To Romance a Charming Rogue tcw-4

by Nicole Jordan

  Eleanor's brow furrowed. “I never realized that Lord Wrexham had any interest in the field of medicine.”

  “You may have had no occasion to hear of his recent endeavors,” Mr. Geary replied. “Especially since they took place in Italy.”

  “I thought he was taking a gentleman's tour of the Continent after the war's end.”

  “No, my lady. Pleasure most certainly was not his aim.”

  When the physician fell silent, Eleanor prodded him to explain. “Please continue, Mr. Geary. You have greatly piqued my curiosity.”

  He searched her face as if debating how much to say. “You were aware that Lord Wrexham's twin brother died of consumption when they were mere youths?”

  “I knew he had a twin who died, but not the cause of his death.”

  “Well, Damon's brother Joshua contracted consumption when they were but sixteen.”

  “How very sad,” Eleanor murmured.

  “Indeed. What do you know of consumption, my lady?”

  “It is a wasting illness of the lungs, is it not?”

  “Yes, a disease that causes the slow death of lung tissue. Consumption is quite common in England and often fatal, but the cause is not known and no cure has been found as yet… although certain conditions improve the odds of surviving, including a warm, dry climate. That is why Damon chose the Mediterranean for his sanatorium.”

  “Sanatorium, Mr. Geary?”

  “Yes, for the treatment of consumptives.” At her inquisitive look, he smiled faintly. “I suppose I should explain how my relationship to Damon began. The thing is, my lady, I owe my entire career to him. I grew up in Harwich, near the Wrexham family seat in Suffolk. I was but a youth myself, two years older than Damon, but I had always shown a keen interest in the medical profession and was apprenticing with a local doctor when Joshua took ill. When it became clear there was no longer any hope for his recovery, I cared for Joshua on his deathbed.”

  “That must have been difficult for his family as well as yourself,” Eleanor observed quietly and rather inadequately.

  Geary nodded. “It was, my lady. To see such a handsome, vital boy wasting away while suffering great pain… And then as ill fortune would have it, Damon's parents-Viscount and Lady Wrexham- perished barely a few months later, when their ship sank during a storm while crossing the Irish Sea. They intended to pay a visit to some of her family there, but Damon refused to accompany them. Arguably, he is only alive due to the whims of Fate.”

  Eleanor felt her heart wrench at that disclosure. She could only imagine how agonizing it must have been for Damon to lose first his brother and then his parents so tragically. How devastated he must have felt. How starkly lonely. As an orphan, he would have had no one to grieve with, no one to share his anguish…

  The physician sighed in resignation before continuing. “In any event, after Damon inherited the title and fortune, in gratitude for my services to his brother, he provided the funds for me to attend university and to further my studies with the finest physicians in England. If not for him, I would likely be a country doctor instead of proprietor of my own hospital in London, which he also helped to finance.”

  Recalling what she had heard of Mr. Geary's remarkable achievements in the field of medicine, Eleanor perceived the significance of his admission: The world would have been deprived of a brilliant physician had not Damon intervened in his future.

  “Naturally,” Geary added, “you can see why I would go to any lengths for Damon. Thus, three years ago, when he came to me with the notion of advancing the quest for a remedy for consumption, I wrote to several renowned physicians on the Continent to enlist their aid. And with their patronage and involvement, Damon built an institution for the treatment of consumptives on the southern coast of Italy. It was an ambitious undertaking-their goals were to save as many lives as possible while attempting to discover a cure. And failing that, to relieve the suffering of the dying and to promote the swift recuperation of convalescents.”

  Eleanor gazed at Geary in surprise and not a little awe. “And did they succeed in their aims?” she asked.

  “In many ways, yes. For the past year they have counted an impressive number of survivors. I myself sent more than a dozen of my patients there-at Damon's expense, I should say-and nine of them recovered fully.”

