Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  He smiled, at her this time, and the gesture made her insides flip in an alarming fashion.

  As her siblings charged back to the chessboard and started bickering over who had turned over the pieces, Dr. Merial sat down on the sofa beside her. “I did not realize you were so anxious to get started,” he said, “or I would not have humored them.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” Clare muttered, her gaze falling to his hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves today, and her eyes lingered on the long bones of his fingers. There was a scar along the edge of one thumb, neat and clean as the swipe of a kitchen knife. Finally, a physical flaw in this otherwise perfect specimen of a man. She wondered at the cause, only to be jerked from her wandering thoughts by the intrusion of his rumbling voice.

  “Would you like to show me the progress you’ve made toward mending, then?”

  Clare pulled up her skirts and held her breath against the spear of pain that came as she repositioned her foot on its stool. “You were very good with them,” she admitted grudgingly. “I must apologize. They know better manners, I assure you. Although, that was the first time I’ve seen Lucy attempt to comb her hair in a month. And as for Geoffrey . . . we never know what is going to come out of his mouth.”

  Dr. Merial’s eyes swept her bared ankle. Oddly, it made the skin along the back of her neck burn, though his gaze was directed quite a bit lower. “His behavior may simply be a call for attention,” he murmured. He reached out a hand, running the fingers she had just ogled across the surface of her foot. “Still rather swollen this morning, isn’t it? Can you turn it to the left?”

  She tried, though the effort left her panting.

  “Now the right?”

  That way was harder still, and the sweat broke out across the top of Clare’s forehead.

  “Hmmm. Let’s have a better look.” He lifted her foot into his lap and pressed his fingers more forcefully into the discolored skin. “Not to be indelicate, but boys at his age often need a male figure they can talk to. Is your father around to answer some of his questions?”

  Clare gritted her teeth, as much against the probing question as the pain. Geoffrey’s growing fascination with his . . . well, his pudding . . . was scarcely this man’s business. But she could not deny the doctor’s words echoed some of her own fears for her brother’s future.

  “Our father is gone a lot,” she admitted, her instincts muddled enough to let her usual reticence regarding family secrets slip. “He’s always at his club, probably because Mother scarcely speaks to him anymore. And Geoffrey’s spent the past year at Eton in the company of ruffians, it seems. He was still a sweet boy of twelve when he left, so this particular homecoming has been a bit of a shock.”

  She hesitated before meeting the doctor’s dark eyes. “I admit to being worried for him. Not only this matter of . . . er . . . blindness. He’s going to have to manage the title someday, and to look at him now I see nothing but dissolution in his future.” She knotted her hands in her lap, embarrassed to be sharing such details, and yet reassured that this man was at least bound by the tenants of his profession to tell her the truth. “Do you think he requires a medical intervention?” she asked bluntly, visions of asylums looming in her mind.

  Dr. Merial assuaged her fears by laughing out loud. “No matter the opinions of some experts, I believe ’tis perfectly natural in a boy of his age, Miss Westmore. It will pass in a year or so, I promise. But if he has questions in the near term, you can always send him to me.”

  Clare nodded, comforted by his response. The conversation had tipped into overly intimate territory, but the doctor’s expression remained open and nonjudgmental, even as his fingers continued to probe her injured ankle. He had given much the same impression last night, betraying not even an ounce of disapproval over her mother’s clear indiscretion.

  She was beginning to understand why Lady Austerley thought so highly of this man. He had a way of listening that made one feel as though they were the most important thing in the room. Certainly, Dr. Bashings had never inspired her to share such a confidence.

  She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as he placed her foot back down on the stool. Though his fingers had caused a good deal of pain with their nudging and prodding, the loss of his touch against her skin felt wrong, somehow. Her eyes drifted over his straightening back, and it occurred to her he was wearing the same jacket as last evening. This morning the fabric seemed less offensive than it had last night, and the rumpled nature gave him little more than an air of mild disreputability.

