Sins of an Intoxicating Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Violet Hamers

  “Well, I shall go and see what I can do for him. Thank you for your help,” Lavinia said, passing the girl a coin. The girl preened, and Lavinia knew that she had found the ally she needed in the household.

  With help from one of the footmen, who sadly had no other information to share, Lavinia was led to the duke’s chambers. Outside was the man she assumed was the butler. He was older than all the footmen she had seen and his uniform was of finer quality; he also had the natural look of a leader of men, someone capable of haranguing youthful servants into order when the need arose.

  He looked up when Lavinia approached, his shoulders immediately straightening, his hands coming to clasp together behind his back.

  “Dr. Bell, I presume?” he asked, and Lavinia was taken aback for a moment. No one had ever referred to her as a physician before. She was simply “miss” to her patients.

  “Yes,” she stammered, her voice coming out in an unusually high pitch that she hastened to lower. “I am Lavinia Bell. My father, Dr. Robert Bell, sent me in his stead, as he is currently held up in East London attending to a difficult birth.”

  He acknowledged this information with a nod of his head. “Very good. Shall I lead you inside? I should warn you, his lordship is rather—”

  The butler was interrupted at that moment by a shout, which, if Lavinia’s ears did not betray her, sounded very much like, “Get it out! Get it out, please! It burns!”

  “Distressed,” the butler finished, wincing as the shouts continued.

  “I see. Well, then I best get inside and do what I can to help him,” Lavinia said.

  The door was opened for her, and she walked into what appeared near-total darkness.

  Her eyes adjusted quickly, however, and she could soon see the figure of the duke tossing and turning in his bed, which occupied the central space in the large room.

  The curtains were all drawn, and a fire was lit in the hearth, though it was mostly embers and was burning so low it offered little light by which to see.

  “Open these curtains at once,” Lavinia ordered the butler. She pointed to the windows, and the butler was halfway to them when she held up a finger and cried, “Stop!”

  The man turned around, a confused, harried look on his face. “I do not know your name. Since I expect we will be speaking and interacting with each other with some frequency for the foreseeable future, I think it good if I know how to address you. You may call me Lavinia, for expediency. And you are…”

  She waited for him to fill in the silence, which he did. “Stevens. Head butler, miss. I mean, Lavinia.”

  “Very good. You may continue with the windows,” she said, and then walked toward the bed.

  The smell of sickness, of sweat from fever and that other hint of sweetness that always seemed to cling to the infirm, assaulted her senses.

  “Your Grace?” she said, leaning toward the duke and trying to examine his face. She could hardly see it in the darkness, but she heard the movement of his legs under the covers, bending and straightening like he was trying to run from something. Looking down, she could also make out his hands, which were opening and closing rapidly, as though trying and failing to grasp something.

  “Magdalene? Is that you?” he asked.

  Stevens threw open the curtain nearest his bed, sending the duke’s face into stark relief.

  She was immediately taken aback by the sight of him, sunlight slanting through the windows and falling onto his body, which was curled up against the pillows at his back.

  He was emaciated, that was for certain. His cheekbones and what was visible of his unshaven jaw were sharp, jutting out when normally she guessed they would have been softened, still noticeable, but blending better into the rest of his face, which even now was still attractive.

  Still, it was a face that looked like it could have been carved from marble by a great sculptor. Each line looked perfectly crafted, as though every single part of his person had been carefully considered by its maker in order to ensure that the finished piece was sheer perfection.

  Like the lines of his face, the duke’s skin had been affected by his sickness. There was a sallow, yellow tinge to the normally golden tones she could see hinted at under his pallor. Lavinia knew that the ton generally detested darker shades of skin, for such hues told of manual labor outdoors, something generally reserved for the lower classes. She knew without a doubt, however, that no one would object to The Duke of Kingwood’s skin, not when it was so perfectly matched by his hair and eyes.

  His coif, if she could call the greasy mess of waves tangled all over his head such a thing, was the exact color of freshly polished gold, which made his eyes, a curious shade of teal blue, even more noticeable. The eyes were staring at her with expectation, clearly waiting for her response. But Lavinia was far too deep into her admiration to notice such a thing.

  She was far too busy drinking in the realization that she was currently standing in front of the most attractive gentleman she had ever seen. Despite his condition, she knew that if the duke were to be transported to a ballroom at that exact moment, he would be the talk of every meddling mama in the room. Every lady would want to be his wife, every mother his mother-in-law.

  Of course, this would no doubt be due partly to his fortune and societal standing, but Lavinia reckoned that even if he were poor as a pauper with the lowly title of viscount or baron, he would still be sought after. He was that beautiful, that desirable.

  Not that his beauty matters.

  Indeed, the appearance of her patients only mattered insofar as it told her something about their condition. As a physician, or a facsimile of the position, Lavinia made it a habit not to look at her patients too closely. It made it that much harder to share bad news with them, or to convince them of a painful treatment that would aid in their convalescence. The more she could distance herself, the better for everyone involved.

  But she knew immediately that distancing herself from the duke would be a hard task, indeed. She’d only been in the room with him for a few minutes and already she was lost in those eyes.

