I'm loving your thoughts on this story. I can't help chuckle at how many of you are noticing Twilight 'canon' aspects to the characters or how much it is reminding some of you of Pride and Prejudice. All I can say, is I have read and viewed both tales so very many times that they must have embedded themselves in my subconscious, as the similarities were unintentional!

This next one is a longer chapter than usual and one of my favourites. :)

xx Elise

~P&P~

Chapter 9

Responsible

Edward felt much better when he next awoke, although Miss Swan's absence from her usual place in the chair beside his bed was not ideal. He scanned the room and found it empty, the possibility he might have frightened her off with his less-than-affable manner causing his heart to pound. Then he recalled her promise to introduce the injured soldier who would be acting as his temporary valet and to continue with her nursing duties. Of one thing he was certain. Miss Swan was not the sort to abandon her post.

Isabella.

In the privacy of his thoughts, he would allow himself the indulgence of using her Christian name. He liked the sound of it just as he greatly admired its owner. He should have insisted she leave as soon as his new assistant arrived rather than practically begging her to stay. But he was a long way from being fully recovered, and she had said she was the only one who could be trusted with his medications—disgusting concoctions though they were—and the care of his rapidly healing wound. As long as he had a suitable helper for dealing with his personal needs, he could see no harm in her monitoring his recovery. Well, none he was willing to admit to at any rate.

While restlessly awaiting her return, Edward's body began to make one of those personal needs known. Having eaten solid food again, after goodness knew how long, it was to be expected that his digestive processes would be activated. Unfortunately, he doubted his ability to make it to the privy closet at the far end of the exceedingly long hallway outside the master suite. Truth be told, he doubted he could make it to the bedroom's door.

It was a pity he had not had the place renovated during his absence, as a modern bathing room situated next to the master suite would be appreciated about now. He would have to inquire into having one built. While he was at it, he would see about fixing up the old pile.

The thought brought Edward up short.

He wasn't going to die.

Neither would he be returning to his life in the army.

His injured leg would have seen him discharged months before if he hadn't stubbornly refused. There was no way they would take him back with an arm that barely functioned.

It had not been his intention, but he had, in effect, returned to Masen Manor . . . to live.

Groaning with the pain that movement engendered, Edward used his good arm to drag himself upright and then swung his legs around to place his feet on the floor beside the bed. His head swam, and his breath came in harsh pants.

"Lord Masen, what are you doing?"

His joy at Miss Swan's return was tempered by his predicament. To be observed by a lady in such a debilitated and barely dressed state was humiliating in the extreme.

Paying no heed to decorum, she rushed to his side and placed an arm around his naked waist. Rather than rebuke her, his lips remained sealed, while his traitorous body revelled in her nearness.

Lord, she smelled good.

He, however, did not.

"I need a bath," he muttered. And a nightshirt, and a shave, and a hearty meal, if he could stay awake long enough to do it justice.

"Is that why you were trying to get up?"

This close, he could see flecks of gold in her brown irises and faint laugh lines at the corners of her lovely eyes. Isabella did not possess the childlike look of a young debutante embarking on her first season, but she had qualities he much preferred—character, intelligence and, he suspected, a wry sense of humour. For the moment, she was regarding him with concern.

"Seth Dawkins has arrived and is settling into the servants' quarters. I could ask him to arrange a bath, but it will take time for the water to be heated and carried upstairs. We'll need to locate the tub used by your father and see it is cleaned."

"It can wait until later," Edward said between still heavy breathes. He blamed them on having pulled himself upright, though he couldn't deny Isabella's proximity may have played a part. "To be honest, I'm not sure I'm up to a full bath. I was just commenting on my less-than-fresh aroma."

"I could give you a sponge bath?"

Edward's eyes widened. His mind filled with images of her hands on his body, some from mortifying memory and others conjured by his, suddenly, fertile imagination. After nursing him back to life, was she trying to kill him?

"I understand you have concerns about your modesty, my lord, and rightly so," she added at his pained look. "If you would prefer, I could ask Mr Dawkins to assist you?"

"Yes, but I want you to give me my shave," Edward said, his good sense deserting him. "I don't fancy a man who is missing fingers scraping my face with a blade."

For all he knew, the young man was quite capable of shaving him, but he wasn't about to admit that to Miss Swan and miss the opportunity of having her do it for him.

She nodded. "Very well. Why don't you lie back and rest while I get everything organised?"

