by Meara Platt
Viola was right behind him.
“Frances, dear,” Charles said, “you can’t compare your education or abilities to ours. I must agree with Robbie on this. It isn’t that your abilities are inferior—”
“Inferior?” She clenched her fists and glared at him.
“I just said they weren’t, didn’t I? But men and women are built differently, trained differently.” He tweaked her nose, which only served to heighten her irritation. “I wouldn’t love you if you were capable of growing a beard as thick as mine.”
“Charles, I’m not speaking of biological properties that are clearly beyond one’s ability to control. I’m speaking of diligence, hard work, use of intellect—”
Charles frowned. “Hard work? I’ll not have my wife scouring floors as though she were a scullery maid. You’ll have a houseful of servants to tend to your every need.”
“Then what am I to do? Nothing?” She looked at him as though seeing his true character for the first time. It wasn’t a bad character, but she wasn’t sure it was right for her.
He patted her hand. “You may do whatever your heart desires. Visit your mother and sisters, host musicales, shop for new clothes.”
“But I can do more!”
“Of course, you can,” Viola intoned, her gaze now fixed on the duke, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at her. “Fee is as capable as any man. You fools at the hospital will realize it once you hear her out. What do you say to that, Robbie?”
Frances noted the hard set of his jaw and the gray thunder in his eyes. “I knew it was a mistake to come here this evening. Am I to be forever hounded by this idiocy?”
“You tell ’em, Robbie! Keep ’em females in their places,” someone laughingly called out. More guests gathered around them on the balcony, heedless of the cold wind blowing down their necks.
Frances was too angry to feel the cold.
“Don’t let them muzzle you, Fee!” a female voice rang out.
“Frances! Frances!” several women began to chant, including her mother and sisters, who were obviously too drunk to realize what they were chanting about. Her mother had never approved of her causes and would have been appalled to realize she was showing support.
Masculine voices countered the feminine chants. “Robbie! Robbie!”
“Don’t back down, Fee!” Viola insisted.
“I won’t.” She took a step forward and glowered at the duke, whose arms remained crossed over his chest and who glowered at her in return. Nonetheless, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever encountered in her life. “Well? Are you up to the challenge?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that a question or a dare, Miss Cameron?”
She swallowed hard, wanting to hold back… wanting to be good and dutiful and compliant… wanting to make her family and Charles happy. Oh, drat. “A dare.”
The ladies cheered.
She tipped her chin up to meet his stoic gaze. “Do you accept, Your Grace?”
The men erupted in whoops and hollers. “Put ’er in ’er place, Robbie!” This was no longer about the new hospital wing. The drunken crowd was urging them on as though they were two gladiators about to enter the Roman Coliseum and battle to the death. This had just turned into an apocalyptic battle of the sexes. “Ye can’t back down, Robbie!”
He stared at her for the longest moment, his gaze as hot and fiery as the shooting stars still streaking across the sky.
“Bloody hell,” he said in a whisper. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 3
THE MEN CHEERED.
“But what’s the dare to be?” a guest asked.
Robbie cursed under his breath. What had he just done? More precisely, what did Battle-Ax Brazelton find so amusing about this entire affair? He found her smirk quite irritating. That gleam in her eye did not bode well for him either.
“I hear you’re in need of a medical assistant, Robbie.”
“Oh, no! You’re not going to foist her on my medical practice. It’s sacred to me, Vi. You know that. I will no’ toy with the lives of the sick,” he insisted, his brogue intensifying with his anger.
Frances put a hand lightly on his arm, sending a hot jolt through his system. “I’d love to help.”
She spoke softly and had the gentlest expression in her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. Well, they were beautiful, he reluctantly admitted, momentarily distracted by their emerald sparkle. “I’m sorry, Miss Cameron, but I cannot allow my medical practice to become the butt of a joke.”
“I assure you, it will not be. I’d never harm any of your patients.” He hated the sincerity in her tone, for he wished the trustees cared to help his patients half as much as this girl obviously did. “Let me prove it to you.”
