“Of course I would, but that’s hardly . . .” Florian let the words fade and placed his hand on Henry’s arm instead. “I’m glad you’re all right and that you’re still here. The alternative would be unthinkable.”
Henry allowed a faint smile. “I made you miss your ship.” He felt terrible about upsetting his brother’s plans, but he’d also been more afraid than he’d let on and had wanted his brother’s medical expertise to be available.
“Yes. You did.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“After everything you’ve done for me? How could I not?”
Grateful, Henry sank further back against his pillow. And yet . . . “I haven’t done so much.”
Florian held his gaze. “No. Of course you haven’t. You only helped me fight Bartholomew after discovering I’d lied to you about him for fourteen years.”
“Telling me he was your father was not a simple thing.”
“No. It was not. But that doesn’t change the fact that perhaps it is I who should ask for your forgiveness?”
Henry sighed. “You’re my brother, no matter what. Forgiving you was easy.”
“Thank you.”
Florian shifted as if discomforted by the intimacy of their conversation, so Henry decided to change the subject. “There was a nurse here earlier, or at least I believe she must have been a nurse.”
The edge of Florian’s mouth lifted. “And?”
“Well, I was merely thinking that if she’s been assigned to my care, it would be nice to know her name.”
“Hmm . . .” Florian didn’t look convinced by this explanation, as evidenced when he said, “I don’t want you flirting with the staff, Henry. You need to recuperate and they need to do their jobs without you ta—”
“For God’s sake. I only want her name. You needn’t make it sound as though I have questionable intentions.”
Florian sighed. “Fine. If you can describe her to me, I might be able to help.”
Pleased, Henry couldn’t stop from smiling. Especially not when he thought of the woman he’d seen. “She’s fair with golden hair and eyes the loveliest shade of blue I have ever seen.”
“Ah. I believe you must be referring to Emily.”
Henry frowned. It was almost as if his brother sounded relieved. “Emily . . .” What a lovely name. “Thank you, Florian. I promise not to flirt with her too much.” Florian gave him a quelling look to which Henry laughed and immediately flinched in response to the pain it caused. “You should go. Your ability to amuse me today is not helping with my recovery.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Florian asked, ignoring his comment. “Perhaps—”
“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “Take the next ship to France, Florian. Enjoy your holiday in Paris with Juliette. I shall be perfectly fine until you get back.”
Florian stared down at him for a lengthy moment and finally nodded. “Very well then. I will see you in roughly one month.” He moved as if considering an embrace but froze and, pulling back, simply reached for Henry’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Take care of yourself, brother. And please, do try to stay out of trouble.”
Henry smiled with deliberate mischief. “Of course, Florian. You can count on me to do precisely that.”
With a soft scoff and a shake of his head, Florian strode from the room, leaving Henry to think about what to say the next time he saw Emily.
Chapter 2
Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Viola considered her reflection in the mirror and gave herself a firm nod. She looked acceptable. Not pretty by any means, but then again, who needed prettiness in a place where cleanliness, precision and expediency were of the highest value?
With one final look at herself, she picked up her spectacles and placed them in the pocket of her skirt before leaving her office. It was time for her to make her rounds, and with Florian’s departure the day before and the promise she’d made to look after his brother, she would need to check up on Mr. Lowell. According to Emily, he’d slept since yesterday afternoon, which meant he’d gotten a good sixteen hours of rest at least.
Passing a room shared by four female patients, Viola stepped inside and saw that Mrs. Richardson was awake.
“How are you this morning?” Viola asked the older woman, who’d fallen from a ladder and broken her leg two days earlier.
Mrs. Richardson pulled back the cover and wiggled her toes. “Feeling better already,” she said with a cheerful smile, and Viola saw that the bandages wrapped around her leg to hold the splints in place had been painted in bright displays of color.
“Who’s the artist?” Viola asked in a whisper so as not to wake the other women who still slept.
