Page 42 of Her Beast

Christ. He should have known it was a mistake. Smith might be able to tolerate his wreck of a body, but nobody else would.

Malcolm felt a sharp stab of anger at his friend. Oh, he knew Smith had just wanted to please him, but all last night did was create unreasonable expectations.

He frowned, grabbed his cock, and squeezed hard enough to quell his erection. He would go to the gymnasium and smother his arousal with exertion once Norris had slathered him in salve.

Later today, if he was still horny, he would use Maisie.

But first, exercise.

He turned to his patiently waiting servant. “I’ll stay with my usual routine.”

“Very good, sir,” Norris said, turning away to fetch the salve for Malcolm’s daily oiling.

Malcolm shrugged out of his silk robe and tossed it over the nearby chair before spreading his feet.

Norris returned with a hand towel and large tin of ointment and dropped to his knees. He started with Malcolm’s foot, ignoring the half-erect shaft bobbing only inches from his face.

The salve Doctor Fowler prescribed for Malcolm’s burns was a miracle that contained a substance called silver nitrate. Fowler had emphasized the importance of keeping his scar tissue supple in addition to regular, rigorous movement.

Jonathan Fowler had been a close associate of Jacques-Louis Reverdin—the doctor who’d pioneered skin grafts—and had used the relatively new Reverdin grafting technique on Malcolm’s knee, elbow, and shoulder joints. It was Malcolm’s opinion that the combination of exercise, skin grafts, and ointment were what made his life bearable.

Fowler had wanted to use the technique on his jaw and cheek, but Malcolm had declined. Although the grafted skin made movement easier, it was not especially attractive, nor would it make areas like his face look normal. Nothing would.

Norris finished Malcolm’s outer thigh and hip and then stood. Malcolm held out his arm, impatient for the man to finish, but aware he couldn’t rush him. His burned skin tightened without use, so it was always most uncomfortable in the mornings. If he didn’t oil the skin that had no functioning oil ducts, it would tear and crack and bleed.

Five minutes later—slathered in grease like a suckling pig and garbed in a loose smock shirt and drawstring trousers—he entered his private gymnasium.

The room was almost an exact replica of Smith’s, except with only two mirrors rather than Smith’s eight.

When Malcolm had asked his friend about all the mirrors, he’d been stunned by the other man’s answer.

“You exercise withoutanyclothing at all?” Malcolm had repeated.

Smith had laughed. “For a sophisticated man you certainly have a parochial outlook on some things. Yes, Malcolm, I exercise nude now that I have the luxury of my own gymnasium. The mirrors help me keep my form.” He’d smiled slyly. “Also, physical exertion makes me hard and I enjoy looking at myself.”

It had made Malcolm hard just thinking about Smith hot, sweaty, and erect.

The thought of looking at his own burned body naked had the opposite effect.

“You would be well-advised to have at least one mirror, no matter how much you hate looking into them,” Smith had advised, guessing the trend of Malcolm’s thoughts. “You can damage yourself easily if you don’t hold the correct form. Especially when you use the dumbbells.”

Malcolm had seen the wisdom of Smith’s advice the more he’d exercised. He found the activity strangely addictive. He rarely drank alcohol anymore—he never wanted to be as insensate as he’d been that long ago night—and he had no pastimes or vices other than whores and work, so honing his broken body had become his hobby.

Usually, exercise helped him focus his thoughts and prepared him to face the day.

But today, even two solid hours in the gymnasium didn’t help exorcise Miss Julia Harlow from his thoughts. All he could think about was finishing up and getting back to his chambers to spy on his houseguest.

But when he finally returned to his chambers he saw that she was still fast asleep.

Indeed, she didn’t appear to have moved since the night before. She was nothing but a small bump beneath the covers, her abundant pale blond hair spread across the pillow like silk.

By the time Malcolm had bathed, shaved, and dressed it was after noon and she was still sleeping.

“Have Kemp go check on her—make sure that drug Joe used didn’t have any ill effects,” he told Norris when he arrived with Malcolm’s midday meal.

“Of course, sir.”

Malcolm sipped his coffee and looked through the store reports that were delivered each day, pausing his work when Kemp entered Julia Harlow’s room.

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