  She didn't doubt Damon's generosity in the least. She only wondered why he'd kept it hidden from her. During their betrothal he had never mentioned a single word to her about his desire to build a sanatorium, or about his late brother's death, either.

  “It seems a disparity,” Eleanor said finally, “that Damon has acted the philanthropist for so long, given his reputation as a rogue with a taste for wild living.”

  Geary smiled wryly. “It does strain the imagination, but I assure you, every word I told you is true.” He hesitated for a moment. “I know that you and he have a past, Lady Eleanor, so I understand why you might be disinclined to think well of Damon, but I think perhaps you may have misjudged him-”

  Geary's face suddenly turned ruddier with embarrassment. “Forgive me, that was impertinent to question your feelings for him. I should not have said such a thing. Truly, I meant no offense.”

  “I am not offended, Mr. Geary,” Eleanor replied with rather automatic politeness since her mind was deep in reflections. “I think perhaps you are correct. I may have indeed misjudged him.”

  “Then you will not be averse to my telling him about this latest threat to Prince Lazzara?”

  “No, I suppose there is no reason to keep this episode from him.”

  “Then I will inform him later, after the ball. Ah, there he is now. Perhaps you will wish to tell him yourself.”

  Eleanor was taken aback to see Damon moving toward them through the crowded ballroom.

  After summoning a footman to dispose of both punch cups, Mr. Geary rose and bowed to her. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I will return to my gaggle of elderly ladies and resume my attempt to garner them as patrons of my hospital.”

  Nodding absently, Eleanor was only vaguely aware when the physician departed, since her entire attention was fixed on Damon as he approached. When eventually he reached her, she stared up at him in be-musement.

  “Never tell me that I have surprised you, love,” he remarked in a dry tone.

  “You have indeed,” she responded. “I presumed you had left the ball by now.”

  “I could not leave just yet. Geary accompanied me here in my carriage, and I must convey him home.”

  When Eleanor glanced down, she saw that Damon was wearing sturdy shoes of plain brown leather- a sore contrast to his elegant, expensive evening clothes.

  “I purchased these from a Haviland footman,” he explained about his new footwear. “They pinch a trifle, but beggars cannot be choosers.” His expression was mild and amused rather than angry as she'd half expected.

  “Don't you intend to upbraid me for the trick I played on you?” Eleanor asked.

  “No.” Damon settled beside her in the vacant chair. “In truth, I decided that you might have been justified in your reprisal. I should not have interfered in your attempts to romance your prince, much as I disliked seeing you kissing him.”

  His comment surprised Eleanor even more than the revelations about Damon's philanthropy, and she eyed him with suspicion. It was not like him to surrender so easily. But perhaps she didn't know him nearly as well as she had thought…

  “Mr. Geary told me how you occupied your time in Italy these past two years.”

  Damon seemed to go very still, as if all his muscles had tensed. “And what did he say?”

  “That you have been championing the plight of consumptives because of how your brother died.”

  His dark eyes held an emotion that was impossible for her to read. Without answering, Damon shifted his gaze to look out over the crowded ballroom.

  “Why did you never tell me?” Eleanor prompted when he was silent.

  He shrugged. “What was there to
tell?”

  She studied his profile measuringly. “I might have concluded you were not the care-for-nothing rogue you led me to believe.”

  Damon's expression remained impassive, as if a mask had suddenly dropped over his face. And his drawl, when it came, sounded somewhat cool. “Does it matter what you think of me since we are no longer betrothed and you turned down my recent offer of matrimony?”

  “I suppose not. But your compassion is extremely admirable.”

  His mouth twisted. “My efforts had little to do with compassion. I was acting out of anger.”

  “Why anger?”

  “Better that than wallowing in maudlin sorrow. Building a sanatorium was my way of trying to control fate in some small measure.”

  “You could not save your brother so you became determined to save others.”

  “You might say that.”