“Yours truly,” Mrs. Richardson replied. “My daughter brought me my watercolors the day before yesterday. She said she heard something about Viscount Armswell’s son, Mr. Lowell, being brought in around the time she arrived—mentioned him having been shot?”
“Hmm . . . You know I cannot discuss other patients with you, do you not?” She’d have to find out which of her staff members had betrayed Mr. Lowell’s identity loud enough for others to hear.
“So that would be a yes to my question,” Mrs. Richardson said with a satisfied smile. “Doesn’t really surprise me, all things considered.”
Unable to stop her curiosity, Viola took a step closer to Mrs. Richardson’s bed. “You know him then?”
“No. Of course not. His family’s much too high in the instep for the likes of me.”
That was what Viola had suspected. Mrs. Richardson didn’t seem particularly well off, even if she was able to afford watercolors.
“One does hear things, however,” Mrs. Richardson went on. “From what I have learned, Mr. Lowell is a proper scoundrel. I’ve a friend who’s employed by the Dowager Marchioness of Wentworth as her companion and she claims to have seen Mr. Lowell at various social gatherings. According to her, he’s always flirting with one woman or another. Says she even thinks he may have intended to proposition the Duchess of Coventry before she married the duke. Saw him sticking a bit too closely to her side a couple of Seasons ago. Claims it was all rather distasteful, seeing as Her Grace had just come from the slums and all that. Lowell was like a tiger just waiting to pounce.”
Viola didn’t like anything about that description. “Perhaps he genuinely liked her,” she suggested, “and was simply trying to be friendly without any ulterior motive.” Her loyalty toward Florian prompted her to defend his brother in spite of her own opinion of him, which wasn’t much different from Mrs. Richardson’s.
Mrs. Richardson gave her a dubious look. “He took up with Viscount Blithe’s widow after that, and the viscount had only been dead one week. Not to mention his affair with Lady Elmwood last year.”
Mrs. Richardson pressed her lips together as if intending to stop from saying anything more. But then she quickly continued. “My friend says Mr. Lowell has two extra houses in London—one where he keeps his mistress and the other where he conducts his affairs with unassuming young women.”
Viola bit her lip to stop from laughing. She leaned toward the older woman in a conspiratorial way. “You make it sound as if he’s a predator luring the innocent into his lair.”
“Suffice it to say that I have it on good authority Mr. Lowell enjoys the company of women excessively. So much in fact, it’s likely to get him killed one day if he doesn’t start being more careful.”
Refraining from mentioning the real cause of his most recent duel, Viola promised Mrs. Richardson she’d have some breakfast delivered soon and went to continue her rounds.
She arrived in Mr. Lowell’s room twenty minutes later to find the man in question propped up against a pile of pillows and with the Mayfair Chronicle in his lap. He didn’t notice her right away, his concentration fixed on whatever it was he was reading, which allowed her a moment to study him discreetly.
When she’d last seen him, he’d been hovering between sleep and wakefulness. Sh
e’d checked to see if he had a fever and he’d stared at her for a long moment before slipping back into unconsciousness. Now, his eyes were focused with great intensity on what he was reading while a stray lock of black hair fell carelessly across his brow. It afforded him with a touch of untidiness that she found oddly charming and perhaps even a little attractive. If she was being completely honest. Until she reminded herself of the sort of man he was and instantly warned herself not to fall under his spell.
So she stiffened her spine and strode forward with purpose. He looked up and their eyes met. Viola’s heart stuttered and her belly turned over without any warning, prompting her to look away.
“Good morning, Mr. Lowell,” she forced herself to say. He was only a man. And she’d dealt with plenty of those in the past. Though none quite as handsome as this fine specimen.
Stop it!
Somehow she managed to offer a smile and remain upright. She made herself meet his gaze once more, her breath catching slightly the moment she did in response to the interest she saw there. Unnerved yet determined to avoid showing weakness, she concentrated on doing her job by asking, “How are you feeling today?”
