by LENOX, KIM
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mr. Jarvis said from the arched doorway.
“My fault entirely.” She blotted the tablecloth with a napkin. “I was so intent upon the morning papers.”
Newspapers were one of her vices. Each morning she poured over stacks of them: the Times; the Pall Mall Gazette; Lloyd’s; and Reynolds. Because she’d slept at the hospital dormitory on Thursday and Friday night, they’d accumulated a bit, unread. She didn’t like to read out of order, so this morning’s Sunday papers had been placed at the bottom of her stack.
Not that she’d even glanced at them—not with last night’s fragmented dream of Lord Black still so vivid in her mind. Just the memory sent heat pooling in her cheeks again.
She hadn’t seen his lordship this morning and hoped she could get her nerves under control before—
“Lord Black asks to see you in his study.”
Her fingertip snagged the edge of the cup. Coffee spilled across the table, blackening the corners of several papers before she could snatch them up.
“Oh, damn!” she blurted, leaping up.
Mr. Jarvis hurried forward, averting his gaze, but looking altogether shocked.
“No cursing. Not here,” she chided herself beneath her breath for the unfortunate habit, picked up at the hospital. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Don’t give it another thought, miss. I’ll tend to things here.” He waved over a maid—a maid Elena did not recognize—who had come from the kitchen, bearing a fresh pot of tea for the sideboard. It appeared that with the arrival of his lordship, the household staff had multiplied overnight.
“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis.” Elena clasped the papers to her chest and hurried out of the room. Once beyond the chamberlain’s view, she backed against the wall and took a steadying breath. She mentally upbraided herself.
Lord Black was her guardian, and there were matters that needed attending to, including her receiving answers to some very important questions about her past. Obviously last night’s dance, and the brief time they’d spent together afterward, had inspired in her mind a sort of subconscious infatuation, brought about by some dream man who likely didn’t even exist.
Who could blame her subconscious, really? Physically, Lord Black was quite simply nonpareil.
But daylight brought the stark reality of their legal relationship into focus, as well as the matters at hand between them. There was no justification for the ravenous blush creeping up her neck and such flashpoint nerves.
Save for that lovely dream.
She pressed her fingertips against rebelliously smiling lips. Truth be told, she didn’t want to forget the images, his imagined touch or the kiss. Not ever.
But dreams were dreams, and reality was reality, and she was, if anything, a realist. Within days, Lord Black would certainly leave England and resume his travels—with the countess, who was very likely his lover—and Elena would find herself in the same position as before, a young woman without memories, doing her best to forge a meaningful path in life. Better to get this over with quickly. She had a confession to make, and now was likely the most opportune time to share it.
She hurried across the foyer, squaring the newspapers into a neat stack and depositing them on a japanned table just outside the study.
At the closed door she smoothed her hands over her hair. She could not deny having dressed carefully this morning. She’d chosen a rich plum-hued dress, believing the color and the careful tailoring of the bodice flattered her figure, accentuating her trim waist and making the most of her rather average bust. Instead of twisting her hair into its customary chignon, she’d left it long, and had allowed Mary Alice to turn a few carefully placed curls with the hot tongs. Flashing an inane smile into a nearby gilt mirror, she felt ever so thankful she still had all her teeth.
She planted a brisk knock at the center of the door.
“Come in, please,” called a masculine voice.
His voice. Instantly she remembered the sensation of his jaw brushed against hers, and the way he’d murmured her name in the darkness of the gallery the night before. Her legs turned into something the consistency of marmalade. Yet she stepped bravely in and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Good morning, your lordship.”
He sat behind the desk, undeniably magnificent. His hair had been drawn back from his handsome face into a loose queue. He wore a white dress shirt and a perfectly turned black silk necktie.
But his expression . . . oh dear, his expression . . .
“Good morning,” he answered in a low voice.
Gone was the sensual man of the night before. His silver gaze moved over her in a passionless assessment, and his lips—well, they appeared as if they’d never felt the warmth of a smile.
To her surprise, Mrs. Hazelgreaves sat before his desk in a high-backed chair, looking decidedly imperious.
“Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Hazelgreaves.”
Obviously, Mrs. Hazelgreaves had spent time with Lord Black this morning. She could only imagine what they had discussed. A feeling of breathlessness came over her.
“Your gown, dear.”
Elena glanced down. Only then did she realize dark streaks marred the skirt, coffee from the earlier spill. Suddenly she felt altogether clumsy and unkempt.
“I’m afraid I spilled my coffee just now, in the dining room, but I did not wish to keep his lordship waiting.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s lips drew into a tightly condensed moue. Just wait until Mr. Jarvis reported the unfortunate slip of her tongue to the old warhorse. And he would. No matter how much she liked the man, he was one of them—what she had ruefully termed months ago in her mind as the Society for the Policing of Miss Whitney’s Good Manners, of which Mrs. Hazelgreaves was the Grand Vicereine, and Mr. Jarvis her faithful Lord Lieutenant, along with other various and assorted tattling underlings throughout the house, Mary Alice excluded.
“Please sit,” instructed Lord Black over slender, steepled fingertips.
