“It most certainly is,” his deep voice rumbled. “Infections are awful things, and the hands are one of the last places you would want them to be. Now, give me your right hand, please.”
It was not his words that ceased her complaining but the look he gave her. The look that said he was not going to go anywhere, and neither was she until his task was completed. Beatrice let out another tired sigh and placed her right hand into his large palm.
With care, he began to untie the black silk makeshift bandage and then began to unwind it. Beatrice hissed out a breath as the last bit of fabric pulled at the cuts on her hand, glued there by the droplets of blood that had sunk and then dried into the makeshift bandage.
Algernon did not look happy as it was—not that he ever was a particular ray of sunshine, but somehow, the storm cloud expression on his face darkened as he looked at the mess of tiny cuts.
“Imbecile,” he seethed under his breath.
“It was a thoughtful gesture,” Beatrice countered.
Even as she said so though, she turned her head away from her wounds. She had felt the pricks of the thorns but had not bothered to inspect her own hands, thinking it was not so much a bother. Now, though, as she briefly took in the many small cuts and sticky blood on her palm, her stomach grew queasy. She drew in a deep breath, hoping it would help, but her nose, which had always had a strong olfactory sense, picked up the scent of blood; further making her stomach roil.
“So, you are going to a ball with Henry,” Algernon said, his deep tone wry.
She was not sure if he was trying to distract or if his timing was simply coincidental, but either way, she used it to pull herself away from the bout of nausea. It was followed by the sound of water being wrung of a cloth, and shortly after, Beatrice’s body eased just a little as she felt wet warmth in her wounded palm.
She dared a glance back at Algernon. Once more, his head was bowed over her hands as they sat across from one another in her room. She immediately noticed that the cloth was clean and white,. a poor choice to clean up blood from her perspective. The stains would be awful for the laundress to wash out, but she supposed that was not a matter for her to worry over anymore—now that she was no longer responsible for such chores.
“Is that not a good thing?” she asked as Algernon gently soothed the warm, clean cloth over the heel of her palm.
“I suppose it is,” he murmured, “if you truly want to go.”
Beatrice tsked her tongue as she smirked and shook her head.
“Since when have my wants been up for discussion?” she asked.
Algernon’s tender touch as he washed her wounds did not cease, but his eyes drew up to her again, and she regretted the poor joke she had attempted to make. There was sadness in his forest green eyes. Regret, too.
“Apologies,” she said softly. “I know what you have done thus far has been to benefit me. It is not your fault I was at the auction house. That lies solely on Simeon’s shoulders. I am very aware that had you not purchased me, my present situation could be much worse.”
“Do not do that,” Algernon rasped, his tone soft despite the obvious command.
“What?” she asked.
“Try to soothe my feelings over this… situation. What you went through was awful. And you are right. I have not given you many choices since I have brought you here.”
Silence seemed to spread over Beatrice’s room like a thick blanket that stretched to every corner. It was not tense, yet it was not comfortable either. Not know what to say next, Beatrice simply let herself be pulled under as Algernon so very carefully rubbed ointment into her clean palm and fingers then went to work binding her hand again with a clean, white strip of cotton fabric.
“Now let me have the other,” Algernon said, holding out his empty hand.
This time, Beatrice did not attempt to argue but instead simply placed her hand, palm up, in his hand, and he soon went to work on cleaning that one. In her freshly washed right hand, she began to feel a delightful tingle begin to spread from her wounds.
“That feels quite nice,” she murmured, holding up her white-bandaged hand.
“Mrs. Sheer has quite a talent with herbs,” Algernon explained.
Then to her surprise, a sudden smirk pulled the right side of his lips up, flashing her his teeth as his brows perked and he met her eyes again.
“I will have you know, she was just as infuriated as I was when I told her what happened,” he said with obvious pleasure. “She was ready to track Henry down and box his ears.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes at them both, but even so, she felt her lips pull toward a smile and her body relax.
“I presume she is perturbed that such wounds might affect my lessons,” she replied dryly.
“No,” Algernon said, pausing in his work. “She is perturbed because you are a sweet woman, and you do not deserve to be hurt by such carelessness.”
Beatrice blushed furiously at his words. He had said far more wicked things from far more wicked positions, yet for some reason what he said presently felt far more intimate.