The Lady in the Tower

by Karen Hawkins

  “No?” The duchess lifted a light blonde brow. “Why not?”

  “We, ah, just never got around to it.”

  Catherine brightened. “Excellent! My dear, do tell what happened?”

  Jane had to laugh and quite against her better sense, everything came gushing out. Her suggestion for a liniment for his leg, and his agreement to have her try it out on him, and how that one benign suggestion had somehow ended up with her having the most passionate, intimate event of her life, only to see him flee from her.

  Through it all, Catherine nodded and murmured encouraging words until finally, when Jane ran out of things to say, she asked, “What do you want, Jane?”

  The question, so elegantly simple, brought her up short. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean exactly that, my dear: what do you want? Are you happy as you are? And I mean happy, not simply content. Do you think there could be more, perhaps with Richard?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” That was the simple truth.

  Catherine nodded. “It seems you have an opportunity. Don’t waste it. Figure out what you want and take it.”

  “That sounds so easy, but I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Zavhreet kazuh.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Catherine said. “I’m hosting a small party at the end of the week. Nothing fancy, mind you, just our usual group, a few other friends. I’d like for you to present your paper to us.”

  “What? No one will want to hear a paper on medical suturing.”

  “Of course we do.” She tilted her head in reflection. “Granted, we laymen might not grasp all the particulars, but I’m sure that won’t matter. What do you say? It will be good practice for you.”

  Jane couldn’t deny that. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Despite herself, Jane laughed. “Well, then, I’d be delighted.”

  They discussed the particulars a bit more, and Jane tried to focus, but instead, rattling inside her brain was the duchess’s question: what do you want?

  * * * * *

  The summons arrived in the late afternoon. Richard was more than a little surprised. He’d expected Her Grace to return to Jane for her physicking rather than call upon him. Still, one did not leave a duchess waiting.

  Sam dropped him once again at the fashionable address, and he limped to the door, cursing for the umpteenth time his own stupidity. He’d yet to procure a new walking stick, and he couldn’t very well call upon Jane to retrieve the one he’d hastily left behind. Not yet, anyway. Not until he understood his feelings for her.

  After his perfunctory knock, the door opened and the butler allowed him entrance. As soon as Richard entered the room, Her Grace stood. “Doctor, thank you so much for coming.”

  Richard bowed, but could not help his frown of confusion. “Apologies, Your Grace, I thought you needed to see me.”

  “Indeed, I do. Please, take a seat.” She indicated two chairs before the hearth where a cheery fire blazed. Beside one of the chairs stood a small wooden table with overly large shaped cards lying in a pattern across the surface.

  He waited for her to return to her chair before taking his own. “If I may, Your Grace, you seem perfectly healthy.”

  “No surprise there, since I feel perfectly healthy.”

  “Then I’m at a loss as to what I can do for you.”

  “Well, as to that, you can accept my invitation to a small gathering I’m holding at week’s end. Ah, Higgins, thank you.” The butler rolled in a tea trolley, parked it beside the duchess then left just as quietly as he’d entered. “May I offer you a cup of tea, doctor?”

  Richard accepted the cup she passed to him with thanks, a growing sense of unease settling over him. “Your Grace, I do not attend social events. I’m a physician and I have obligations—”

  “The primary reason for this gathering is, in fact, medical.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Jane—you remember Lady Kilkenny—is to present a preview of the article she intends to read before the medical college.”

  “You mean she’s reading her father’s notes. I’ve heard about those lectures. She does very well.”

  The duchess chuckled. “Ah, newly spoken words of a dead man. Such a rare thing.”

  Richard had his teacup halfway to his mouth, but at this, he lowered it. “Your Grace, are you suggesting . . . those haven’t been her father’s notes?”

  “Every paper she’s presented has been her own.”

  He replaced the cup in the saucer. Good God, if anyone were to find out— He envisioned all sorts of outcomes, each one worse than the last. She would be openly ridiculed, mocked, and eventually ostracized. It didn’t matter that her papers and conclusions were excellent; the physicians there – all old men set in their ways – would feel disrespected and tricked and they would make sure she felt their disapproval. The thought of Jane being subjected to that, to becoming the butt of every first-year’s crude joke incensed him. But then they hadn’t seen how good her surgical skills were, nor how effective she could be in a crisis.

  Or how she made little sounds in her throat when she climaxed.

  “What do you think?”

  He blinked, the duchess’s question yanking him back to the present moment. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, what do you think about Jane?”

  For a moment, he wondered if she’d somehow found out just how much he had been thinking about Jane. Usually the images were of her naked in his bed, but not always. Sometimes she was in his clinic, having her way with him on the examination table. Other times she was on her knees in his carriage.

  “Ah . . . what do you mean Your Grace?”

  “I know that she’s already helped you with one patient.” The duchess stacked the cards into a pile. “You, of all people, should not be surprised at her abilities as a healer.”

  “Yes, she was . . . ” He searched for the right words. Inspiring? Surprising? Both of those to be sure, but what he settled for was nothing less than the truth. “She was superb. I wish I’d had her with me on the Continent.”