She lowered herself into the chair beside that of Mrs. Hazelgreaves.
Lord Black eased into his seat. “As you know, while I keep my primary residence in London, my interests demand I remain almost exclusively abroad.”
“Yes, my lord.” Whatever those interests were. No one had ever explained, and she wasn’t about to ask him with his face looking like that.
“I will not be in London long,” he continued briskly. “Therefore certain issues must be addressed and expediently attended to.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“One of those issues being the matter of your future.”
Elena gave a weak smile and flicked away a bit of lace at her throat that had taken to scratching against her skin. “I agree.”
She glanced between her guardian and her companion. The smug expression on Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s face did not bode well for the impending discussion.
“Mrs. Hazelgreaves tells me you never had a proper coming-out.”
Elena blinked. She’d thought she was beyond all that, having safely maneuvered the prior London Season with minimal involvement. “I was presented to Their Royal Highnesses Prince Albert Edward and Princess Alexandra in June.”
“Yet you declined to have a come-out ball, as is customary for all young ladies of your station.”
Elena cleared her throat uncomfortably and glanced toward Mrs. Hazelgreaves, who offered her nothing but a level stare. “I did.”
“Might I ask why?”
Why dance around the truth? She’d always prided herself for her forthrightness. “Because I didn’t want one.”
“Nonetheless, I have instructed Mrs. Hazelgreaves to assist you in preparing for such an occasion. Now that I have returned to London, I think it appropriate I present you to all of society as my ward.”
Elena blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he had just said. Her fingers curled around the upholstered armrest of the chair. “A com
e-out ball? For me? It’s the first of October. It would go against all protocol to announce such a thing so out of season.”
His gaze narrowed. “When you are as rich and influential as I, Miss Whitney, you set the protocol, and others scramble to follow suit.”
She responded. “Of course, my lord.”
“I am pleased you agree.”
His cool demeanor chafed Elena. He obviously sought to intimidate her into doing as he wished, which, after their pleasant accord the night before, just didn’t seem right. She couldn’t help but feel the sting of betrayal.
She straightened in her chair and lifted her chin high. “Might I ask, sir, why it is so imperative I be presented at such an event?”
“How else are you going to attract an offer of marriage?”
“Marriage?” The word struck like a kick to the center of her tightly laced, ribbed corset.
“Yes, Miss Whitney. Marriage.” He enunciated the word carefully, as if he were explaining a common concept to a provincial bumpkin—she, of course, being the bumpkin. “Marriage is what young ladies of your station and good fortune do.”
Elena blanched and sat silent. Yes, every other unmarried debutante to whom she had been introduced over the past months grew pink-cheeked and giddy at the mention of betrothal to an esteemed nobleman or wealthy financier. Their thoughts centered on trousseaus, St. George’s Church and wedding gifts.
Elena didn’t begrudge them that. She simply had other plans. Distinct, well-thought-out plans. Should she reveal her aspirations of becoming a doctor to his lordship now? Her stomach twisted. She had hoped to ease into her confession over a comfortable and friendly course of conversation. Last night he had seemed so different, like someone she could talk to about anything. Something had changed. This morning he radiated cold tyranny, and his face appeared carved of stone.
At her silence, he prodded, “Have you something against the institution of marriage, Miss Whitney?”
“No, of course I don’t,” she answered a bit too sharply.
Marriage was perfect for other people. People who wanted to be married. But she’d suffered a loss of memories. How could she think of devoting herself to another person when she didn’t truly yet know who she was? On the other hand she was crystal clear about her desire to serve the poor community of London through medicine.
“Then it is settled. You will make yourself fully available to Mrs. Hazelgreaves, and all the necessary arrangements will be made for—”
Elena flushed in consternation. Things went too far. She had to say something, and say it now.
“Your lordship,” she attempted to interrupt. “If I might . . .”
“—a date within the next two weeks.”
“Two weeks!” she blurted.
Certainly Mrs. Hazelgreaves would protest. No event of her caliber could be prepared in such an abbreviated window of time. Yet Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s penciled brows went up, and a pleased smile curved her thin pink lips.
“Lovely.” She clasped her blue-veined hands in delight. “I’ll make arrangements with Gunter’s to cater—pork cutlets and lentil pudding, of a certainty. And a florist. We’ll have flowers everywhere. Darling girl, we can’t possibly get Worth to design a gown on such short notice, but there’s still Madame, who is every bit de rigueur—”
Elena lurched up from her seat. “I have something to say. Something important.”
“Yes?” Lord Black practically growled, one brow raised, a dark slash of sin.
She didn’t like him growling at her. She wanted the other Lord Black back—if not the man of her dreams, then at least the man he’d been the night before. The fire on the hearth flamed high behind his chair, making it seem as if she had the audience of the devil himself.
“Don’t look at me like that—as if I’ve done something wrong.” Her voice rose an octave with each word. “I wrote you. I telegraphed you. I needed your counsel.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves gasped. “My girl, don’t speak to his lordship so.”
They both looked at her as if she were a misbehaving child. But she was a woman—an intelligent, independent woman with dreams of her own.