  This lasted only briefly, however, for a moment later, the duke was closing his eyes in pain and flailing around with such vigor that one of his hands nearly hit her in the face.

  Thankfully, years of attending to similar conditions had taught Lavinia the importance of quick actions. She deftly avoided the slap.

  “Your Grace, I am your physician. My name is Lavinia Bell. My father is Robert Bell. He sent me to take care of you. Do you understand?” she asked, taking one of the hands flying about and holding it. She squeezed the palm to try and get his attention.

  Briefly, his eyes fluttered open, his gaze training on her long enough that Lavinia thought he was actually looking at her, not through her.

  “Do you understand?” she repeated, squeezing his hand once again.

  Closing his eyes again, the duke’s face formed into one of contemplation. His lips moved back and forth as though trying to form words, which came a moment later.

  “You’re a woman.”

  Lavinia couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped her mouth.

  Clearly, he is not entirely without reason.

  Lavinia schooled her face back into one of professional apathy. “Indeed, I am. Are you comfortable with my attending you? I can promise I am just as skilled as my father,” she stressed.

  “More attractive than him, though,” he muttered, and again Lavinia laughed. Looking over, she found Stevens also struggling against mirth. It appeared that the duke was funny, or at least, his delusions were making him so.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Now, I am going to bleed you, and then administer a tonic that should have you feeling better. But before then, I need to examine you. Will you allow me to do so?” she asked.

  The duke, who a moment ago had seemed entirely in the present, was now once again thrashing about. He ripped his hand out of Lavinia’s, his legs once again making a running motion. Moans began to slip from bet
ween his lips, and his face broke out in a sweat.

  “Oh dear. Well, I suppose I’ll just have to go ahead,” she said, and beckoned for Stevens to walk toward her.

  “Help me hold him down and I’ll put the leeches on,” she said, bending down toward her bag and taking a jar of the animals from her bag. She slipped one on each side of his forehead, then turned back toward her bag and began taking out the bottles that would, when their substances were combined, make a tonic that would hopefully draw the fever out of his body.

  Three hours later, the duke was sleeping peacefully in his bed. The leeches and tonic had done their duty, ridding his body of its bad blood and fluids. Though she knew that neither remedy was particularly pleasant, the duke had slept through the majority of her ministrations. His temperature was now much improved. His skin no longer had the angry flush associated with febrile conditions, and his thrashing and delusions had stopped.

  Lavinia was rather pleased with herself. Fevers, though simple in their nature, could be devilish things indeed. She’d once had to bleed a man four times, administer three emetic tonics, and dunk him in a cold bath before his temperature even approached something akin to normal. She was glad not to have had to make such a fuss for the duke, in part because she wasn’t sure whether she could maintain her professional mien in the presence of his naked body.

  The very idea of what might lie beneath his bedclothes was enough to make her blush.

  She had seen the glimpse of his long, lithe body as she tended to him, and more than once had found wicked thoughts infiltrating her concentration. Thoughts of that body on hers, touching hers. It was enough to make her blush, and was most certainly far from professional, but Lavinia found herself unable to stay focused around the duke. He was distractingly attractive.

  If I am to keep treating him, I will have to build up some better defenses against his allure. Else the mere sight of his bare legs might be enough to make me completely ruin a tonic, or worse, attach a leech somewhere it oughtn’t be.

  Shaking off this thought, Lavinia turned back to her cup of tea. She and Stevens were sitting by the hearth, taking a rest after a rather taxing afternoon. Or rather, something of a rest. She needed to learn more about the duke’s condition now that he was calmly sleeping, so she had asked the butler to retire with her to the two comfortable armchairs in the corner of the room. He had suggested they ring for tea, and Lavinia had not refused. She always liked a strong, bracing brew after she’d finished her work.

  However, she still wanted to keep an eye on the duke, so her chair was positioned toward the duke’s bed, so she could monitor his condition. In her lap sat a pencil and scrap of parchment so she could take notes, and her tea cup was on the table between her chair and Stevens. He had requested some biscuits from the house cook, and Lavinia had already eaten three. They were marvellous, buttery things, but apparently the duke was refusing to eat them.

  Fool. Who would refuse such delicacies?

  It turned out that Stevens was even more helpful than the maid in bestowing useful information upon Lavinia. He knew so much about the duke’s condition, having been attending to him from the moment he returned home from the war.

  “I don’t mind telling you that the last few physicians we’ve had enter this house have been absolutely without use. The duke’s betrothed keeps sending for them in the hopes that they’ll find a cure, and he will be restored to his former self. But it is a lost cause. He is so much altered form how he was before the war.”

  “And how exactly is he altered?” Lavinia asked, her pencil poised above the parchment.

  “His mood is entirely different. He used to be such a kind, calm gentleman. Slow to anger, affable, committed to his duties. But when he came back, none of this was true any more. He gets agitated at the slightest provocation, rarely smiles, takes no interest in his holdings, his investments. He is refusing to go to parliament when the session begins in November. He eats little, laughs none, and does not even seem to enjoy time with his betrothed.”