  Eleanor fell silent, wondering if Damon had truly come to terms with his sorrow. She very much doubted it. She bit her lower lip, envisioning the grief he must have felt, the sheer desolation of losing his brother, then his parents. He would have been alone in the world. At least she'd had her brother Marcus to love and comfort her and ease her loneliness over the years.

  “I am sorry I stole your shoes,” she said softly. “I hid them in the music room, behind the curtains of the first window seat, if you want to retrieve them.”

  Apparently Damon saw through her attempt to apologize, for a hard note entered his voice when he replied. “I don't want your pity, Elle.”

  “It is not pity. It is sympathy. I can only imagine my grief were I to lose Marcus.”

  Damon's face remained closed, shuttered, yet for a fleeting moment, she could feel his vulnerability.

  “It is hard without Joshua, isn't it?”

  An old, savage pain flickered over his features but was gone just as quickly. Then Damon shot her a piercing glance. “You seem to have forgotten where we are, sweeting,” he pointed out curtly. “My brother's wretched fate is inappropriate conversation for a ball.” He rose just as abruptly. “You should be dancing with your prince.”

  This time it was Damon who walked away. Eleanor stared after him, yearning to follow and offer him comfort. She regretted that she had struck such a raw nerve in Damon. Obviously his brother's death was not something he liked to dwell on, but she had unwittingly laid his painful memories bare.

  Regretting their conversation also, Damon found himself wishing that he had better deflected Eleanor's probing questions and unwanted observations. For the remainder of the evening, his chest felt tight, a circumstance that reminded him why he'd contrived to end his betrothal to her in the first place: Eleanor made him feel too much.

  At least his attention was diverted for a time during the carriage ride home as Otto told him about finding traces of a stomach purge in Prince Lazzara's punch cup. But learning that his suspicions about the danger were correct couldn't curb the restless agitation Damon still felt when he arrived home.

  Therefore, instead of repairing to his bedchamber to sleep, he went to his study, where he poured himself a very large brandy and sat drinking in the dark. An indulgence, Damon reflected, that was much like his ritual observance each year on the anniversary of his brother's death, which would occur next week. He was merely getting an early start.

  When he could feel himself sinking into a stupor, Damon stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.

  Sometime later he was dredged up out of an abyss of pain and darkness by a persistent voice urging him to awaken.

  With a jerking shudder, Damon suddenly became aware of his surroundings. His valet was bent over him in the dim glow of candlelight, gently shaking his shoulders while he fought off the miasma of his bad dreams. Through his drugged senses, Damon could feel his heart pounding, while a sheen of sweat slicked his body.

  “You were shouting, my lord,” Cornby said quietly. “It appears you suffered the nightmare again.”

  Yes, of course. That was his trouble.

  Sitting up slowly, Damon ran a hand roughly down his face. “Did I wake the entire household?”

  “No, my lord. I had not yet retired, so I came here directly when I heard you.”

  “You should know better than to wait up for me, Cornby.”

  “It is no matter, sir.”

  Damon was in no mood to continue their ongoing argument about the valet's outsized sense of duty and protectiveness. “Thank you, then. You may go.”

  When the valet hesitated, Damon insisted gruffly, “I am all right, truly.”

  He was not all right, however, he reflected when his elderly servant had left him in peace, for he couldn't shake the savage tumult of his emotions.

  He hadn't had the nightmare about his brother's death for a long while, although it had haunted him for years afterward.

  Joshua lying there on his deathbed, struggling for breath, the scattering of bloodstained handkerchiefs a macabre contrast to his ghostly pallor.

  Joshua coughing harshly and grimacing in agony, then smiling with cracked lips, trying to offer reassurance to his family as they kept vigil during his last hours.

  Their parents sat beside his bed, striving to keep up a brave front. Damon stood back, however, fighting tears of grief and rage.

  Then Joshua slipped back into a drugged slumber, never to awaken. When finally his breath ceased and his ravaged body grew still, Damon's sobs had matched their mother's.

