Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,97
chilled soda water bottles. “A counter refrigerator,” he said, noticing Helen’s interest. “Like the ones in grocers’ shops.”
“I’ve never been in a grocer’s shop,” Helen admitted, watching as Rhys took one of the bottles from the stand. The bottles were all egg-shaped with perfectly round bases that couldn’t stay upright on their own.
Dr. Gibson took a paper packet from the tin of neuralgic powders, and unfolded it to form a vee-shaped channel. “The taste is dreadful,” she said, handing it to Helen. “I suggest pouring it as far back on your tongue as possible.”
Rhys untwisted the tiny wire cage that affixed the cork to the bottle top, and handed the vessel to Helen. He grinned as she gave it an uncertain glance. “You’ve never drunk directly from a bottle before, have you?” His gaze was caressing as he stroked the edge of her jaw with a single knuckle. “Just don’t tip it up too fast.”
Helen held the paper up to her mouth, tilted her head back, and let the bitter powder slide to her throat. Cautiously she brought the bottle to her lips, poured a splash into her mouth, and swallowed the cold, effervescent liquid. The tart lime-flavored soda helped to mask the bitter medicine.
“Have a little more, cariad.” Rhys used his thumb to wipe at a tiny stray drop at the corner of her mouth. “This time, seal your lips around the edge.”
She took another swallow or two, chasing away the taste of the powder, and gave the bottle back to him. Leaving it uncorked, he set it back on the stand.
Dr. Gibson spoke quietly, her sympathetic gaze on Helen. “It will begin to take effect in five minutes or so.”
Helen closed her eyes and lifted her fingers to her temples again, trying to ease the sensation of needles being driven into her skull. She was aware of Rhys’s large form beside her, his presence somehow comforting and distressing at the same time. She thought of what she needed to talk to him about, and how he would react, and her shoulders slumped.
“Some people find that an ice bag or a mustard plaster helps,” she heard Dr. Gibson say quietly. “Or a massage of the neck muscles.”
Helen twitched with agitation as she felt Rhys’s hands settle on her exposed nape. “Oh not here—”
“Shhh.” His fingertips found places of excruciating soreness and began to knead gently. “Rest your forearms on the counter.”
“If someone should see—”
“They won’t. Relax.”
Although the circumstances were hardly what Helen would have considered relaxing, she obeyed weakly.
Rhys used his thumbs on the back of Helen’s neck, while his fingers pressed into the knotted tightness at the base of her skull. She lowered her head, as her muscles were coaxed and inexorably coerced into releasing their tension. His strong hands worked down her neck to her shoulders with sensitive variations of pressure, finding every tight place. She found herself taking deeper breaths, surrendering to the pleasure of his touch.
As Rhys continued to knead and probe, he spoke over her head to Dr. Gibson. “This orphan asylum you’re going to—have you been there before?”
“Yes, I try to go weekly. I visit a workhouse as well. Neither place can afford a doctor’s services, and the infirmaries are always full.”
“Where are they located?
“The workhouse is in Clerkenwell. The orphan asylum is a bit farther out, at Bishopsgate.”
“Those places aren’t safe for you to go unescorted.”
“I’m quite familiar with London, sir. I don’t take chances with my safety, and I carry a walking stick for self-defense.”
“What good is a walking stick?” Rhys asked skeptically.
“In my hands,” Dr. Gibson assured him, “it’s a dangerous weapon.”
“Is it weighted?”
“No, I can deliver three times as many blows with a lighter cane than with a heavier stick. At my fencing-master’s suggestion, I’ve carved notches at strategic points along the shaft to improve grip strength. He has taught me some effective techniques to fell an opponent with a cane.”
“You fence?” Helen asked, her head still down.
“I do, my lady. Fencing is an excellent sport for ladies—it develops strength, posture, and proper breathing.”
Helen liked the woman more and more. “I think you’re fascinating.”
Dr. Gibson responded with a surprised little laugh. “How nice you are. I’m afraid you’ve disappointed my expectations: I thought you would be snobbish, and instead you’re perfectly lovely.”
“Aye, she is,” Rhys said softly, his thumbs making circles on Helen’s neck.
To Helen’s amazement, the burning coals in her head were fading to blessed coolness: She could feel the searing agony retreating by the second. After another