The thought was tempting, but he shook his head, his body reminding him why he had been trying to rise in the first place.

"How long before Dawkins will be here?"

"Not too long. I could send Jacob to fetch him if there's a problem, unless it can't wait?" She gestured towards the blasted bottle sitting prominently on his bedside cupboard.

"It's not that," he muttered, heat rushing to his cheeks. Corresponding colour rose in her own, but he was too embarrassed to appreciate it.

"Oh, I see," she murmured. "Not to worry. It is a good sign and shows you're on the road to recovery."

Her words gave him hope she hadn't assisted him with this matter while he was incapacitated. Some things simply could not be borne.

"I had Jacob help me place a chamber pot behind the screen for your use. It has been fitted into a chair, so should be manageable."

She gestured to a new addition to the room, a feminine-looking three-panelled affair embellished with Oriental artwork. It must have come from the rarely used mistress' suite, as none of the Masen wives had lived long enough to leave much of a stamp on the rest of the manor. It was thoughtful of Isabella, but he wasn't sure he could make even that small distance unaided.

Avoiding her gaze, he heaved a heavy sigh then asked, "Do you think you could assist me to cross the room?"

"Certainly."

With her arm hugging his waist and his good arm resting across her shoulders, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Maybe we should wait for Dawkins?" she suggested when he slumped against her. She wasn't a small woman, but he towered over her and was surely close to double her weight.

"Can't," he muttered, taking a wobbly step. Weak as a damned kitten, he almost fell to the ground. His injured leg ached, though he had to admit it wasn't as bad as he had expected it to be after so long without use. It was his arm that caused him agony.

"Need a sling," he said between panted breaths, holding his hand to his chest to ease the radiating pain.

"Oh, I should have thought of that. I'm so sorry. Can you stand for a moment?" With her hands at his waist, Isabella steadied him while he tried desperately not to think about the fact her soft fingers were on his bare flesh. For a maiden, she appeared surprisingly unshockable, but he had no desire to test her limits. If his body chose this moment to betray him with a visible response, he doubted either of them would recover from the embarrassment.

Edward snorted. There really wasn't anything to worry about. In his weakened state, he was barely able to stand let alone rise to the occasion.

Isabella released him for just long enough to retrieve a cloth from the sideboard, fashion it into a large triangle, and tie it around his neck.

He sighed with relief when the impromptu sling took the weight of his arm and then grudgingly accepted her assistance. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy her touch—he was a man, after all—but the circumstances were far from ideal.

Step by torturous step, they made their way to the corner of the vast room. With a shake of his head, Edward rued the ludicrousness of the master of the house requiring such a large suite. It wasn't as if any of his predecessors shared it with anyone, as tradition dictated a husband visit his wife in her suite—as seldom and as briefly as possible—before retreating to his own domain.

To his relief, the seat was furnished with sturdy rails. He quickly assured Miss Swan he could manage alone. Thinking of her as Isabella at this moment was out of the question.

"Let me know when you are safely seated," she said from the other side of the screen, earning a muttered malediction. "I heard that," she added.

"My apologies, Miss Swan." He rolled his eyes, feeling like an errant schoolboy.

"I'll just go hurry Dawkins along. Promise you will wait for our return before trying to stand?"

Edward's response was a growl, though he had every intention of complying. Waltzing across the room unaided after the spectacle he had just made of himself was hardly an option.

Meeting one's new valet while seated upon a glorified chamber pot, half-dressed and fully wild in appearance, was not ideal for garnering respect. But a short while later, the young man of military bearing who asked for permission to step behind the screen maintained a neutral expression.

"Seth Dawkins, my lord," he said with a nod. "Line Infantry, Twenty-seventh Regiment."

"Well met, Dawkins. Now help me off this blasted thing," Edward said, avoiding eye contact.

Of average height and build, which made him a good few inches shorter than Edward, his new valet was, thankfully, not lacking in strength and well able to support him on his return to the bed. At the last moment, Isabella entered the room and redirected him to sit on the chair beside it.

"If you're feeling up to it, I thought it might be easier for me to shave you while you're seated rather than lying down. Otherwise, I'll have to clamber all over the bed, which wouldn't do at all."

Edward stifled a splutter, deciding silence was the only acceptable response.

"Dawkins, once you've dealt with, er, that," Edward gestured towards the corner of the room housing the commode. "Could you find me something to wear as a nightshirt?"

"Certainly," Dawkins gave a sharp nod, and Edward sighed with relief. At least he didn't have to worry about Miss Swan tending to the matter.

