Liza made herself shrug. “Quite the opposite, I think.”
Jane made a face. “Then he must be made of clay.”
“Or arrogant,” Liza said. “Full of self-importance.” To turn down her invitation so bluntly! “As for Nello, I imagine he caught the last train toward London. And good riddance to him.”
“Gracious!” Jane’s blue eyes opened wide with curiosity. “Such vehemence!”
“Yes.” The whole world seemed vexing, suddenly. “I’m done with him.”
“I see.” Jane sounded skeptical, which pricked. “Well, you must be exhausted. We’ll have a bath drawn for you, and a cup of tea for us both, and . . .” She lifted her brows. “The whole story, perhaps? Of this arrogant jackanapes?”
They turned into Liza’s rooms, where Jane released her to bustle toward an already-waiting tea tray. The sight gave Liza a moment’s pause: had Jane been waiting here for her? These were her private apartments!
Jane glanced up. “I saw you through the window from the gallery, walking up from the lake. I thought you might like to take your tea in peace—I hope you don’t mind?”
“Oh! No, of course not. How perfectly thoughtful of you, darling.” Liza took a seat at the tea table, which pressed against the window to offer a view of the surrounding parkland. On clear days, one could see to the coast.
She fixed her eyes on the distant sparkle and sighed. Perhaps it was time she took a sea journey. Where would she go? America? Plenty of millionaires for the taking there. If she meant to do this—and she didn’t see she had much choice in it—an American husband would be as good as any other. More difficult to pry into her financial state from abroad, too. The key would be to make him fall in love before he learned the truth.
What a fool she’d been to tell Nello everything. If he did not keep his mouth shut, she was doomed.
“But tell me,” Jane said as she poured the tea. “Who is this mysterious, arrogant man whom you met?”
She cleared her throat. “Oh, just a doctor. A newcomer to the district.”
Jane nodded and crossed to the dressing table, uncapping a crystal decanter from which she splashed a bit of whisky into the steaming cup. “This will fix your head,” she said sweetly. “Is he married, then?”
“No.” Liza took the cup gratefully. “Much obliged, darling.”
“How old is he?”
“His thirties, I believe.”
“Oh, then he’s old,” Jane said dismissively—ignorant, Liza assumed, of the age of her hostess.
Yet it still irked. Jane had been married at nineteen, and widowed last year, at twenty-two. But not every husband exercised such splendid good timing. Why, some of them monopolized a woman for years, though they showed no interest in her bed, her company, her desire to be a friend and companion . . .
No, her husband had taken a different course. His only interest had been in chiding her. You mustn’t do this, you mustn’t do that, shameless, vulgar . . . The next one would need to be far more manageable.
She took a large, bracing sip of her tea—sugarless, not as she liked, but as her waistline demanded. Jane had taken to following suit, though she was inches taller, and already slim as a whippet. “Yes, I suppose a man in his thirties is old,” she confirmed, by way of experiment. Am I old now? For if a gentleman was accounted old, a woman of nearly the same age—a woman of thirty-two—must be positively ancient.
The thought made her anxious. She needed to find a husband quickly—before news of her troubles broke; before her age started to show.
“But handsome, still?” Jane persisted.
Her interest seemed peculiar. A vision flashed before Liza’s eyes: Jane, blond and blue-eyed as a china doll, drifting down to the good doctor’s cottage and promptly winning him with her blemishless complexion and virginal white gowns—all of them, so Liza had noticed, cut an inch lower than current fashions advised. “Why does it matter?” Country doctors were as marriageable as . . . furniture.
“It matters if you mean to bring him to his knees,” Jane said. “If he is ugly, you’ll have to attack his intellect, for he’ll never believe you deign to notice him otherwise. But if his looks are passable, why, then you can trick him into loving you and then break his heart!”
Laughing, Liza set down her teacup. “My goodness! A very cold approach!” Yet it felt soothing to her vanity to be accounted still capable of breaking hearts. “Wouldn’t it be kinder to ignore him altogether?”