“What are you afraid of, Robbie?” Viola goaded. “That she’ll do a better job than any man you hire?”
“Viola, this is nonsense. She isn’t medically trained.”
“Are any of your assistants?”
No, but he wasn’t about to admit it to the old battle-ax. The jest had gone too far.
“Give her a month to prove her mettle, Robbie,” Viola said. “She’ll report to your clinic every morning but Sundays and work without pay.”
“But Vi—” was all Frances managed to say before she was interrupted.
“Hush, child. You must trust me on this.” Vi patted her arm to emphasize her determination.
“An entire month, Vi?” Charles shook his head. “She can’t. She has a wedding to plan. Our wedding.”
“Her mother will attend to the details for now,” Viola shot back. “Her sisters can help out.”
Charles frowned. “What if Frances fails?”
“I won’t. Don’t you believe in me?” In truth, Frances looked hurt rather than angry. The dimpled chin of hers, which was a moment ago pointed upward in defiance, was now aimed downward and quivering.
Bollocks.
“Are you going to cry?” Robbie asked.
“No.” She raised her pretty chin to the moon again, once more angry and defiant despite being out of her depth. He stifled the urge to kiss his cousin’s betrothed. Again. He’d been stifling the urge to do just that from the moment he’d met her.
Lord, what had he gotten himself into?
What had poor Charlie gotten himself into? He’d have his hands full molding this beautiful hellion into a biddable wife.
“It’s done,” Viola intoned. If she had a gavel in hand, she would have banged it down upon the balustrade. “Frances is to spend this next month working at Robbie’s clinic. If Frances fails to perform her duties, neither she nor any other female present tonight will have a say about this hospital project of yours for the next five years.”
“Viola, it isn’t fair! We risk everything and he gains an unpaid assistant!” Frances cried.
Men laughed, many taunting the women with cries of coward.
“I’m no coward,” Frances grumbled, and against all good sense, accepted the idiotic challenge.
Another cheer rose from the crowd.
Robbie understood the devious workings of Battle-Ax Brazelton’s mind and knew the men were about to be dealt a crippling blow. He braced himself. Lord, how had he gotten himself into this fix? What should have been a brief handshake, kiss the bride, and make a quiet exit had somehow turned into a battle for the very survival of the male sex.
“Fee has accepted the challenge!” Viola cried in triumph, raising her arms and encouraging the crowd as they continued to cheer. “Now, let me tell you what the men shall lose.”
The cheers died down.
“If Frances succeeds, she will be appointed to the hospital board for a term of five years, and during that time she’ll act as chairman of the projects committee.”
“No! No!” several men called out in protest only to be quieted by the women’s cries of coward.
“Well, Robbie? Will you accept this challenge? Or are you afraid Frances will win?”
He was trapped and sinking dee
p into a quagmire. He glanced at the men in the crowd and knew they’d never forgive him if he refused. “Miss Cameron, I’ll expect you at my clinic at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Eight o’clock?” one of her sisters said with a gasp. “Oh, poor Fee! You hate to get up that early.”
“Of course, that’s only to ease her into the rest of the month. I’ll expect her at seven o’clock each morning after that. Seven is when the clinic opens its doors.” Now that was a damn lie, but he wasn’t about to take it easy on Frances Cameron.
No, indeed.
He meant to win this dare and put the little upstart in her place.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t shake the feeling that her place was at his side.
Bollocks.
The girl was going to marry his cousin.
Vi held up her hands and cheered. “The winner shall be declared at the end of this month, right here at the Duke of Edinburgh’s annual ball to mark the end of grouse-hunting season. The Duke of Edinburgh himself will announce the winner. Let the fun begin!”
Riotous whoops and deafening laughter filled the air.
But neither he nor Frances was smiling.
CHAPTER 4
FRANCES FELT LIKE the ghostly dead.
She drew the covers over her head in the hope she was having a bad dream and had not, in fact, agreed to a month of servitude to the daunting duke. “Go away, Martha. It can’t be morning yet. It’s still dark outside.”