Lord Black scowled, his eyes fixed darkly upon her. “You must understand that—”
Every bit of hurt she’d experienced over the past months flew straight from her heart into her mouth. “Oh, yes. I understand. I understand you were too busy for me. That I have no place in your life. But if you think, dear guardian, that you can just sweep into my life after nearly two years of absence, after two years of not giving a damn—”
A moan went up from Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s direction.
Lord Black’s gaze wavered. “Mrs. Hazelgreaves. Are you all right?”
“She’s fine,” Elena answered for the old woman.
“She has fainted,” he argued accusingly, pushing back his chair to stand.
“She’s pretending.” Elena moved closer to the desk. “She’s done it before whenever I’ve behaved in a manner she found abominable, only I’ve never confronted her about it.”
He eyed the old woman. “She’s pretending?”
“Yes. She did the same thing when I told her I’d taken the nursing position at the hospital.”
His gaze returned to Elena. “How often do you behave ‘abominably’?”
“I am normally very well behaved, when not exceedingly provoked. And as I was saying, you can’t just sweep into my life after all this time and expect to troth me off within a week or two.” She planted her hands at the edge of his desk and leaned toward him. Elena knew she was acting the hoyden, and to her surprise, she found it not such an appalling place to be. “But, yes, now that I consider the matter further, please do your best.”
She had never favored dramatics, but she had tried so hard since awakening after the accident, to balance the demands placed upon her by the society she’d found herself amongst, while preserving the validity of her own dreams.
She tried not to look at Lord Black’s lips, tried not to remember the way she’d wanted him to kiss her the night before.
“Do my best?” Archer planted his hands against the desktop, and met her nearly nose to nose, a mistake, because as soon as he got close to her he wanted nothing more than to press a kiss against her beautiful, nonsense-spouting lips. “Are you challenging me? The man who is legally in control of your very existence?”
“I’m quite certain none of the gentlemen you could dredge up on such short notice would want me for their wife.”
“That’s not true.” Archer did not care whether she saw the angry, twisted admiration on his face. She was beautiful, intelligent and spirited. What mortal man in his right mind would not kill to have her? “Why would you say such a thing?”
Peripheral vision enabled him to see Mrs. Hazelgreaves straightening in her seat. The old woman rolled her eyes and muttered, obviously conscious. Dammit if a smile did not tug at his lips.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and back to his eyes. Tension snapped like electricity between them.
“I told you,” she whispered.
“So you did,” he whispered back.
Elena cleared her throat. “Has it occurred to you that I have a life of my own? That in your silent and unresponsive absence, I might have made decisions for my own future?”
Whatever humor he’d managed to find in the moment summarily evaporated.
“Such as?” he demanded.
Something inside him bristled, a thousand pointed needles aimed into his heart. If she told him she’d already accepted a proposal from someone, and that her future husband’s name was Dr. Charles Harcourt, he would lift up the desk and smash it against the wall.
“These men you hope to entice into marrying me—”
“Yes?”
“Would be horrified at having a doctor for a wife.”
“A doctor?” gasped Mrs. Hazelgreaves.
“That’s correct.” His ward crossed her arms over her high, delectable breasts. “I’ve applied to
the London School of Medicine for Women.”
“Impossible.” He shook his head. “You would have to sit for—”
“Examinations. Yes,” she agreed with obvious satisfaction. “I’ve passed them.”
“And arrange for—”
“A letter of reference. It has been written, and submitted.”
“By whom?” He already knew, of course, but wanted to hear the blasted name from her lips.
“Someone who apparently believes in me.”
“And so?” he demanded quietly. Coldly. “What now?”
“I shall continue to work as a nurse at the hospital, as I await my formal acceptance.”
His gaze skimmed over Mrs. Hazelgreaves—then staggered back to her. “Bloody hell. I think she’s truly fainted this time.”
Elena threw him a disbelieving look, but upon assessing her elderly companion, whose mouth gaped ajar and whose features had relaxed into a mask of one who was truly unconscious, she grasped her skirts and hurried to respond.
“Mrs. Hazelgreaves?” Kneeling, she took up the old woman’s wrist and held a finger to her pulse. “Oh, dear.”
“Perhaps you’ve killed her,” Archer suggested darkly.
Mrs. Hazelgreaves’s eyes fluttered open and after a moment, her watery gaze fixed upon Elena. “Some-one please tell me I’ve awakened from a terrible dream.”
“Everything’s going to be all right,” Elena soothed.
“What will everyone say?” her companion warbled. “You might as well have joined a traveling circus. And don’t think I haven’t seen that ink marking on your wrist!”
Elena smiled wanly. “I think she’s coming around.”
Mrs. Hazelgreaves pressed a hand to her forehead. “Summon one of the downstairs housemaids. Have them bring me a tonic!”
Moments later the maid arrived, a discreet silver flask in hand. Mrs. Hazelgreaves pushed up from her chair and clutched on to the girl’s arm.
Elena reached to assist. “Are you all right to walk?”
“Of course I am.” Mrs. Hazelgreaves swatted her hand away. “I’m not decrepit.”