“But he was rude to you,” Jane said. “So tell me: is he handsome or not?”
Liza considered the girl for a moment. It felt uncannily like looking a decade into her own past, at a face smooth, unlined, alight with pleasure and ambition, unshadowed by doubts. The years ahead—the decade that had been lost to Liza—would comprise Jane Hull’s greatest triumph. She would learn, no doubt, about the uses of kindness; having tasted her own defeats, she would develop compassion for those less blessed than she. But while disappointment was a fine tutor, it need not be her lifelong companion. She had beauty, breeding, and in Liza, a brilliant entrée to society: what else did she need to find love?
Perhaps, Liza thought, this was how she might have felt for a young sister: hopeful and impatient and protective all at once. She reached for Jane’s hand, catching and squeezing the soft little fingers. “Darling. You trust me, don’t you?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Of course, dear Liza!”
“Then let me make certain you are happy.” She’d squandered her final chance at love. But she would make certain Jane did not. “As for this doctor—no, he’s not handsome. Good heavens,” she added with a laugh. “He’s a doctor. Let the poor man be!”
Jane looked slightly disappointed. “Then you don’t mean to break his heart?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” Smiling, Liza released Jane’s hand and reached again for her tea, which really did fix her head marvelously. “It entirely depends on how bored I am.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Had anyone told Michael three months ago that soon his most constant companion would be a vicar, he would have choked on laughter, or predicted the end times. Religion, along with all other forms of creaky propriety, was best left to firstborn sons, who could afford such noble indulgences. Yet here he was, gladly sharing a tankard at the village pub with a man who wore the collar.
Lawrence Pershall was that rare churchman who had been drawn to his position by faith rather than by financial considerations. But God did not figure much in their conversations, and today, as usual, it was politics and sport that engaged them. They shared an interest in racing, perhaps strengthened by the fact that neither of them could afford to indulge in it. They both believed—quietly, for they were not suicidal—that rugby trumped cricket for athleticism. And on matters of empire, they also concurred: the Irish question had become a great burden, best discharged by granting independence to that nation. However, the army was a damned fine institution, regardless.
“Soldiering was my other calling,” Pershall confessed as they exited the pub into the bright daylight. “At fourteen, I was convinced I’d be a general one day.”
“I remember that phase,” said Michael. Nothing like the prospect of wielding a rifle to cheer up a boy raised on vengeful fantasies. Only, as Alastair had pointed out, duels had been outlawed decades before—and the fight would not have been equal, their father having been a crack shot in his time.
“What stopped you, then?”
Michael shrugged. “Decided to save lives, rather than take them.” That, and he’d ultimately found his attempt to enlist in the infantry foiled by Alastair’s interference. What his brother had arranged instead—a commission in the Horse Guards, a regiment that rarely stirred beyond the shadows of Buckingham Palace—had not suited him.
Damned difficult to make something of oneself when one’s brother consistently purchased one’s successes. For years, during university and shortly thereafter, Michael had chafed beneath Alastair’s doting regard. But with age had come a new vi
ew. In their boyhood, Alastair had played the role of father and mother both, protecting Michael from the worst of their parents’ excesses. Such a very old habit was hard to break.
And until recently, Michael had been content to let his brother do as he might.
“Well, I call it good luck for us both,” said Pershall. “Had we enlisted, we no doubt would have died of dysentery in the first week.” As Michael laughed, he added, “And how could I complain? I ended up in God’s own village—if you’ll forgive me the blasphemy.”
Michael followed Pershall’s look as it traveled over the scene. Bosbrea was pitched along a gentle slope of limestone. The bright faces of shops and flower-fronted cottages clustered along either side of the main road, which led upward to the old cairn marking the apex of Bosbrea Hill. In the opposite direction, the cobblestone lane spilled downward to span the River Cuby, a gurgling rush of water that glittered in the noonday sun.
“Picturesque, indeed,” Michael murmured. The beauty made him feel downright itchy—smothered, almost. His calling lay elsewhere, with people who depended on him because they had nowhere else to turn. Alastair might fund the hospital, but it was Michael who saved lives there, and formulated policies that had produced the lowest mortality rate of any medical institution in the country.
