by Sophia Nash
She had yet to have a man agree to discuss any ailment with her. Mr. Gordon had refused even to tell her what his complaint concerned.
“Only a gen’lrnan doctor will do for the bikes o’ me,” he had said with a big grin as he chucked her cheek.
All this she must endure along with the recalcitrant new patient, Lord Huntington, who refused to trust her and took delight in goading her. It was a disheartening business.
She promised herself an hour working with her clay sculptures or bird-watching when she was through with this afternoon’s shift with the duke or his heir. At least Lord Huntington’s fever had broken, and the infection was clearing and less inflamed after a week. But in some ways it was easier to care for a delirious patient than a stubborn man who was weak and too determined to deviate from the lengthy path to recovery.
Charlotte greeted the busy servants and young Charley as she made her way to Lord Huntington’s chambers.
“He is asleep, Miss Kittridge. He must be making up for all the tossin’ and turnin’ he done last week,” said the ever-faithful youth, who sat slumped in a chair outside the chamber’s door. He was always within earshot of his master.
“Charley, you are a most loyal batman. But everyone must take a lie down from time to time. I promise to care for your master. But you must be at your best when he needs you. Please go and rest.”
It was the first time he had agreed to her suggestion. Either he was exhausted or he trusted her, at last. One battle won, on to the next.
She entered the room and stood over the form of Lord Huntington. The small pile of books on history, farming, and law stood untouched. She had brought them to him two days ago, when the fever had broken. He allowed her to read to him and discuss the worldly topics for many hours each day, but refused to read alone in his solitary hours.
His breath came evenly in slumber, and his forehead looked dry. She gently felt his pulse and resisted the urge to touch his face to check for any remnants of a fever. He needed sleep more than anything now.
Lord, he was so very handsome. The classic lines of his face reminded her of the engravings in her book on the sculpture of Michelangelo. Even in sleep, he looked like a mythological warrior in stone—although somewhat more gaunt in the cheeks, if she was truthful. His jaw was square and strong, with just a hint of a cleft in the chin, his lips full. With a sigh, she realized he was like a Greek god no less, perfection—the antithesis of her childish female form. It was a thoroughly depressing thought.
Charlotte jumped back in surprise when his lips opened and his breath quickened before he groaned. His shoulders twitched, and she could see he was dreaming.
“No, no, NO—please don’t… don’t take her—” he whispered. Charlotte woke him immediately. He sat up and grasped her arms in a painful grip, gasping for great lungfuls of air.
“Oh, dear God…” he said in a rough voice.
She put her arms around his shoulders awkwardly when he did not release her. Lord Huntington rested the side of his head against her breast while he regained his senses and regulated his breathing. “Thank you for waking me.”
“I am glad I could be of service.” His head on her breast made her insides feel strange and wobbly. “I have known the fear of many a bad dream or three.”
He released her, and she was sorry to lose the contact of his warm arms.
“Have you been plagued, thusly? What could possibly invade the sweet dreams of a sage innocent such as yourself?” He was still groggy and struggled to reposition his pillows to allow himself to sit up.
In a trice she arranged them to his liking, and looked down at him. “Mostly the revolution, my lord,” she hesitated. “Sometimes, my mother, the crowds—” she stopped, unwilling to say more, and wondered why she had dared to reveal even that much.
“I am sorry. Your family was in France during the revolution? Were you exposed to any of the… ugliness?” he asked, but then put up his hand. “No, I can see by the look on your face that you would rather not speak of it. Just as I choose not to dwell on scenes from the battlefield.” He smiled. “We are two veterans, I see.”
“You are right.” She was grateful he had not asked more. “War leaves such deep scars on the mind. I’ve seen it on the countless numbers of men my father treated in London after they returned.”
“Ah, it is strange, but I rarely dream of the war. It is more often about here—the abbey.”
Charlotte possessed a keen sense of when a patient wanted to talk and when they did not. She looked at him and said nothing, willing him to continue. He looked past her shoulder toward the window.
“It is a cold, awful, damp place, Wyndhurst,” he said, passing his hand over his forehead. “And many a night my sister and I were convinced it was haunted by the long-dead religious, who, we guessed, frowned upon our escapades.”
He looked at her with a slight smile and continued, “I would hear my sister’s little bare feet padding down the hall at a dead run a full half-minute before she would fling open the door and jump into my bed,” he said, laughing. “She hated to be separated from Edwin and me at night—left all alone in the dark in a room down the hall and one floor above. Our nurse, who was quite hard of hearing, slept in a small chamber off the room Edwin and I shared.”
He paused, and a shadow crossed his features. His eyes became unfocused.
“And then the day arrived when we were caught. Her Grace arrived much later than usual one evening to say her goodnights. She was very fond of… of children. Well, of her son at least, and she made a habit of coming in every night to coddle and kiss him goodnight, then sing a lullaby to him.”
Charlotte was confused but remained silent. She watched him swallow before continuing.
“And of course, she noticed the large shape in my bed, as Rosamunde had hidden, pressed against me, when Her Grace had entered. There was quite the fracas. Rosamunde was banished from being near me—a harsh punishment we managed to circumvent often, but equally often received hefty punishments for. My stepmother said it was—unnatural—our attachment.” He almost stopped altogether, then added, “Perhaps she was correct.”