While Dawkins did his bidding, Isabella covered him in a blanket and made preparations for his shave. He would need to send to London for his wardrobe, such as it was. He supposed he should arrange for a visit from a tailor. Never having been much of a dandy, his officer's uniform had sufficed for most occasions.

"See if you can find His Lordship some clean underclothes, as well," Isabella added as Seth left the room.

Edward groaned. Was there no end to his shame? His battered pride urged him to thank her for her assistance and then politely dismiss her. But a masochistic streak he had been unaware he possessed compelled him to prolong his suffering, determined to enjoy her presence no matter how unwise.

"Ready, my lord?" she asked.

He nodded, and she wrapped a towel around his neck and then lathered his face with soap. Whether she was oblivious to it or intentionally ignoring his discomfort, her pragmatic manner helped put him at least marginally at ease.

"Mrs Cope is in seventh heaven now she has some help in the kitchen." Isabella broke the silence, her lips pursing in concentration as she made the first pass of the blade.

Edward watched her intently as she went on to give details regarding the number of staff that had been hired.

"There's a chicken casserole for your dinner with rice custard for dessert."

His frown deepened. "No luncheon?" How did she expect him to recover if he was forced to skip meals?

"You slept straight through. It's quite late in the afternoon."

He glanced towards the windows, and the fading light proved her words to be true.

"Wake me in future," he said, his tone the same as he would use when issuing an order.

"Rest is probably more important at this stage in your healing, but I'll see what Alice has to say when she comes by in the morning."

Not used to being contradicted, he opened his mouth to argue, but she snapped it shut with a finger to his chin before lathering soap over his lips. Effectively silenced, and not for the first time, he directed his most menacing glower her way. To his combined ire and chagrin, she took absolutely no notice.

Huffing out a breath through his nose, he attempted to relax while she scraped off the longest beard he had ever grown in his life. He would not miss it, but he couldn't help wondering what she would think of the scarred visage her endeavours would reveal.

"Do you want to keep the moustache?" she asked after working steadily on his neck, jaw, and cheeks.

He shook his head. He had worn one as an officer to make himself look older—and fiercer—but that seemed counterproductive to his current situation. Heaven knew, finding acceptance in his present locale was unlikely, but he imagined the more civilised his appearance the better. Not that a shave and a haircut could accomplish miracles.

Initially maintaining a careful distance, Isabella seemed to forget herself as she worked. Humming tunefully, her body came to rest against his legs, her breasts occasionally brushing against his shoulder and chest. While he was certain she was unaware of her actions, he was not. Between her gentle touch, comforting scent, and the sight of her womanly figure right before his eyes, his body's reaction was inevitable. At least the blanket was conveniently placed.

Playing with fire and sure to be burned, Edward was past denying the attraction he felt for his unlikely nurse. He might not have experienced infatuation before, but he knew enough to recognise the signs and found himself hard-pressed to fight it. In truth, he had felt something similar once before, the memory inspiring a quirk of his lips that almost earned him a nick.

"Keep still," Isabella scolded, waiting for him to compose his features before continuing.

The only time he had ever allowed himself to develop feelings for a girl was when he was a boy. Then, as now, the object of his interest had been Miss Isabella Swan. He had idolised her, he recalled, permitting the memories to resurface for the first time in almost fifteen years. Her friendship had meant a great deal to him, her dark hair with its reddish streaks, her warm smile, and her confident manner having engendered his admiration all those years ago, just as they did now.

There had been no place for such tender emotions when he was sent away to boarding school. Refused permission to return home but once a year by a father who couldn't stand the sight of him, Edward had told himself it was a blessing, saving him from any number of lashings, verbal and physical. But his way of coping with the isolation had been to block out all memories of home, specifically the pleasant ones, whenever they had arisen. To make matters worse, his tutors and peers had made constant reminder of his heritage, as if he would ever forget. By the time he returned home for his father's funeral, Edward had vowed not to follow in his forebear's footsteps. When Isabella had approached him at the graveside, compassion writ clearly on her, then girlish, features, he had pretended not to recognise her.

There would be no forgetting her this time, and he wondered how he would bear the pain of her inevitable departure.