  He felt as if he too had died that day, although his pain didn't dissipate readily, nor did his deep streak of anger. In the ensuing years, he had taunted death often, rebelling against fate, railing against life's injustice and the guilt assaulting him.

  Why had he survived? Why had he not been the one stricken? Why had he inherited the title and fortune when he was no more deserving than his twin?

  It wasn't even certain how Joshua had contracted consumption, except that he'd shown an amorous interest in a barmaid at a local tavern, who later was discovered to have the pernicious disease. But Joshua was the firstborn, the eldest by an hour. He should have been the one to live a full, joyful life.

  Damon had never found the answers to his un answerable questions. He'd merely learned to crush his emotions while relegating his memories of his brother's demise to his nightmares.

  It was many years, however, before he'd begun channeling his anger toward a more productive course, using science and the latest innovations in medical thinking to make a difference in the lives of those stricken with consumption.

  Eleanor was right, Damon acknowledged. He couldn't save his brother, but he'd come to hope that he could save others.

  Yet even years later, it was little consolation for being the twin who had survived.

  Lady Beldon was highly disappointed to learn that Signor Vecchi had left the ball early with Prince Laz-zara and without even taking leave of her. She was also quite concerned that the prince had become ill, since it would hamper his courtship of her niece.

  “Did they mention the alfresco picnic tomorrow at the Royal Gardens?” Beatrix asked Eleanor as they stood waiting for their carriage to reach the head of the long queue of equipages in front of the Haviland mansion.

  “The prince may not be feeling well enough to attend a picnic, Aunt,” Eleanor replied, deciding not to share the particular details about what had ailed him tonight. The probability that someone was threatening his health if not his life would only upset her aunt to no purpose.

  “Of all the ill luck,” the elder lady complained. “I believe our servants should arrange the picnic tomorrow. We can be certain to provide dishes that will tempt his highness's appetite, which he will appreciate if he still suffers from a sickly stomach. I shall write to Signor Vecchi first thing in the morning to propose my change in plan.”

  “You are very generous, Aunt,” Eleanor murmured, thinking that it might indeed be wise to supply tomorrow's repast from their own kitchens. That way they could ensure the dishes and wine would be untainted.

&nbs
p; Beatrix smiled. “Generosity has little to do with my motives, my dear. I am determined we should take every opportunity to encourage Prince Lazzara's attentions. He would make such a splendid match for you.”

  Eleanor refrained from replying, not certain that she agreed with her aunt's view any longer. In fact, she was seriously beginning to doubt that the prince would make her a good match at all.

  The question continued to plague Eleanor after arriving home as she tried futilely to fall asleep, and later still as she tossed and turned in her bed much of the night.

  When finally she dozed off, once again Damon featured prominently in her dreams, yet this time his bewitching lovemaking played no role, nor did memories of their courtship. Instead, she found herself struggling to reach him beyond a high stone wall overgrown with thick brambles. Damon had imprisoned himself inside, and she needed to scale the treacherous barrier in order to free him…

  The strange dream remained with Eleanor when she woke in the gray light of dawn. Feeling an inexplicable sadness, she lay in bed for a long while, contemplating the meaning.

  Intuitively she had always sensed the emotional wall Damon had erected around himself. Perhaps now she knew why. The tragic loss of his family would explain his determined remoteness.

  In the early days of their courtship, she had broken through that wall for fleeting moments at a time, Eleanor was certain of it. But during their betrothal Damon had become more and more distant, as if he were withdrawing from her. She'd been ready to give herself to him completely, heart and soul, but he had deliberately pulled back as she tried to grow closer.

  And then their engagement had abruptly ended. No doubt Damon was vastly relieved that he no longer risked any possibility of her reaching him.

  A sad smile touched Eleanor's lips when she recalled his claim last evening, that by building his sanatorium he had tried to control fate. She had undertaken a similar goal concerning her own matrimonial future, vowing to rule her destiny. They were very much alike in that respect. Yet there was one enormous difference. Damon did not want to find love as she did.