Many moments passed before Charlotte knew he was finished. “Her Grace is not your mother?” “Yes, well, she tries to insist that we call her that, but no, she is not.”
“When did you lose your mother?”
“When I was six, and Rosamunde, three.”
He had been almost the same age she had been when her mother died in France. “I am sorry.”
“So am I, Miss Kittridge, so am I,” he said, looking down at her hand that had grasped his during the awful story. He covered her fingers with his other powerful hand and squeezed.
“And your stepmother did not feel compelled to show you and your sister the same affection she gave her son each night?” Charlotte’s composure shriveled with anger.
“No. But I could hardly expect it. I was not her flesh and blood.”
“You consider it normal to kiss and cuddle one child while leaving the other half-orphaned child in a darkened corner of a room with nary a word of affection?” Now fury was upon her. “Your stepmother was wrong, you know. There is nothing unnatural about two motherless children seeking comfort from each other—especially in the pitch darkness of night, when fears run amok in a child’s mind.” Charlotte stopped for a moment to collect herself. “I’m sorry for my outburst.”
“I am honored to have a defender.” He appeared pleased by her spirited words. “I would have liked to have you in my darkened corner, I think,” he said, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
She could not stop. “I myself spent many a night in my father or brother’s arms when night fears took hold. I was more fortunate than you. They never turned me away. Many would say I was spoilt beyond redemption.”
“I would not say you were poorly reared by any means, my dear Miss Kittridge. Except when you are intent on disobeying my every command,” he said, smiling.
She opened her mouth to
disagree.
“Now you are not going to play the contrarian, are you?” he interrupted. “I thought we made strong headway today, against our poor start. Don’t you agree?”
“Well… yes. In fact, since I am agreeing with you in this case, I will be much obliged if you allow me to encase your leg in this linen, stiffened with egg whites. I could not obtain plaster of Paris, which is a new technique being used in some parts of Europe now, so this will have to do.” She knew she was rambling. She did it in an effort to avoid his certain censure. “It will help keep the limb immobile and hasten recovery.”
“I am well aware of the necessary annoyance of immobility, Miss Kittridge, as I have had you to remind me of this every day during the last eight days. All right, I shall acquiesce, but only because, well… well, because you are right!” He laughed.
His humor was contagious. Charlotte smiled.
“Why, Miss Kittridge, I didn’t know you had dimples. How charming,” he said, grasping her arm and pulling her close.
He touched her cheek with his other hand, and she held her breath. She watched his intense green gaze move from her cheek to her mouth and wondered if there was another man on earth whose appearance could leave her so unsettled.
She was sure he could see her heart’s erratic pounding. He dropped his hand from her face and lightly pulled her to meet him as he raised himself off the pillows.
Please, oh, please God, let this happen.
His warm lips covered her own, and she felt like she would explode by the awareness of his body touching hers. Her mind raced with the knowledge that he was actually kissing her! She pulled back for the smallest instant and looked at him, sure he had made some sort of mistake. Something in his hungered expression reassured her, and she quickly lowered her lips to his again, mimicking his gentle exploration.
His lips parted and the intoxicating heat of his breath flowed onto her cheek. His tongue traced the edges of her lips and she shivered. Was there a more divine feeling?
His hand stroked down her arm and back up her waist, coming to rest against her breast. The pressure was wicked and heavenly all at the same time.
He broke away with a sigh and whispered into her ear, “Miss Kittridge, I must apologize. But dimples drive me to unconscionable actions. Do forgive me. Best keep them hidden from now on, or you shall be in danger again.”
In her flustered state, Charlotte could not think of a single thing to say. To occupy her shaking hands, she began unwrapping the bandage that was to go on his lordship’s leg.
“Perhaps it would be better for your father to wrap my leg, Miss Kittridge.”
Her eyes flew to his thigh, still covered by the linen sheets, and the shape above it. Her embarrassment increased tenfold.
“I daresay not even a saint could be trusted in this condition. I am sorry, Miss Kittridge.” She flew from the room, leaving behind the stiffened bandages, her pride, and the scene of her first kiss. Oh, it had been heady. Quite, quite divine. Why hadn’t that novel mentioned anything about kisses?
Chapter Three
“Even the smooth surface of family union seems
worth preserving, though there may be nothing
durable beneath.”
—Persuasion
OH, no, my dear brother, I must relinquish the head of the table in deference to you, now that you are on the mend,” said Lord Edwin, drawing out the aforementioned seat and motioning Nicholas to it. “This is your first appearance, after all, after three weeks.”
Nicholas glanced at his father’s wife out of the corner of his eye. Her Grace paled, her lips thinning in suppressed anger.
“I prefer to leave it vacant in deference to Father,” he replied.
“Always the proper one,” Edwin replied. “Always thinking of others. How I admire you and wish to be more like you,” he continued with an easy smile.
Not wanting his brother to feel uncomfortable, Nicholas offered another solution as he turned to one of their dinner guests, the elderly parish vicar. “His Grace would be most comfortable knowing a man of your high morals was warming his seat, Mr. Llewellyn.”
