Page 77 of The Lady's Last Mistake
Cassie gripped Mrs. Rawling’s shoulders while he worked slowly between contractions. At last, he felt the resistance give as the baby slid away from his prodding hands. After an examination, he nodded. It had worked. The baby was now in the proper position. He motioned for Sister Agnes to ready the linens and dampen several cloths with soapy water. He was in the minority of physicians who advocated for cleanliness, but as so few ofhis patients developed infection, he would continue with the practice, even if other physicians mocked him for it.
The crown of the baby’s head presented, and after only two more contractions, the infant emerged. A boy. The umbilical cord had looped and tightened around his neck, likely from the twisted position in the womb. Grant freed him, but the baby’s silence and the blue cast of his skin stopped his own breathing. He wrapped the boy into a warm blanket and took him into his lap, then began to rub his little chest vigorously. For several seconds that felt like hours, Grant saw again his own daughter, serenely silent and ashen when the midwife had put her bundled figure in his arms.
“Come on, little one. Fight,” he whispered as he continued rubbing.
The baby twitched. And then a wail split the quiet. A rush of color flooded the baby’s skin as he howled, and Grant joined him, letting out a cry of relief. Mrs. Rawling sobbed, but when he tried to hand her the child, wrapped and warm, his fists flailing, the woman shook her head. “No, no,” she gasped, turning her face away.
Puzzled, he looked to Cassie, whose expression was a crush of pain. Sister Agnes bent to take the baby from him. Just then, a rush of footfalls came up the stairwell. Miss Khan dashed into in the room, busily removing her cloak, hat, and scarf. “I got your message and came as quickly as I could,” she said, out of breath. But at the sight of the infant in the nun’s arms, she beamed at Grant. “Doctor Brown, we might just get accustomed to having you here.”
He stood when Miss Khan prepared to take over for the delivery of the afterbirth; he was more than happy to let her. His hands shook as he washed them. Cassie gathered histhings and beckoned him to follow her. He did so on legs that were soft at the knee. His blood pumped hard and erratically, though now it was with thrill rather than dread.
Cassie led him to her office and shut the door. It was still just as cold as it had been last time, the brazier again unlit. But after the heat of the birthing chamber, Grant dragged the chilled air into his lungs with pleasure. She placed his bag, greatcoat, and jacket onto the lumpy sofa, then took up a hooked blanket from the arm. She came back and, just as he had with her after she’d assisted him with Amir, draped the blanket over his shoulders.
“There,” she said, rubbing his arms as he had, to assuage the trembling that had afflicted her. He pulled her to him with a sudden burst of gratitude. Cassie embraced him, resting her head on his chest. “You were magnificent, Grant.”
He buried his nose and mouth into her crown of hair. The scent of warmed apricots curled through him, and after several moments, his pulse slowed. His breathing evened. But just as he began to regain his composure, he heard Cassie sniffle. Grant pulled back to peer down at her. “What is wrong?”
Any hope of the tears being happy ones dissolved when the corners of her mouth turned downward.
“Caroline—Mrs. Rawling,” she said softly. “She’s here because she is going to leave her baby with the nuns for placement. She can’t afford another child, and so…”
Grant nodded. That was why she had not wanted to hold him. It would be too painful to then give him up.
He held Cassie closer, his lips brushing her forehead.
“I know how devastated she is,” she whispered. Grant nudged her chin with his thumb, and when she looked up at him, he kissed her cheek, wet and salty from her tears. Herlashes were damp, the tip of her nose red. She appeared so vulnerable, and yet he knew she wasn’t. At least not all the time.
“The world can be cruel,” he said. “You’re doing the best you can for Mrs. Rawling. She’s grateful for that, I’m sure.”
Cassie rested her head against his chest again. She didn’t attempt to disentangle from his embrace. Instead, her palms rubbed his back. She turned her face into his chest, her nose scuffing side to side. He felt the press of her lips through his shirt and waistcoat. His body replied, instantly going hard.
“I’m sorry about Michael.”
Grant had shaken off the duke’s reaction the morning after the snowstorm. In all honesty, he could not blame Fournier. “He thinks me unsuitable.”
She nodded. He rubbed circles against the small of her back.
“I am, you know.”
Cassie lifted her head. “Don’t say that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It is true.”
She frowned and started to pull away, but he wrenched her back into place. Her body came flush against his, and her eyes widened as she felt his arousal.
“You see?” He gripped her waist and lifted her to sit on the edge of her desk. The blanket around his shoulders fell off. “I am entirely unsuitable.”
He kissed her, her lips salty from tears. Her thighs fell apart, and Grant stepped between them, stretching the fine wool of her skirt.
“The only thing I’ve been able to think about, dream about, for two days, is being inside you again,” he said against her mouth. “Is that not depraved?”
Cassie hooked her hands around his neck and pulled him lower, her tongue first to delve into his mouth. After one long, scalding kiss, she replied, “Then I must be depraved too, because I want that. I want you. Grant, please.”
The sound of her gasping his name awoke a sleeping dragon within him. He had the insensible desire to collect a thousand such gasps from her and hoard them like jewels. Christ, he needed her skirt up; the blood in his veins throbbed for it. But he could not entirely dismiss where they were. Or what they were doing.
“Cassie,” he whispered as her thighs clenched around his, as if to draw him closer. “This is getting out of control.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care.”