Damn it, he wanted to be in London. The air here was too clean, the residents too healthy, and his time too idle. He knew his brother well enough to guess that the mystery of his whereabouts would goad Alastair into a healthy temper, but the waiting was hard, indeed.
And a line had been crossed now that Michael could not tolerate.
As though the other man had read his thoughts, Pershall said, “Any word from your brother, then?”
Michael shook his head. Pershall knew the bare outline of the story: a violent quarrel, an untenable demand, no choice but to retreat as far as possible from his brother’s range of influence. What he did not know was how very far that range extended. “It would make no difference if I had done. If he wishes to reconcile, he’ll have to come himself.”
Pershall’s eyes widened. “As bad as that, is it?”
A very good question. Michael did not think Alastair would follow through on his threat. Through all their parents’ travails, the affairs and the depositions, the whole nasty divorce that had kept the public so titillated—through it all, Alastair had been there for him: a rock in an otherwise stormy sea. Over the past year, Michael had done his best to return that favor. Even this act of concealment was ultimately for his brother’s sake. Surely Alastair would see that, soon enough. He would not betray the trust between them.
Yet if he did . . .
Interference was easy to bear, so long as it was the work of love. But closing the hospital would be nothing more than brute malice.
Frightening thought: Michael might never be able to forgive him for it.
“Let us say, he would win no prizes for congeniality,” he said to Pershall.
The vicar snorted. “And you would?”
Michael, grinning, was about to retort when a cry rang out: “Ho there! Mr. Grey!”
The upper-class drawl caught him off guard. He stopped in his tracks and spun on his heel, thinking for a moment—well, that he’d been found. Such ironic moments did tend to proliferate in his life.
Instead, approaching them was none other than his uninvited visitor from last week. Uneasiness bolted through him. Mrs. Chudderley was a tremendous flirt, as much a temptation as a pie left in the windowsill during a famine. Looking over her scratched, dirty arms a week ago, he’d battled an overwhelming temptation to lick her clean.
Not sanitary, of course. He’d settled on antiseptic instead.
“A heavenly sight,” sighed Pershall. “Aphrodite arisen from the waves.”
Michael cut the man a wry glance. “The wrong heaven for your church,” he said. “And should a man of God notice such things?”
Pershall laughed. “Not dead yet, Mr. Grey.”
Mrs. Chudderley came floating toward them. She was dressed ludicrously for a walk in dusty village lanes, in a delicate, billowing gown the color of a ripe peach. Behind her hurried a tall, red-haired maid, out of breath and visibly cross, who carried a hamper on one arm and used the other to hold a parasol over her mistress’s head. The ludicrous confection, too thin to properly shield out the sun, was trimmed with fluttering ribbons that precisely matched Mrs. Chudderley’s gown.
Michael nodded to the overburdened maid before making his bow to the widow. It was a small jab, but one that the widow caught: he saw it in the way her eyes narrowed briefly before her smile determinedly widened.
As simply as that, his heart skipped a beat. Damn it. Would that veils were in fashion! He had imagined, a week ago, that the widow’s eyes would be as brown as her hair, and so it had come as a shock when she had opened them to reveal irises of a pale, uncanny green, the shade of Chinese jade when held to the light.
It came as an equal shock now to look into them again and realize his imagination had not embroidered upon their loveliness.
He took hold of his breath, which wanted to escalate, and his intentions, which wanted to sharpen. She would never know how terribly she’d humbled him in his drawing room last week. Her every movement had sent a suggestion of perfumed warmth toward him that had made his body tighten like a crank. By the time Mrs. Brown had handed him that damned tea, his hands had been shaking.
It happened sometimes, this instant attraction. But never with a patient. God above! Country life did not agree with him.
“Mrs. Chudderley,” he said. “Good day to you.”
Graciously, she returned his greeting—then surprised him by turning briskly toward the vicar. “All the animals are accounted for?”