  Or perhaps it was more that today she shouldn’t help but notice it covered a set of appealingly broad shoulders?

  Good heavens. Where had that thought come from?

  She shook herself from the clutches of such inappropriate musings, ashamed of the wandering direction of her thoughts and the inexorable softening of her opinion on cheap wool coats. “Well,” she said, almost too brightly. “What is your verdict regarding my ankle?”

  “It is more swollen than I had expected. More so than even last night, and still too distended to provide a proper assessment of whether any of the bones have been broken.” He pulled a length of cloth from his pocket and began to unwind it in his hands.

  Clare eyed it dubiously. “What do I need a bandage for? There’s no bleeding.”

  “There is bleeding on the inside, which is why your ankle continues to swell. This may help.” He began to wrap the long strip of cloth around her ankle. “Keep it wrapped, until my next visit. It will remind you to keep off it, more than anything else.” He looked up from his task. His grin was a sharp, sudden thing. “I cannot help but presume you need the reminder.”

  Clare couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud. Oh, if this man had any notion of her plans to heal faster than anyone ever in the history of the world.

  He secured the ends of the bandage with a pin, then leaned back, resting his hands on this thighs. “I can return Tuesday and have another look. Unless you’d rather use Dr. Bashings, of course.” His lips twitched. “Why, I imagine the man has any number of barbaric treatments he could recommend for young Geoffrey.”

  Clare shook her head. “Tuesday would be acceptable.” She didn’t want the frankly terrifying Dr. Bashings anywhere near her brother—who knew where the man would put his leeches? And with respect to her ankle, she supposed a reassessment in three days’ time was better than the four weeks of convalescence Dr. Merial had threatened last night.

  Of course, he’d not yet said she wouldn’t be forced to the full month.

  But he had no idea the depths of her tenacity.

  As he rose from the sofa, she gathered her wits about her. Dr. Merial was displaying a remarkable sensitivity, and not only in the matter of her difficulties with Geoffrey. There had been no specific mention of her mother’s indiscretion last night. No snide remark, no cutting wit wielded like a sword of Damocles.

  It was far more than she could have expected from any in her circle of friends.

  But still, assurances needed to be gathered, especially as her family’s secrets were not of the usual medical variety. “And given that we are retaining your services, you’ll keep our conversation about my brother—and the matter of events in the library last night—private?” she asked cautiously.

  He picked up his bag. “All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal.” A perfect, straight smile claimed his mouth as he finished. “That is the oath I took upon entering this profession, Miss Westmore. So you see, you’ve no need to worry on either quarter. Everything we share will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

  Clare exhaled in relief. She had hoped for just such a pledge of privacy, but she found herself grateful enough to smile. “Meaning you still won’t tell me what ails Lady Austerley?”

  His smile faltered. “I’m afraid only the countess herself can provide those details.”
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  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Clare’s voice trailed off as she realized the inadequacy of the apology rising to her lips. Well, yes, she had meant.

  She was embarrassed enough to acknowledge the double standard, at least to herself.

  Gossip was the stock in trade of her social circle, and Sophie had cultivated it to a proper art form. Clare was admittedly curious about the sort of ailment that might cause the dowager countess to invite her personal physician to last night’s ball. “It’s just that your association with her is rather strange,” she blurted out. “And you must admit, you aren’t the usual sort of physician employed by members of the ton.”

  For a start, most wore better coats.

  “I would argue that Lady Austerley is not a usual member of the ton.” His jaw worked a wordless moment before he added, “I met her through odd circumstances, which I suppose I am at liberty to share, given that half of London saw them. She fainted during services at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and I was the only one who noticed and came to her aid.”

  “Surely not.” Clare was appalled. She tried to envision it, and rejected the notion on the grounds of logic. “Why, she’s a countess. Half of London attends her annual ball. How could no one feel compelled to help her?”

