3
Ode To Machines
Happy the Man, who in his Pocket keeps,
Whether with green or scarlet Ribband bound,
A well made Cundum.
Generally attributed to John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester; from A Panegyric Upon Cundum, circa 1720s, a pamphlet extolling the virtues of condoms.
It only hurt when he breathed.
So the unexpected gasp his lungs expelled when Daniel caught sight of Thea flinging herself from the carriage and racing toward him cut like a sword slicing across his ribs.
She looked like sunshine, even when the spontaneous smile on her face transformed into a flat line, even when she came close enough he could see that the depths of her mossy eyes were drowning in worry—over him. But neither her fading smile nor the growing alarm dimmed how she lit up his entire day. Amazing really, considering her bedraggled state.
Sludge. Her ugly dress, now soaked and muddy—and torn near the hem, he couldn’t help but note, when a fair amount of ruined stocking showed—put him in mind of sludge. Sewer bracken.
Yet Thea outshone it still.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, reaching him with breathless abandon. She immediately lifted one ungloved hand to feather fingertips over his cheekbone. “Whatever happened to you?”
Granted, his eye was halfway swelled shut, but nothing was broken—not even cracked, or so Crowley had assured him when Daniel washed up and suffered the man’s thorough inspection before departing his bachelor residence to make the jaunt to Thea’s. His tiger had already taken his carriage round back.
Daniel had considered sending his regrets and staying home tonight—not dismaying her with his freshly beat-upon visage—but it seemed his mouth had other plans, ordering his team and driver made ready before he was even dry from his bath.
But Thea—
Dear, battle-worn Thea…
Daniel pulled her fingers from his eye and ran his opposite hand down the back of her head. Straggly strands of saturated hair fell over her shoulder, left an increasingly damp spot over one breast. A breast with one very beaded nipple. “And you?” he intoned, trying—and failing—to keep the concern from his voice. “You look a fright.”
“Me?” She blushed, turned to wave Sarah on and just as swiftly took his hand in hers, opened the door and hauled him inside. “Never mind me, my lord. Your face. What—”
“Oh, Miss Thea.” At the sound of them entering, Mrs. Samuels came bustling. “Land sakes, child, we thought to have ye back hours ago. About ready to call out the Royal Navy, we were— Oh.” Catching sight of Daniel, the woman skidded to a halt. “Lord Tremayne? We weren’t expecting ye so early.” Her gaze swung to Thea and she forgot all about him. “Look at ye, child! All—”
“I am fine, truly. Would you send up some warm wash water? Start the fire in my room if it hasn’t been already?”
The housekeeper hurried off to do her mistress’s bidding and Daniel, silently bemused at seeing this calm, capable side of Thea, waited to learn what she might do next. He was stunned when, rather than direct him to wait in the parlor while she changed, she swirled back to him and cautiously touched the cut beneath his eye. “How you must be hurting. Come with me. I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
He didn’t tell her his face was so numb he couldn’t feel a thing. Didn’t tell her Ellie’s witchy cream had taken away the worst of the sting and blessed him with more relief than he deserved.
Didn’t tell her that having her fuss over him nearly made the pain in his ribs and the guilt weighing his heart all worth it.
Nay, for once, Daniel gladly kept his mouth shut. Was at peace to meekly follow Thea’s guidance, thanks to her hand wrapped gingerly around one set of swollen knuckles, and let her lead him up the stairs.
Finding Lord Tremayne bruised and battered upon her doorstep had chilled Thea more than her icy dress. When they reached her bedchamber and she saw that though the makings of a fire were in place, the hearth was cold, she drew him straight into the windowless dressing room, which tended to be warmer especially when outside temperatures threatened the windowpanes.
Releasing him, she busied herself lighting candles and then turned to shut the door behind them to preserve what heat remained.
“Well now.” She swung back, gazed up. And the look in his unswollen eye—the sight of him, so big and so close—elevated her temperature ten degrees. “Well.”
He leaned back against one wall, arms crossed negligently in front of his chest. His neckcloth was as carelessly tied as she’d ever seen it, as though tonight he couldn’t be bothered with the intricacies of doing it up proper.
Although “proper” was hardly an applicable term when one considered the rest of him: his face had suffered the repeated application of someone’s fist, that was for certain, and he’d used her preoccupation with the candles to dispense with other formalities—removing his greatcoat, tailcoat, and waistcoat. The lack left him looking indolent as he lounged against the wall, more compelling in his shirtsleeves than any man had a right to be.
Thea knew she should be wary of him, feeling guarded and distant. Especially given his ravaged state and Sarah’s recent warnings of love and whores (nasty business, that; Thea decided to put it promptly from her mind).
How could she be expected to erect walls between them when his very presence made her both secure and aware all at once? Secure of herself and aware of him. When he made her feel more feminine than she ever had, made her want to be closer to him? Had her, in fact, marching forward and pulling one of his hands free to inspect the damage done to his knuckles.
Before she could tsk more than twice, he curved his broad hand around hers and tugged, inviting her to meet his gaze. What she could see of it, the flesh surrounding the one eye so