“Ye asked me to wake ye at six-thirty, Miss Frances,” her maid replied, showing no mercy as she yanked the covers off the bed and exposed Frances to the morning chill. “’Tis a dreary morning, that’s fer sure. Dark, damp, and cold. Here, lovey. Drink this tonic for yer headache.”
She sat up and took the offered glass from Martha. “Ech! It smells vile.” But she took a sip of it anyway. “Blech! Definitely vile, but I suppose it won’t do to lose the dare on the first day out.”
“This silly challenge would never have come about if ye weren’t all too drunk to think straight,” Martha chided. “But what’s done is done and we’re all rootin’ for ye. Me, Sally, Cook and her helpers. Ye’re a bonnie lass, Miss Frances. We’re relying on you to prove that females count for something.”
Her stomach twisted into a knot. “You are?”
“Aye, all of us. We’ve pinned our hopes on you and wagered a week’s salary to support you. Ye won’t lose it for us, will ye?”
“Of course not.” Oh, dear! She couldn’t back down now, not when her own maid and every female on the household staff had placed their faith in her.
She rolled to a sitting position, feeling every bit as miserable as she knew she must look, but with those close to her heart counting on her, she knew that she had to pull herself together and tough out the wretched month.
Firming her resolve, she drank the rest of the foul-tasting liquid and gagged as she drained it. “Merciful heavens! What did you put in it?”
Martha rolled her eyes. “Ye’d rather not know. Here, give me the glass and get yerself washed. I’ve brought up some hot water.” She began to fuss about the room, lighting the lamp beside her nightstand and bustling across the room to light a fire in the hearth. “What are ye doin’ still abed? Move along, lass. Time’s a wasting.”
Frances set her feet down on the wool carpet and shivered. Even the carpet felt cold at this hour of the morning. While Martha set out her chemise, hose, and a serviceable forest green gown with ecru lace trim at the cuffs and collar, she hurriedly washed.
“The trick to winnin’,” Martha said, “is to go to bed early. Ye can’t stay out dancin’ until the wee hours of the mornin’ and expect to be fresh the following day. I’m up at five every morning, but ye dinna hear me complaining. I’m always cheerful and you want to know why?”
Frances grinned. “Because you go to bed early.”
“That’s right, lass. Dinna forget it. No one can work hard and play hard at the same time. Why do ye’ think His Grace declines all those evening invitations? I’m sure he’d be wantin’ to accept most of them, but he knows he mustn’t or else he’d never be alert for his patients. That’s why he saves his playin’ for his day off.”
“Do you think he ever plays?” Frances wondered what he’d be like at leisure and just what games would he play? She couldn’t imagine him relaxed and in good humor. She refused to imagine him taking his pleasure in the arms of a woman.
But he had wonderfully strong arms.
It would be lovely to be held in them again.
“What’s the matter, lovey?”
“Only one day off each week?” She gazed into the elderly woman’s careworn face. “Just Sundays? For church?”
“No, lovey. It seems you know little about Duke Robbie. He takes off only one day each month.”
She sat up sharply. “What?”
“Tsk, but there’ll be no playin’ for him until the dare is finished.”
“That’s a whole thirty days without a moment’s rest. Well, fortunately Lady Brazelton excluded Sundays from the dare, but what about the other days? I’ve already accepted a dozen invitations.”
Martha shook her head. “Ye’ll be havin’ to cancel every one of them, even yer sister’s birthday party.”
Frances groaned and her eyes widened in surprise. “I can’t disappoint Meredith.”
“Ye must.”
“Oh, and Charles wants me to meet his great-aunt, Eudoria Haverwell. She’s hosting a dinner party in our honor next Tuesday evening.”
“Duke Robbie is also related to her. He’ll explain why you must decline the invitation. Now, don’t fret, lass. Lady Haverwell will understand. I hear she’s quite the gambler. Probably placed a hefty wager on you by now.”
“Your Grace, there’s a fine lady here to see you.”
Robbie checked his watch and saw that it was eight o’clock. So the little hellion his cousin had chosen to marry had made it to his clinic after all, he realized with little joy. “Thank you, Mrs. Pringle. Please bring her up.”