  “You were at Waterloo?”

  He took a judicious sip of his tea. Quietly, he said, “Weren’t we all?”

  “I’m sure it seemed that way.” She scooped up the cards then handed them out to him. “Would you mind? Shuffling them, I mean.”

  Setting aside his teacup, he accepted the cards, but they weren’t like any playing cards he’d ever seen. Some were suits, but not the usual kind. Instead of hearts and diamonds, there were cups and wands. Instead of jacks and queens, there were fantastic creatures and symbols.

  “They were my grandmother’s,” she said. “From the old country.”

  “Do you have family still, in this old country?”

  A shadow passed so quickly over her face he wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “No. No family. What about you?”

  “Me neither. No family.” Odd, he’d never thought much about it before, but saying it aloud sounded lonely. His parents had passed before he’d graduated from medical college. He’d had a cousin, but he’d died at Leipzig before Richard had secured his commission. There was just Sam, his batman from the wars. His home was just as he liked it, no fussy trappings or bric-a-brac everywhere. He couldn’t help comparing it to Jane’s home, and how much warmer hers had felt despite its larger size.

  “So, will you come to my little soiree?”

  Before answering, he fanned the cards idly between his hands. “If you wish. But may I ask you something?” At her nod, he said, “Are the stories about Jane true?”

  She leveled him with a stark gaze. “You mean the ones in the gossip pages? Ah, those. You must ask her. I can promise you she’ll answer you truthfully. Then, you may judge for yourself.”

  He returned the cards to her. “I’ll do that.”

  The duchess fanned the cards and held them out. “Take a card.”

  With a shrug,
he did so, pulling a card from the stack and placing it face down on the side table. “Now what?”

  “Now nothing. Leave it there.”

  “But why—”

  “You will come to my party, will you not?”

  He nodded and she deftly drew him into conversation. By the time he finished his tea and said his good-byes, Catherine was certain he was the man for Jane.

  She tapped a long, bejeweled finger on the card he’d chosen, still face down on the table. Thornton’s questioning of Jane’s behavior had been grossly disappointing; she’d expected him to have more confidence in Jane than that. On the other hand, he had praised Jane’s abilities quite profusely.

  Catherine suspected that for a man like him, that was far, far more significant.

  She stared at the back of the card he’d chosen and then turned it over. A pagan male figure elevated a wand over an alchemy table with the words “The Magician.”

  Seeing it, she took a breath. And smiled.

  Chapter 8

  The day of Catherine’s party arrived. Jane took greater care with her appearance, insuring every curling wisp was secured and pinned. Despite the festive occasion, Jane chose a deep blue gown and elected to wear simple ear bobs. Thankfully, there remained only the lightest smudge from Thornton’s brand at her throat. She brushed a bit of rice powder over it and camouflaged it.

  After dressing, she returned to her desk to gather the cleaned copy of her article. As she collected the pages, her gaze fell on the envelope holding the tarot card. Why not? she asked herself. She parted the opened envelope to remove the tarot card.

  The picture showed a brightly colored turret surrounded by thorns and briars at its base. At the bottom of the card scrawled the words “The Tower.”

  Jane frowned. Of all the things she’d thought the card could have been, this wasn’t it. She’d been expecting—hoping?—for something a bit more, well, romantic. A knight on a charger, or a magician, or even a fool.

  But a tower? What was she to make of that?

  Voices from the foyer interrupted her musings. Ah, the cab must have arrived. She tossed the card to the desk, and collected her papers and then went into the foyer. “Jennings, I shouldn’t be late. Don’t wait up—“

  Richard Thornton stood in her foyer. The sight of him nearly knocked the breath from her as a flood of heated memories flushed over her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Escorting you to the duchess’s party. I wrote this morning and told her I would. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No.” What is Catherine up to?

  “I see,” he said, though clearly he was as bemused as she.

  “We are obviously being played like the tarot cards Catherine so enjoys.”

  “Apparently so.” He rubbed his jaw, his eyes alight. “We have two choices. We succumb to pride and ride to the duchess’s house in separate conveyances, or we admit defeat and ride together in spite of her knowledge. However, before you answer, I had Sam place foot warmers in my carriage, as well as two extra blankets. You will be much more comfortable with me.”

  “Comfort” wasn’t a word she associated with Richard, but she turned to Jennings. “I won’t need the hired cab.” Then, to Richard, she said, “Shall we go?”

  He held the door for her and she moved to step out before remembering. “Wait.” She went to the umbrella stand in the corner of the vestibule. “Here,” she said, and handed him his lacquer cane.

  He took it, his smile warm and she knew he was remembering their time together. “Thank you.”

  Face heated, she turned and led the way outside.

  The carriage ride took longer than usual with the typical evening traffic. For herself, Jane was glad for the sedate pace. Her stomach was already in knots and she didn’t need a breakneck pace through Mayfair to make her feel worse. To quiet her nerves, she deliberately took an interest in the scenery out the window, glad for the foot warmers and thick carriage blankets.

  As they neared the duchess’s house, Richard tapped his boot with his walking stick. “That liniment you sent over has definite beneficial properties.”

