Page 107 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Along each of his upper arms and layered on both of his sides were burns. The same size and shape as the burn scars that marred his face and neck. They were puckered red, falling in thick lines one over the other. A hot poker, he’d said. They held it in the fire and then they held it against me.

Helena moistened her lips. Justin was looking at her, his expression inscrutable as ever. She was painfully aware of the intensity of his regard. Did he think she’d cringe away from the sight of him? She didn’t feel much like cringing. Rather the opposite. She wanted to touch him. To trace her fingers over every hollow and groove of his muscled chest.

She reached for a fresh linen, her hands suddenly unsteady as she soaked it in the water and wrung it out. “Could he have broken your ribs?” She pressed it to a minor cut below his right shoulder.

He sucked in his breath. “No.”

“Does that hurt?” She swabbed the wet linen very lightly over his chest.

“No,” he rasped again.

“You sound as if it does.”

“It doesn’t.”

Helena frowned at him. Were all gentlemen so difficult when they were injured? Giles hadn’t been. Then again, she couldn’t remember Giles having ever engaged in a bout of fisticuffs with a man of Mr. Glyde’s dimensions.

She tossed the scrap of linen back into the basin and then carried the whole of it to the chiffonier and set it down. Mrs. Jarrow had brought up a jar of salve along with the linens. Helena twisted off the lid and gave it a delicate sniff. Satisfied, she went back to stand between Justin’s legs.

“What’s that?” he asked gruffly.

“Salve of some kind. It smells of beeswax and honey.” She touched her fingers to his chin, tipping his face up so that she could apply a dollop of it to one of his cuts. “Where is Mr. Glyde now? Has he gone back to my uncle?”

“No. He’s not with your uncle.” Justin closed his eyes as she dabbed salve on the cuts over his brow. “He’s at the London docks.”

“What in heaven is he doing there?”

“At present? He’s trussed up in the bottom of a ship.”

“What?”

Justin’s eyes opened again. For the first time since his return, she saw something like humor in his gaze. “Glyde said that terrorizing you was a job to him, nothing more. So…” He shrugged. “I found him a new position.”

Helena stared at him, openmouthed. “A new position?” She was both fascinated and appalled. “Where?”

“In the West Indies. He sails with the morning tide.”

“He’s gone? He’s left London?” She pressed a hand to her midriff. “Is he going to come back?”

“No,” Justin said, his voice softening. “He won’t come back.”

Helena was scarcely able to accept it. Mr. Glyde was gone? He’d never hurt her again?

The jar of salve clattered to the floor as she flung her arms around Justin’s neck. She was beyond words. Beyond anything. All she could manage was to hold him tight, hoping against hope that he understood how profoundly grateful she was for what he’d done for her.

Justin brought an arm around her waist. He slowly drew back to look at her. “I don’t want your gratitude. I didn’t do it for that.”

“You have it anyway,” she said. “And so much more.”

Afterward, she would wonder if he’d moved his head of his own accord or if it was she who’d urged him to her with an insistent press of her hand. She very much feared it was the latter.

Whoever instigated the movement, it led to her mouth finding his in a warm, passionate kiss.

He didn’t rebuff her. Not at first. For the briefest moment, he returned her kiss with the same tenderness he’d shown her at the Stanhope Hotel. And then—

“No,” he said gently “No.” He touched her cheek. “It’s not a good idea.”

Helena went rigid with embarrassment as he pulled away from her. A swell of overwhelming humiliation tightened her throat. “You’re right.”