The duchess appeared infuriated by his decision. The tall, white-haired gentleman bowed. “I would be most delighted to accede to your wishes, Lord Huntington.” Nicholas hobbled on his new crutch to a seat offered by the butler.
“I am most pleased you were able to join us for dinner, Dr. Kittridge,” said the Duchess of Cavendish as she took her seat along with the other ladies. She nodded to the doctor’s two offspring, “and of course your family as well,” she added with stiff, condescending hauteur. A smile skirted her tight lips as she surveyed with distaste the unbalanced group of seven ladies and five gentlemen at table.
“It is an honor, Your Grace,” replied Dr. Kittridge.
“We are indebted to your tireless care,” added Edwin, as he served himself a sizable portion of the boiled loin of veal and braised asparagus.
Nicholas glanced at Miss Kittridge, who had been placed opposite him. She looked up to meet his gaze, then returned her attention to the plate in front of her with haste. What was she thinking’ He had not seen her in the last fortnight, although his faithful batman had told him Miss Kittridge often watched over him while he slept. Charley and Rosamunde had been his only source of companionship since that morning. Had his boldness shocked her so much that she dared not converse with him again lest he ravage her?
For the hundredth time, Nicholas wondered what had possessed him that morning. Since when had he started pouring his heart out about his past and taking to flustering innocents with unabashed lust? But she had tasted so sweet, and he had been unable to deny himself, even though he had no right to indulge.
He must return to the battlefield, a place where it was easy to forget all about the pleasures of the flesh amidst the horrors of war. She was everything he was not, and he had made a promise he would not break—no matter how tempting. The fever was, without doubt, to blame for his momentary lapse.
The ancient formality of this massive stone dining chamber, whose coldness matched the mood of so many of those who inhabited it, brought him back to the scene within it.
“Perhaps I could sit with Papa this evening to give a rest to Miss Kittridge,” said his sister, Rosamunde.
“Whatever for? Miss Kittridge does not mind her duties. And you are needed to entertain the other ladies. Louisa and Lady Susan would be inconsolable without your company,” Her Grace said. “And now that your brother is well enough to join our evening circle, we will have quite the gathering of young people,” she concluded without looking at him.
Seated next to him, Louisa Nichols, Rosamunde’s dearest friend from Miss Polinaught’s School for Young Ladies, looked ready to add to the meager conversation, but then lost her nerve as she toyed with the spitchcocked eel and roasted pigeon in front of her. She appeared much the same as when he had accompanied the girls cub hunting, fifteen years ago. Except Louisa’s freckles had disappeared and her carrot-colored hair had mellowed.
The petite lady sitting on the other side of him giggled, displaying very small teeth evenly spaced. Her curled blond hair formed a picturesque halo around her dainty visage. “Your lordship is very quiet tonight,” she said. “I am honored you chose me to lead you in to dinner, and happy to find you are much improved in health.”
Rosamunde’s assessment of Edwin’s rich prospect had proved correct in every way. The vixen had been unrelenting in her new pursuit during every visit. And he had felt very much like prey, unable to move away from the miserable, calculating girl.
“Yes, it seems several weeks under the care of the Kittridgesdoes indeed produce miracles.” He turned and winked at Miss Kittridge.
“Miracles, my lord? I think not,” said Miss Kittridge. “We leave to God alone those tasks. However, my family and I are much relieved to see you so quickly on the mend. You are not the sort who enjoys the idleness of the sickbed.”
“I am sorry I was such a trial on yo
ur patience, Miss Kittridge.”
“My dear, you were always a trial on the patience,” inserted the duchess as she cut into the veal with vigor.
A thick silence intruded. Nicholas resisted the urge to fill it by turning the subject. It was a tried-and-true method he had used doggedly throughout childhood. But, he would not revert to his former ways.
Suddenly, he felt a slight tap on the tip of his boot. He looked up to encounter Miss Kittridge’s clear gray eyes searching his face. He knew then that it was her polite way of disagreeing with Her Grace. He cleared his throat.
“Why, you are right, of course, madam. I was put on this earth to plague all of the weaker sex,” he said, and smiled at Miss Kittridge.
“Lord Huntington, Her Grace described the portrait gallery to me and my grandmother earlier,” Lady Susan said, redirecting the conversation. “She mentioned that I was the Veriest Picture of the first Duchess of Cavendish, and I am most curious to view her likeness.”
He toyed with the idea of resistance. This lady was dispensing with as many stages of courtship as humanly possible. He moved his gaze to Miss Kittridge, who signaled her disapproval with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. The triumvirate of the doctor, his daughter, and Charley had become quite the gaol-keepers.
“Why, Lady Susan, I am sure Edwin would enjoy above all else giving you this small pleasure. He is much more familiar with our family’s ancestors and very capable of leading you about properly.” His stepmother’s dark eyes dared Nicholas to interfere.
Little did the duchess know that it was the first time their thoughts had ever coincided, albeit for opposite reasons. She thought Nicholas would try to steal the silly heiress away from Edwin. He would have smiled if it had not been such a preposterous idea.
