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golden brown curls back into place. Those at least, thanks to Tillie and her curling iron, did not look as wilted as the rest of me.
    I slipped the jar of salve into my most commodious reticule and, clutching a candle encased in a narrow glass chimney, I opened the door and set out to retrace my steps to the first floor.
     
    At the foot of the curving staircase, I saw it—a faint glimmer of light through the open doorway on the opposite side of the entry hall from the rooms I’d seen earlier. The glimmer grew to a modest glow as I passed through two elegant reception rooms and a music room. At the rear of the house I found him, surrounded by a veritable sea of books, racked on shelves at least ten feet high, with more above on a gallery that extended along all four walls. No gaslight here, I noted idly, only candles in wall sconces shielded by glass. A cautious and realistic man, my guardian. He took no risks with his books.
    Rochefort was sprawled in a wing chair, eyes closed, a brandy glass clasped in one hand, a nearly empty decanter on a small table next to his chair. I paused, biting my lip. He certainly wasn’t the first drunken gentleman I’d had to deal with, but I suspected this one had more bite than most.
    He’s hurting. You know he’s hurting. The whisper of an inner voice. Not Papa. After what I’d learned today, I refused to let him in. But the pain my guardian was suffering would explain his present condition, for I doubted the man who had created the machines I’d seen today was an habitual drunkard.
    I tiptoed forward, feeling like Daniel in the lion’s den. At least I assumed Daniel had been this wary. As I looked down at my betrothed—so much less frightening with his eyes closed, though the beard I’d seen in his workshop was once again sprouting on his chin—I was very aware of the brandy glass, which had not crashed from slack fingers to the carpet.
    He knew I was here, I was certain of it.
    “Go away.” Even mumbling, his words held the snap of authority.
    “I’ve brought a salve that helped my father’s workers. With your permission?”
    His dark eyes snapped open; he struggled to sit up, not quite making it. “What the devil? What are you doing here?”
    Oh. Though somewhat deflated, I had to ask. “Who did you think I was?”
    He waved the hand holding the brandy glass. “Never mind. You too can go away.”
    I stood my ground. “Don’t be foolish, this salve does wonders.”
    “Idiot female,” he growled, “don’t you have sense enough to stay away from a man when he’s in his cups?”
    “I could scarcely anticipate you were drinking away your pain,” I informed him. “And as your betrothed, I felt an obligation to help if I could.” I removed the jar of salve from my reticule and waved it at him.
    This time he made it all the way to upright, his shoes flat to the floor. With the exaggerated care of the considerably drunk, he set his glass on the table beside the decanter. “You’re honoring the betrothal?” he inquired, his face a perfect blank.
    “A Galsworthy always honors his agreements,” I pronounced grandly.
    “The ‘his’ is duly noted. Females, I’ve discovered, have a tendency to alter agreements to suit themselves.”
    I came close to bouncing the jar of salve off his head, using the ugly burn as a bulls-eye. Carrying out my resolve as healer, or as fiancée, was not going to be easy. “Since I’m bought and paid for,” I told him with some asperity, “I might as well be useful.”
    Five seconds. Ten. When no protest was forthcoming, I opened the jar and went to work. And discovered how very different this moment was from all the other times I’d applied Mrs. Jenkins’s salve to a wounded workman. As I bent over the man who was to be my husband, my stomach churned, my fingers shook. Sensations I’d never before experienced flooded through me, threatening to take my breath away. I blinked to clear my vision.
    My quivering fingers spread the