A gentle breeze moved past them, fluttering the ruffled neckline of her gown, offering teasing glimpses of smooth, pale décolletage. Michael dug his index finger into the pad of his thumb with savage force, making a small but adequate distraction.
“Oh, indeed,” Pershall was saying. “And I’ve already had a dozen inquiries about the pies. The kitchens at Havilland Hall have been busy preparing delicacies for our little bazaar at the school tomorrow.”
With a start, Michael realized this comment was directed at him. “Oh?”
“Yes, their strawberry pies are wildly famous. Rightfully so!”
“Mr. Grey would know this,” said Mrs. Chudderley lightly, “if only he were to accept my invitation to dinner. Perhaps you can persuade him, sir.”
At Pershall’s questioning look, a flush crawled down Michael’s nape. “Mrs. Chudderley does offer the finest table in Cornwall,” said Pershall. “Why, just last week, I dined on the most tender, succulent quail I’ve ever tasted.”
Ah, very good. Now a man of God was persuading him to accept an invitation that would end only one way: with Michael devouring his hostess. He had given it some thought these past few nights; he knew exactly how he would do it. He would start with her fingers, sucking them into his mouth one by one . . .
“Mr. Grey was invited to that same dinner,” Mrs. Chudderley said, her smile teasing. “Alas, I fear he thinks that to sit at my table will endanger his immortal soul. Being an expert on such matters, perhaps you will counsel him, Mr. Pershall.”
“Ah, but I think nothing of the sort.” Damn it, his tone was all wrong—low and flirtatious, to match her own. It was a reflex, of course. Second sons with overlarge noses had to become quite skilled in seduction if they wished to snare a woman’s interest. And in the normal course . . . by God, he would have spent a great deal of effort snaring this one.
But this was not the normal course. Michael frowned and cleared his throat. He did not understand her interest in him. She was not the sort to take a personal interest in lowly country doctors.
Aware of Pershall’s interested attention, he bowed again, striving now to seem properly staid. “Ma’am, as I told you before, my only fear was to lower the tone of the company.” Recall I am a mere do
ctor.
“Oh, I rather doubt that,” she said with a lift of her brow. And then, when the silence drew on a moment too long and began to seem as pointed as her remark, she laughed and turned toward her maid to take the parasol. “Mather, I know you had some business in town. Hand me that basket and I’ll go on by myself.”
“Quite,” said the maid, and dumped the basket into her mistress’s arms. Turning on her heel, she strode off.
The abruptness of her exit did not strike him alone. “Peculiar girl,” said the widow as she turned back—sounding, to his mild surprise, amused rather than irked. “Mr. Pershall, you shall hear from me tomorrow morning; I mean to send the flowers and whatnot by ten o’clock.”
“Thank you. But may I say, Mrs. Chudderley, I wish that someday soon we might meet on a Sunday. Our congregation misses you sorely.”
“Oh,” she said lightly, “one of these days, sir, the sinner shall return to her flock. And then you may reform me to your heart’s content! Mr. Grey, will you walk with me?”
Very bad idea. He glanced to Pershall, who was beaming like a young boy whose cheeks had just been pinched by the most buxom dairy maid in the milking shed. No help there. “In fact, I may have patients waiting—”
“But that’s precisely my concern,” she said. “The Browards’ boy has been ailing. I’m certain they would appreciate a professional opinion.”
He eyed her narrowly for a moment, suspicious of how well she’d crafted her lure. But her smile was bright and guileless, and he’d look like an ass if he declined. Moreover, ethical obligations forbade him to do so. The avoidance of flirts and preservation of one’s virtue did not take priority over sick children.
He took a deep breath. Restraint: he would have to practice restraint. A true novelty, along with all this bleeding fresh air. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll be glad to have a look at him.”
“Lovely!” She thrust the basket into his arms and walked off without so much as a by-your-leave. The foamy gown transformed her gait into something more like a . . . strut. The wind kicked up again, and his fevered mind thought it glimpsed the outline of a well-shaped hip, sloping inward to a shapely thigh.
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