  He shrugged. “She would be the first to tell you that titles and balls are meaningless where such things are concerned. She was childless in her marriage to Lord Austerley, and the title went to a cousin who has quite abandoned her. She has no remaining family and no close friends. I have been fortunate to win Lady Austerley’s patronage, and her recommendation has encouraged several other clients to request my services, but I do not attend her merely for the money. I count the dowager countess as a friend.”

  Clare felt as stunned by the thought that a wealthy, well-known countess could pitch over in her church pew and go unnoticed by the ton as the notion that such a presumably powerful woman could befriend a young, struggling physician. “You are right, of course. I should not have inquired about her circumstances.” She twisted her fingers in her skirts. “And I thank you for your discretion with my own family.”

  He headed for the door, only to pause on the threshold. His eyes met hers, dark and probing. “I imagine that Lady Austerley would be happy enough to share details of her health and her life with friends who may care to ask. Perhaps you might take an hour or so to visit her next month, when your ankle is healed. She would welcome the company, I think.”

  His words lingered, even as he disappeared from view. Despite the warmth she’d detected in his voice when he spoke of Lady Austerley, and the oddity of a physician who seemed to actually care for his patients as people, she had difficulty looking beyond his declaration that a visit with the dowager countess might take place in a month.

  A month. She glared at the empty doorway, even as his heels echoed a retreat down the tiled hallway. Drat it all, she’d been as still as death itself all morning long, and he had declared her ankle worse, not better.

  And who was he to lecture her on who to visit? He got to leave, blast the man. No doubt he had an interesting day planned, a day full of sunlight and walks and doddering old countesses as patients, while she was stuck here with an embroidery frame and bickering siblings.

  Clare slumped back against the couch, her blood already humming with the sort of boredom hatched of forced and unwelcome inactivity. She wasn’t sure how long she could manage such meekness.

  And Tuesday couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter 9

  Daniel arrived at half past nine on Tuesday to find Lucy and Geoffrey engaged in a raucous game of whist, despite the early hour. Their raised voices drowned out the faint drumming of rain against the windowpanes.

  “You’re cheating!” Lucy accused.

  “Well, you didn’t say I couldn’t cheat,” came Geoffrey’s retort. When the boy spied him, he waved. “Ho, Dr. Handsome is here!”

  Lucy smiled over the top of her cards. “It is nice to see you again, Dr. Merial.” She made an unladylike face as Geoffrey craned his neck to see her hand. “Geoffrey, I swear, if you don’t quit trying to peek at my cards I am going to gouge you in the eye with a fireplace poker.”

  Daniel smiled as he shook the drops from his umbrella. It was a household steeped in noise, far different from his own upbringing. Though he had been well-loved and happy enough as an only child, there was something about the rowdiness of this particular family that made him feel vaguely regretful of that past, as if he’d been happy only because he hadn’t known a better alternative existed. He’d looked forward to returning this morning more than he cared to admit.

  A crisper sort of greeting was offered by his actual patient. Miss Westmore was sitting on the sofa again, her bandaged foot propped up on the stool, but this morning she was gripping the London Times instead of an embroidery frame. She made an awkward attempt to stow the paper beneath the sofa at his approach but was hampered by her foot’s odd position on the stool. “It is not yet ten o’clock. You are early,” she accused, glaring up at him.

  “And you are reading the newspaper,” he responded, setting down his bag. “The editorial section, at that, unless my eyes deceive me. An interesting discovery. And here I thought sordid novels were the rage among your set.”

  She flushed a marvelous shade of pink, hinting at a lovely and well-functioning circulatory system. “Those dreadful things?” She lifted two hands, as though to smooth down her perfectly coiled hair. “A well-bred lady would never read such drivel.”

  Daniel’s gaze followed the trajectory of her busy hands, then skipped further afield, over the swell of her pert breasts, down through the waterfall of her skirts, to the remnants of the crumpled newspaper, discarded upon the floor. He made his living through close observations, reading the signs and symptoms a patient didn’t want to confess.