“Rather well, now that you are here,” he murmured. His voice was like silk slipping over her skin.
Oh, he was good. Too good. She clasped her hands together and squared her shoulders, intent on resisting his charm. Which became infinitely easier when he quirked an eyebrow and added, in the most seductive tone she’d ever heard, “Emily.”
Viola felt her lips twitch at first. And then she laughed. “Emily?” She laughed a bit more while he began frowning. And then a thought struck her and she turned immediately serious. They were in a hospital, after all, and he was looking very confused. So she went to the side of the bed, bowed over his head and stared down into his right eye while prying it slightly more open with her fingers. “Do you know if you hit your head when you were shot?”
“No.” He allowed her to look in his left eye as well. “Why?”
She leaned back. His pupils appeared to be responding normally. “Because you think I’m Emily and the two of us look nothing alike.”
He shifted a little higher against his pillows while she proceeded to pour him a glass of water. “That’s odd. When I asked my brother about you and gave a description, he told me your name was Emily.”
Setting the glass to his lips, Viola helped him drink. “Well, I cannot imagine what you told him, but I am Viola. Viola Cartwright, to be exact.” She rarely gave her title, preferring to avoid unnecessary attention in favor of being treated like the rest of her staff.
A charming smile brightened his features. “Then your name is even lovelier than I initially thought.”
A surge of warmth swept through her, pricking her skin. Disliking the effect he was having on her and feeling unmoored by the rare attempt at flattery, she said nothing and went to disinfect her hands. “I need to take a look at your wound, Mr. Lowell.”
“You may call me Henry, if you like.”
Her stomach bounced in a most uncomfortable way. “I’d rather not.”
“But if I am to call you Viola, then—”
“You are a patient, Mr. Lowell, and therefore free to address all the nurses by their given names. Just as you would address a maid.” Putting up barriers between them now was both vital and wise. Especially if she was to resist him.
“That hardly seems fair.” He was practically pouting now, and God help her if the expression didn’t make him look totally adorable.
“These are the hospital rules,” she said, deliberately turning away so he wouldn’t see her smile. She made sure to compose herself completely before turning back to face him. “If our inequality disturbs you, you are free to call me Mrs. Cartwright.” There. She’d effectively made herself quite unavailable.
His smile fell a little. “A pity when your given name is so very pretty.”
She arched a brow. “I realize I’ve put you in something of a bind, for which I do apologize.”
He was the one to laugh this time. “Why, Mrs. Cartwright. Are you always this delightful?”
“Only where you are concerned, it would seem,” Viola muttered, and then immediately chastised herself for allowing him to engage her. Amusement sparkled in his dark brown eyes, stirring her senses in ways to which she’d thought herself immune.
Giving herself a mental shake, Viola removed Mr. Lowell’s newspaper from the bed, pushed down his sheet and began tackling his shirt. It was what she did, what she’d done more times than she could count, and yet for the first time ever, she felt her fingers tremble as she fumbled with the fabric.
Pull yourself together, she chided herself. But then her fingers made contact with his skin and he sucked in a breath. Without thinking, she raised her gaze to his and immediately regretted doing so. Because he was watching her closely and with the sort of look . . .
Her pulse beat faster and her mouth went instantly dry. She forced her attention back to her work, clinging to the methodical familiarity it offered.
When she’d finally changed his compress and bandaged the wound again, she took a step back and breathed a sigh of relief. As she reached for the newspaper with the intention of returning it to her patient, her eye caught the section he’d been reading, which prompted her to pause.
She shook her head and looked at him in amazement. “You like the puzzles?” It didn’t seem to square with his rakish reputation.
He smiled, not the flirtatious sort of smile he’d given her before, but a more playful variety. A shrug followed. “I find them entertaining.”
“So do I,” she admitted, and for a long second after, it was impossible for her to look away. It was as if his gaze was pulling her to him.
