Page 65 of Prescription for Sin

Dearest Helen,

I am now Mrs Everett Moreland. Please don’t be too cross with me for denying you the pleasure of planning an elaborate wedding. Though I suspect you’ll find ways to make me pay for it, regardless.

I’m writing from my new home, a palace masquerading as a townhouse, if you can believe it. Yet somehow Everett has made it feel welcoming rather than overwhelming. He’s added medical texts to my chamber and set up a consultation room. Even here, surrounded by evidence of all he stands to lose, he thinks first of making space for my work.

You may worry that I’ve rushed into this marriage, that my heart has overruled my usually practical mind. Perhaps it has. But Helen, when he looks at me, I feel as though I’ve finally found someone who sees me completely—physician and woman, strength and vulnerability, all of it—and loves every part.

The road ahead won’t be easy. There are battles to fight, truths to uncover, lives to save. But for the first time, I don’t feel I have to fight alone.

I must go. My husband (how strange and wonderful that word feels) has promised dinner, though I suspect neither of us is particularly interested in food at the moment.

All my love,

Emma

She knew her friend would be furious. The letter’s contents would likely send Helen into a magnificent rage, ranting about not being able to attend her best friend’s wedding. But Helen would also understand, somewhere beneath her protective anger, why Emma had to do this. She and Everett needed to make their nuptial appear like an elopement to avoid any harm to Arthur’s standing.

She sealed the letter just as a maid arrived with tea. Through the door, she could hear Everett giving instructions about dinner, his deep voice sending pleasant shivers down her spine.

Soon, she thought, setting aside Helen’s letter. Soon there would be no more waiting, no more restraint. Soon she would discover if all their lessons had prepared her for the reality of being Mrs Everett Moreland.

Her cheeks warmed at the thought.

The conservatory air hung heavy with night-blooming jasmine as they finished their midnight supper. Moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling, casting silver patterns across the intimate table Everett had arranged among the exotic plants. Steam rose from their cups of chocolate, mingling with the heady flower scents.

Emma watched him pour the deep red port, fascinated by how the candlelight caught the liquid’s movement. His surgeon’s hands handled the delicate glass with precision that made her shiver. It was the same careful control he’d shown in their earlier lessons.

“The nose first,” he murmured, demonstrating how to warm the glass. “Then let it touch your lips, but don’t sip. Just feel.”

The crystal rim pressed cool against her mouth. His eyes darkened as she followed his instruction, letting the port’s aroma fill her senses without tasting.

“Now?” she whispered against the glass.

“Now taste.” His voice dropped lower. “But slowly. Let it pool on your tongue.”

The wine bloomed rich and complex in her mouth. She caught notes of berry, oak, and something tangy. When she swallowed, his thumb brushed her throat, following the movement.

“Your pulse has quickened,” he observed, medical precision belied by the heat in his gaze. “Fascinating how sensation spreads, isn’t it? The way one pleasure enhances another?”

To demonstrate, he lifted a brandied fig to her lips. The sweetness burst across her tongue just as his other hand found the sensitive spot at her nape. The dual sensation made her gasp.

"A lesson in the workings of nerves?" she managed, though her voice emerged husky.

“Among other things.” The words brushed her ear as he moved behind her chair. His fingers traced her collarbone, barely touching. “Though I find myself less interested in academic observation these days.”

Emma leaned back, letting her head rest against his chest. Above them, clouds drifted past the glass ceiling, alternately revealing and hiding the stars. The night air had turned the conservatory windows to mirrors, reflecting countless versions of their intimate tableau.

“Should we document the effects of combined stimuli?” she asked, but the words dissolved into a soft sound as his lips found her throat.

“I have a different experiment in mind.” His hands slid lower, making her arch. “One exploring the body's most sensitive regions.” He demonstrated with skilled fingers, and her breath caught. “Unless you’d prefer to take notes?”

She turned in his arms, the movement sending her wineglass toppling. Port spilled across the white tablecloth like blood, but neither moved.

“No more notes,” she breathed against his mouth. “Show me.”

Everett led Emma toward the chaise long, his heart thundering with anticipation. The moonlight caught her golden hair, draping her in silver strands.

“My wife,” he breathed, still marvelling at the word. His fingers traced the delicate line of her jaw, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this moment?”