  Lavinia found the duke’s lack of laughter particularly sad, though not for medical reasons. Rather, she imagined he looked particularly handsome with a smile on his face. She did not, however, relay this suspicion to Stevens.

  Instead, she ducked her head down and dutifully scribbled all the information Stevens had relayed to her, turning her mind to the words Cheyne had said in his book. “And his injuries? I understand that only one leg was shot, but both are unable to be moved.”

  At this, Stevens took a deep breath and hastened a glance toward the duke. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned in close to Lavinia and whispered, “I do not think he is still injured. The last physician told him that the injury was self-inflicted, that he had shot himself on purpose. Of course, such a suggestion is preposterous but I cannot help thinking the physician was right in thinking that whatever ailment keeps the duke’s legs form moving is his own doing. He does not think himself worthy of his title, his reputation, now that he has been shot and discharged from the Army. And so he has given up on life, and his legs.”

  Lavinia had to hold back a smile. She was not rejoicing in the duke’s suffering, but rather in his butler’s intelligence.

  “Do you know, I think you are exactly correct,” she said.

  Stevens’s face broke out into a small grin, a crooked, slightly awkward smile that made her think the man was unused to the expression as of late. It was clear that this household had not seen happiness in quite some time.

  But I will change that. As soon as the duke wakes up, my work will truly begin.

  Chapter Four

  Peter awoke having his senses assaulted. When he opened his eyes, it was to find his chambers filled with sunlight. Looking down, he found himself covered in different bedclothes and dressed in a white cotton shirt.

  He lifted the shirt to his nose and inhaled. It smelled clean and fresh, as did his skin.

  He not only smelled clean, he realized, but felt clean, like everything, from his skin to his soul, had been scrubbed. Running his hands through his hair, he found that it too had been washed, and was braided and tied back in a small queue at his neck.

  He was beginning to wonder how all these had happened when the door to his room was opened and in walked Stevens.

  “Good morning, Your Grace. I am relieved to see you looking so much improved,” he said with a smile.

  Stevens smiling? When was the last time he had seen his butler happy?

  Not since you’ve been back. You made sure that no one in the entire house had cause to smile.

  While Peter did feel rather like a new gentleman now that he was freshly clothed and washed, he knew that this alone could not be the cause of his butler’s grin. Something else had happened, and he needed to know exactly what.

  “Why are you looking so jubilant this morning, Stevens? What has happened while I’ve been asleep?”

  Stevens opened his mouth, but his words were cut off by the entrance into the room of perhaps the most beautiful woman that Peter had ever seen. She was, however, wearing the most hideous gown his eyes had ever had the misfortune to lay their gaze upon.

  Still, the gown did nothing to detract from the intelligent twinkle in her eyes, which were the color of honey taken straight from the beehive. She had skin that resembled young strawberries, white with the faintest hint of blush pink beneath. Even from his position in bed, Peter could see that freckles dotted the whole of her face.

  Freckles, to most gentlemen and ladies of the English upper classes, were unbecoming. Peter knew that Magdalene had tried to remove hers with an awful-smelling combination of sodium borate and camphor. But he had always liked freckles. They made him think their owners whimsical.

  He had, in fact, tried on more than one occasion to get Magdalene to stop with her skin treatments and had even gone so far as to suggest she walk outside without a hat. He loved her freckles—they were one of his favorite things about her. However, her response had told him that such suggesti
ons would not be welcome again.

  “Keep my freckles! Peter, you must be mad! My freckles are what kept me from getting proposed to until my fourth season! My mother threatened to make me wash my face four times a day with acid and lavender if I did not find a husband by this winter. It’s a lucky thing I found you, or the skin of my face might have fallen off by now,” she’d scolded him.

  This woman, however, did not look as though she minded her freckles one bit.

  Peter wondered, rather wickedly, whether her freckles extended beyond those visible parts of skin available to him. Were there freckles on her breasts, whose shape he sadly could not assess due to that terrible frock? Would the legs he assumed, from her height, must be long and lean also be so dotted with the things? He wished he could find out.

  But a woman like this would not be easily wooed, he knew. Her confident stance, legs apart, shoulders thrown back, chin up, told him she was in complete control of herself. He also guessed, from the relaxed way she carried herself, that she was perfectly happy with herself exactly the way she was. Which was something to be admired.

  She obviously cared nothing for fashion or style. The dress, combined with her hair, which was pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, made her seem severe, but the hint of a smile at her lips and the intelligence in her eyes suggested the exact opposite.

  Those eyes, which were a beautiful golden brown, were staring at him with an assessing stare, like a maid might do to a cut of meat at the market. It was not a feeling Peter liked overmuch. It did strange things to his stomach and skin, making one jump and the other tingle.

  Real gentlemen do not tingle. They…shiver? No, they…tremor?

  Rolling his eyes inwardly, Peter gave up the fight to replace the word “tingle.” After all, he wasn’t a real gentleman anymore. Why shouldn’t he tingle?

  Such frivolous wonderings were thankfully interrupted when his attention was diverted a moment later by the mystery woman walking further into his room. In fact, she walked all the way to his bed.