Feeling a wave of heat creep over her skin, she returned her attention to the newspaper in her hand with the intention of reading one of the puzzles herself. Her hand instinctively went to her skirt pocket and paused. She knit her brow, attempting against all hope to make out the blurry words without using her spectacles.
Failing, she returned the newspaper to Mr. Lowell’s lap. She was plain enough as she was. No need to add to her undesirability by showing off her long-sightedness as well. Not that she wanted Mr. Lowell to find her desirable, because she most definitely didn’t, but Robert had always laughed when he’d seen her wearing her spectacles, which was why she only ever put them on when it was absolutely necessary.
Mr. Lowell gave her a curious look, but rather than broach her unwillingness to attempt the puzzle, he settled back against his pillows and yawned. “I do apologize, Mrs. Cartwright, but I seem to require more rest than usual at the moment.”
She chuckled lightly and with a strange appreciation for his consideration toward her. “Let’s not forget you were recently shot and underwent surgery. It would be strange if you weren’t feeling somewhat put out.”
The edge of his mouth lifted. “Beautiful and amusing,” he murmured. “Remind me to send my dueling opponent a thank-you note. Had it not been for him, you and I might never have met.”
She pursed her lips before saying, “Something tells me you would have arrived here sooner or later.” Determined not to let him detain her any longer, Viola picked up the bowl containing the old compress and bandage and strode to the door.
“One moment,” Mr. Lowell spoke to her back.
Muttering a curse, Viola paused on the threshold and turned. “Yes?”
He smiled beatifically, which not only put Viola’s nerves on edge but also made butterflies soar in her belly. “Might I request a bath after my nap? And if so, will you be good enough to assist me with it?”
A rush of heat swept through Viola, so intense she feared she might catch fire. Of all the things he might have asked, she had not expected this. It proved he was more of a scoundrel than she’d imagined, because heaven above, the man was shamelessly staring at her with a wolfish gleam to his eyes and a smirk on his handsome face.
“I . . . um . . .” Oh
, for God’s sake! Viola straightened her spine and pressed the bowl she held to her chest like a shield. “Considering the immobile state of most patients, bathing tends to require a great deal of heavy lifting. Consequently, the nurses are all exempt from this duty.” She smiled back at him and told him gently, “I’ll ask the strongest orderlies I can find to come and help you as soon as possible. And since you’re not allowed to make any movements that might put a strain on the wound, I hope you’ll allow them to clean the more hard-to-reach places for you.”
Mr. Lowell’s smile evaporated completely.
Offering no more than a nod, Viola used his dumbfounded silence to make her escape. It wasn’t until she was well out of sight and hearing that she allowed herself the grin that threatened. She’d gotten the best of Mr. Lowell just now and she found she rather enjoyed it.
Henry stared at the vacant doorway, his mind still occupied by the woman who’d turned the tables on him only seconds earlier. She was stunningly beautiful, not in the classical sense, but in a way that set her apart from the rest. He’d been wrong, he realized, to tell his brother her eyes were blue and her hair golden. No wonder he’d thought he was speaking of the other nurse, Emily, instead of Viola, whose eyes were an interesting shade of gray. They were the eyes of a sharp and intelligent woman—the sort of woman whom he suspected capable of holding his interest for infinite lengths of time. Her hair, on the other hand, was perhaps a bit duller than Emily’s, but it was thicker and longer, as judged by the volume of her tight chignon. He’d longed to unpin it and watch it fall over her shoulders ever since he’d first seen her.
But it wasn’t just her eyes or her hair that was fascinating. It was also the shape of her mouth, the perfectly plump lower lip and the dimples at either side. And then there were the freckles . . . Lord help him, he’d never thought he’d find tiny little dots of brown so attractive, but they somehow seemed to suit her personality, which clearly leaned toward the teasing side.
The Infamous Duchess Page 2
