Surrender

A tall, broad shouldered and strikingly handsome gentleman filled the doorway. Striking in that his good looks hit her in the chest and stole her breath. Dark hair curling at the ends framed a strong, lean face. A wide mouth was saved from being overly generous by the sculptured, defined lips. The square jaw could have been hewn from marble and wouldn't look out of place on a classical statue. He was perfection, or he would have been if it wasn't for the slightly bent nose. It was as if someone's fist had nudged it. Knowing Redcliff's history the way she did, perhaps it had been damaged in a fight. But instead of marring his looks it made them more interesting and served to balance out the perfection which could be quite dull she'd always thought, particularly in a man.
He must be Mr. Redcliff, her patient.
"Worth, what the devil is—?" He never finished his sentence. Eyes the color of a wintry lake turned on Georgiana and a frown clouded his brow. The subtle shift of a few facial muscles stripped away his beauty. If a single look could kill, she'd have icicles as sharp as daggers protruding from her forehead. No, make that her entire body, for he swiftly took in every inch of her person from her brown hair to her best kid leather half-boots.
It gave her a moment to inspect him in return. And that's when she saw the shadows dwelling beneath his eyes and cheeks, starkly offset against the grayish pallor of his skin. He also seemed to be holding himself still, to contain the nausea perhaps. Even with these tell-tale signs of an opium smoker, he was a breathtaking sight. Quite literally. Georgiana's lungs constricted. She made a conscious effort to breathe, and smile.
"Miss Georgiana Appleby, sir," Worth said with unflappable civility.
Mr. Redcliff raised one dark and imperious eyebrow at her. "You're the nursemaid?" A deep rumbling began low in his broad chest and she realized he was laughing. But the twisted grin that accompanied it was more gruesome than joyful. "He sent a little chit like you?" His disbelief was a common reaction, however few of her patients had ever stated it quite so baldly.
"You were expecting someone else?" she asked.
He looked her over again but he kept his face shuttered, closed. She had no idea what he saw, but she was quite sure he would not see the real Georgiana. That woman was well hidden beneath the brown cotton dress re-made from one her mother had worn years ago. "I was expecting someone...matronly," he said. His level gaze met hers once more. "You don't quite measure up."
She touched her waist then promptly dropped her hand. As long as he was referring to her smallish size and nothing else then there was no cause for alarm. There was certainly no hint of desire in his eyes, nothing to indicate he saw beyond the old-fashioned dress and her uncurled hairstyle. Indeed there was no hint of anything at all.
"I might not live up to your idea of a nursemaid," she said, "but that could be because I am not one. Sir Oswyn Crisp sent me to help in any way I can. I have experience—."
"I know all about your experience." This last was said with a derisive lift of his top lip.
Georgiana bit her own lip and fought down panic. He'd investigated her? For a man who had worked as a spy it was to be expected but still it made her blood pound in her ears and her throat tighten. It was bad enough that Sir Oswyn knew her secret and was using it against her but to have her patient know too could prove devastating. He too could use it—to get rid of her—and then where would she be?
At Sir Oswyn's mercy. And he was a man without that commodity.
Her reputation would be ruined, her career would perish and so would her livelihood. She could not afford to fail.