that joint immediately. If you do not bend your wrist on a regular basis, your former troubles will be restored.”

Wonder filled his voice. “I cannot remember what it is to move this wrist without considerable discomfort.”

“Do not forget to keep moving it. How do your fingers feel?”

“At the moment? They’re tingling.”

“Very good. That means the flow of blood is as it should be.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “You amaze me.”

They still sat close to one another. She should move away. Her work was done. But she stayed put. “I have done what any skilled bonesetter would.”

“I don’t know about other bonesetters.” He brushed a loose tendril away from her face. “But I do know that you are remarkable.”

The tenderness in his eyes swathed Hanna in sweet heat. Sitting this close, she could make out the unique details of his gaze. A distinct sunburst bathed in amber and white shot out from the darkness of his pupils, overlaying the icy blue.

He drew nearer, his gaze dropping to her lips. Hanna’s skin prickled. Normally, she easily sublimated feelings of physical desire. A price she willingly paid to be able to practice her craft. What man would want a bonesetter for a wife?

Swallowing her physical impulses, those feminine urges, was never truly a challenge. Until now. With this man, her body rebelled against her mind, determined to have what it craved. Hanna licked her lips.

Mr. Thomas’s eyes blazed. She was tempted to let the moment play out, to allow him certain liberties. How would it feel to kiss a man? This man. She’d never wondered that about anyone else. He inched closer, his intense blue gaze locked with hers.

But then she heard Baba’s voice. Almost as clearly as if he were there in the room with them. One day, Baba,you will be the finest bonesetter in all of London. Hanna didn’t know where her dream ended and she began. Being a bonesetter was as much a part of her as her arm or leg. Any hint of impropriety could destroy her tenuous hold on the life she wanted so badly.

Breaking eye contact, she drew back with a trembling breath. “I shall see you next week, Mr. Thomas.”