~P&P~

"Almost done." Isabella attempted a reassuring tone in response to the viscount's perpetual scowl. Having spent the previous ten days nursing her patient single-handedly, she was surprised at how unsettling it was to give him a simple shave. Scraping the blade across his lathered cheeks and the chiseled line of his jaw should not have felt as intimate as some of the tasks she had already performed. But somehow, it felt more so. The way he studied her every move—which was hardly surprising considering she was holding a sharp blade to his throat—increased her self-consciousness. Whenever their bodies came into contact, something she could not avoid entirely, an odd sensation skittered over her skin. To calm her nerves, she hummed a tune, relieved when he didn't complain. Nevertheless, by the time she was finished, she felt quite unlike herself.

Having been absorbed by her task, she had not focused on the picture that was emerging. After wiping the remaining suds from his face and neck with a damp towel, Isabella stood back to view the viscount's face laid bare. He was watching her closely, and when she drew in a quick breath, he raised his good hand to cover the scar that ran jaggedly down the right side of his face from brow to jaw line.

"I should have kept the beard."

"Oh, no." She reached towards him, staying her hand when he flinched. Distressed at having offended him, she hurried to explain. "I'm not bothered by your scar, my lord. It was visible even with your beard."

"Then why the look of horror?"

"It wasn't horror but surprise. I didn't expect to recognise the boy I knew in the man you have become. You have changed a great deal since your father's funeral, obviously, but much is familiar."

Truth be told, she had been shocked by how handsome he was. Not classically, his features far too rugged and weather-worn to suit Brummell and the like, or so she imagined. Isabella's knowledge of tonnish fashion was limited to gossip overheard at the occasional soirée. Her personal opinion was that his strong jaw and well-formed mouth perfectly complemented his dark eyes and aristocratic nose.

"I recognised you, also," he admitted gruffly, and her expression betrayed her confusion. "Playing the organ in the chapel."

"But you didn't even know my name."

"I was uncertain."

"I see," she murmured, wondering how much he recalled of their childhood friendship.

"So, not too beastly, then?" He gestured towards his scar, the insecurity in his tone calling to her compassionate nature.

"Not at all. I think it's quite becoming."

He snorted. "Liar."

Isabella's eyes widened at the accusation, though she was pleased to see the hint of a smile twitching his lip. "Really, my lord. Are you accusing a vicar's daughter of manufacturing falsehoods?"

"Blatantly," he said, his smile widening.

"I'll have you know I never lie." She looked down her nose at him in mock indignation.

He raised one eyebrow.

"Well, only on the rarest of occasions, and only in the protection of another's feelings."

He eyed her pointedly, and she recognised the error of her wording.

"Not that I was lying to protect your feelings, of course."

"Of course. You just happen to find facial scars appealing."

"On you," she said, and then blinked, flustered by her admission. "What I meant to say"—she took a deep breath— "is that a scar on a gentleman can look quite dashing, in particular when it was earned in an honourable fashion. It is quite unfair, as a lady in a similar predicament could only ever be an object of pity."

"And I am not to be pitied?"

His expression was droll, but Isabella sensed genuine curiosity behind his question.

"Hardly." She fetched a brush and tackled his tangled locks in preparation for his haircut. "You have survived horrific injuries against terrible odds. If anything, I would say you are fortunate. God has granted you a second chance."

"At what?"

The answer seemed obvious, and she blurted it without forethough, "At a future and a family of your own."

As soon as the words had departed her lips, Isabella froze.

Edward averted his gaze, the colour draining from his cheeks.

"I think not," he muttered.

"I am so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It is of no consequence." He waved a hand in an expression of indifference, but his stony expression couldn't mask his pain.

Isabella's heart sank. The last thing she had meant to do was hurt him.

"The haircut can wait. Help me back to the bed."

"Certainly, my lord," she murmured, suitably chastened. "I will tell Dawkins you would like a sponge bath."

"Not now. I would like my supper, and then I think that's enough for today."

Edward's tone was dismissive, but Isabella was just relieved he did not banish her entirely. Although perhaps he should. She may have taken on her mother's care during the long years of her illness, her sisters' upbringing both during that time and since, and helped her dedicated-but-somewhat-absent-minded father cope with both his grief and his duties. But that did not mean she was responsible for the viscount's ongoing care.

The problem Isabella faced when she excused herself to go and collect his supper was that she wanted to be.

~P&P~

Awww...poor Edward. Humiliations galore and then a reminder of his accursed state. He did seem to enjoy having her arm around his naked waste and then her closeness while she shaved his face, so that's something. ;)

Did you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it back in 2013 and rereading/reworking it now? I hope so. :)

xx Elise