  She felt as if she were talking to a stranger. “How’s the stiffness in the knee?”

  “Better, I have to admit.”

  She smiled politely. “Good.”

  Her knees nearly touched his where he sat across from her, yet the gulf between them felt wider than a chasm. Still, she sensed his heat, the way he filled up the space. The spice of his cologne brought back the sharp memory of her writhing in his arms. She moistened lips that had gone dry.

  And that was it. With that one, simple gesture, she broke the polite chill that had settled around them. One moment, she was moistening her lips and the next, Richard had reached across the carriage, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her as if he thought he’d never again have the chance.

  Shock held her immobile, but not for long. Her head swam and desire flared sharp and hot as a star. His arms crushed her to him. Her breasts ached where they pressed against his chest. He barely allowed her a breath before seizing her mouth once more. He was doing it again, taking her over completely. A sense of drowning overcame her.

  No, she couldn’t do this again, not like before. Steeling herself, she pushed against his chest.

  He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh. “Why?”

  If he could be direct, so could she. “What’s the point if you’re only going to walk away again the second we’re through? You dismissed me.”

  Her accusation seemed to flummox him. “I would never do that.”

  She pinned him with a look of disbelief. “You left in such a hurry you forgot your cane.”

  Richard scowled. Damn it, he should have realized how his speedy retreat must have looked. Gently, he brushed his thumb over her kiss-swollen mouth. “It wasn’t a dismissal. Never that, Jane, not after. . . . That was not my intention.”

  “Then why did you leave so abruptly?”

  “What happened, afterward things became . . . complicated. It seemed best to leave before they became more so.”

  Her lips thinned. “Complicated. Of course. That must be avoided at all costs, mustn’t it?”

  He didn’t know what to say. He only knew what he wanted to do. That kiss had been nowhere near long enough by his reckoning, nor satisfying. Indeed, it had just left him wanting more of her.

  The thought irritated him, poked at his already low thoughts like a thorn. His feelings for her were raw, and he had no idea what to do with them. He tried to dismiss them, but every time he looked at her, they flooded back, stronger than before. And while he struggled, she looked coolly collected.

  His mood soured. Where was the infamous Wicked Widow? Why wasn’t she undressing him? She seemed to have fewer boundaries with other men than with him. Here they were together and alone, a perfect opportunity to explore just how “wicked” she could be, but instead she had tucked herself into the opposite corner, retreating once more behind that barricade of hers.

  The thought aggravated him even more. After he’d made love to her, he thought a few of those fortress stones had been knocked aside. Now she looked as coolly remote as when she’d first been in his carriage. He found it all intolerable.

  “I’ve read about you in the paper,” he blurted. “They call you the Wicked Widow. There are many stories. Are they true?”

  She sighed and for a second, a look of utter fatigue washed over her face. “You believe them.”

  He met her gaze. “No, but I wish to know the truth. I want to know everything about you. The most recent story said you undressed a gentleman in the lobby of a hotel.”

  “I did undress a gentleman if you consider loosening a gentleman’s absurdly knotted cravat so he didn’t choke to death an act of ‘undressing.’”

  “I thought as much. What of the incident at Ranelagh where you supposedly stripped bare for all to see to swim in the ornamental lake?”

  “That was the celebration marking Napoleon’s final defeat
. A young lady, who’d had a bit too much to drink, slipped from the footbridge and fell in.”

  “And there were no gentlemen about to help her?”

  “Of a certainty, but I was closer.”

  “And so you dove in yourself.” He knew now there had been no stripping involved. Why was he disappointed?

  “Waded is more like.” She shrugged at his look. “Made sense at the time. Besides, she was too far gone to realize the water came only up to her knees.”

  A more detailed picture of her was beginning to form, a new and more disturbing thought settling into his mind. “And Vauxhall? Whom did you save from expiring there?”

  “No one. At least, not directly.”

  “I’m afraid to ask, but I will.”

  “A few lads had set up a dice game that admittedly got out of hand. When I happened upon them fisticuffs had already started to break out. One of them had a knife. After I calmed them, I sewed a few wounds.” When she said nothing more, he scowled at her until she sighed. “Granted, one gentleman had a gash in his . . . well, his backside. I had to pull his trousers down to properly—”

  “Jane!”

  “He was bleeding,” she shot back, defensive. “I fixed it.”

  “And I suppose that’s when you were discovered.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God, woman. You need a keeper.”

  She gasped. “I need a what?”

  “You could have drowned trying to pull someone from a lake, deep or not.”

  “She wasn’t that heavy—”

  “Did she fight you?”

  “A little.”

  “And at Vauxhall, you could have been knifed yourself! Even the factotums at the gambling halls know better than to get in the middle of drunken, armed men!”

  “Stop shouting at me!”

  “I am not shouting!” He was. Gritting his teeth, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried for equanimity. In a calmer voice, he said, “You could have been hurt, or even killed.” The thought of either formed a tight ball of misery in his chest.

  “But I wasn’t.”

  There was such a look of matter-of-factness on her face he wanted to shake her. Or kiss her. Or both.