  And damned if this particular patient didn’t look embarrassed to have been caught reading the paper.

  “You never read them?” He lifted his gaze back to center, to the refreshing color of her cheeks. He withdrew the book he’d brought from his bag. “Such a shame, given that I’ve brought you one of those dreadful things to pass the time.”

  Her lips firmed, though her fingers stretched out in a telling fashion. “And here I thought only medical tomes were the rage among your set.”

  He stifled a chuckle, absurdly pleased by her quick wit. “It is not my book.” He held out the book but kept it just out of her hand’s reach. “And clearly ladies do read such drivel, because it is one of Lady Austerley’s favorites. She asked me to bring it, thinking it might be welcome during your recovery. She was very sorry to hear about your ankle, particularly as it happened at her ball.”

  Miss Westmore’s eyes narrowed. “I thought matters between a patient and their doctor were to be kept confidential.”

  “I did not tell her, of course, but the gossip of other guests is another thing entirely. Apparently, others noticed your infirmity the night of the ball, no doubt during your lumbering flight from the ballroom. And as I promised you my discretion, I was not able to correct Lady Austerley’s misimpression that you twisted your ankle on her dance floor. When I checked in on her yesterday, she asked me to deliver de Balzac’s Cousin Bette by way of an apology.”

  Her lips firmed, but she held out her hand for the book.

  He was discovering that teasing this woman gave him a perverse pleasure, and so he only held it higher and grinned down at her. “Of course, if ladies refuse to read such drivel in English, I can scarcely imagine you will enjoy the French—”

  “I didn’t say I refused to.” Miraculously, the corners of her mouth began to lift, as if she, too, was enjoying the banter but was determined not to acknowledge it. “And I do appreciate Lady Austerley’s kind gesture.” She wiggled her fingers, and her smile widened until that crooked tooth he had glimpsed the first night slid into view. “Although I will never be able to give her my thanks if I am not able to actually read it, Dr. Merial.�
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  He relinquished the prize, though he was not above leaning in to bedevil her further. “I think you might call me Daniel,” he said softly. “After all, if I am to be held on retainer to answer your brother’s questions, it seems we should be on more familiar terms.”

  She settled the book onto her lap, and her hand swirled a circle across the cover. For a moment he thought she would be sensible and tell him precisely what she thought of his fumbling attempt at familiarity.

  But then she looked up at him through dark sooty lashes. “Then I suppose you must call me Clare. After all you’ve seen of my family, I suppose you have earned the right of informality.” Her gaze settled briefly on the clock on the mantel, an ornately carved thing that no doubt had an entire staff of servants whose sole job was to see to its winding. “You failed to mention why you are here so early.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps I am a busy man.”

  “That is a better argument for being late, I should think.”

  Touché. And busy or no, the sight of his patient this morning sorely tempted him to linger. Though the day was a haze of rain and drizzle, the soft gray light filtering through the window made her skin glow like a polished pearl. Unlike the day dress she’d worn Saturday, today she was wearing a lovely walking gown of deep rich mauve, the heavy skirts styled in the latest fashion. He could see the defining shape of a corset stiffening her spine. “Were you planning on going out today?”

  She shrugged, though a pretty challenge flashed in her eyes. “That depends on how your examination goes, I would imagine.”

  “I doubt my prognosis will include a recommendation for a vigorous walk.”

  “Well, perhaps someone of note might come to visit me.” She paused. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

  Despite the stirrings of concern at her clear plans for defiance, Daniel smiled at the censure in her voice. He knew he didn’t qualify as anyone of note in her mind. She’d made that quite clear the evening they met, though he felt her frosty disdain had thawed a significant degree or two. “I’ve come early because I’ve brought a proposition for Master Geoffrey, and we’ll need a quick start for it if I’m to get him to St. Bart’s and back before my noon lecture to the medical students.”