It could only be Frances showing up here on less than three hours sleep. He wondered as to her condition the morning after her engagement party. Bloodshot eyes and parched throat, he imagined. Not to mention a pounding headache after imbibing all that champagne.
He frowned. Perhaps she’d given up and sent an emissary to express apologies and surrender on her behalf. Damn. Not Battle-Ax Brazelton. He couldn’t stomach her bombastic presence so early in the day. “A moment, Mrs. Pringle. Describe this fine lady to me first. Is she young or old?”
His elderly housekeeper smiled. “Young, my lord. And quite pretty. Her hair is the loveliest shade of red. A soft, reddish-brown. Not brassy at all. She’s wearing an elegant gown of dark green wool. Matches the sparkling green of her eyes.”
“Thank you. That is more than I care to know. You may show her up here, then run downstairs and inform Agnes we won’t be needing her today. She’ll be paid for the day, of course.”
Mrs. Pringle gazed at him in puzzlement. “But my lord, who’ll clean up after the patients? Who’s to scrub the floors, change the soiled linens, dump the bedpans?”
Robbie smiled broadly. “Why, the fine lady, of course.”
He was going to enjoy this day.
“You expect me to do what?” Frances jumped out of her chair and glowered at the odious Duke of Kintyre. Ooh, if only she had a weapon with which to bludgeon him! Unfortunately, there were no useful implements in his office. The room was spare, containing a simple wooden desk, two chairs, a wall of bookshelves, and a side table piled high with medical texts. Two large windows outfitted with plain wood shutters ran along the opposite wall.
Hardly what one would expect of a duke’s office.
She briefly considered cracking one of those chairs over his swelled head, but that would likely disqualify her and then he would win the dare.
Frances sighed and glanced down at her gown, which was plain by fashionable standards, but too elegant for t
he clinic. She knew it. He knew it.
Suddenly, she felt embarrassingly out of place, for this was one of the more modest sections of town.
“I believe I’ve explained your duties quite clearly. What is it that you don’t understand, Miss Cameron?”
“Cleaning bed pans? Would those be my duties if I were a male assistant?”
“Of course,” he said with oily smoothness. “Once you’ve mastered the simple tasks, I’ll teach you the more difficult ones.” He strode to the door. “Follow me. I’ll show you where to start.”
She followed him down a set of uncarpeted stairs, then past a row of waiting patients. He paused a moment beside a young girl with glassy eyes and bright pink cheeks, and put his hand to her brow. “How long has she been running this high fever?” he asked the mother, a rather haggard-looking redhead whose hair color was closer to a brassy orange.
“Five days, my lord.” Her chin began to quiver and her shoulders slumped, for the poor woman was obviously exhausted from the strain of worrying for her child. Feeling hopeless, no doubt.
The duke gave the woman an encouraging smile. “What’s her name?”
“Bess, Yer Grace.”
“A beautiful name.” He tweaked the girl’s nose and received a responsive giggle.
He spoke to Bess, coaxing and teasing as he studied her neck and scalp, checked her tongue and hands. Finally, he rolled up her sleeves and checked her arms. “No sign of rash or sores.”
“No, my lord. She hasn’t any,” the mother answered.
“Good.” He turned to the woman who had earlier introduced herself as Mrs. Pringle, an efficient gray-haired lady who scampered about the place like a squirrel hunting nuts for the winter. “Please show Bess and her mother into the first examination room. I won’t be a moment.”
He turned back to Frances. “Come along, Miss Cameron.”
“Please, call me Frances,” she said, her annoyance melting away. He’d been so gentle and teasing with the sick girl that her own complaints suddenly seemed petty.
“Yes, well…” He led her downstairs, this time down a row of steep stone steps, and opened a pantry-like enclosure filled with linens and bandages. Next, he pointed to a slop sink. “You’ll find buckets, mops, scrub brushes, and soap beside the sink. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask Mrs. Pringle. She’s extremely capable and I trust her completely.”
