Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  BY NOW DANIEL knew his way to the Cardwells’ drawing room, and the butler, Wilson, waved him along.

  He paused in the doorway, greedily gulping down the sight of her. Normally, this first, unguarded view of Clare was enough to knock the wind from him, a response he still didn’t quite understand and couldn’t decide whether or not he enjoyed. No other woman had ever affected him so viscerally. When he wasn’t dissecting the emotion she engendered—and attempting to dismiss it as nothing more than a biologic reflex to a beautiful, maddening female—he was miserably counting the moments until he could see her again.

  She was sitting on the sofa, her ankle properly wrapped and elevated. But instead of waiting for him, as he had wretchedly hoped, she was seated next to a well-dressed gentleman. Her long, pretty neck was tilted up to the man’s admiring gaze, and the sight made Daniel’s hands clench around the handle of his bag.

  He cleared his throat, angry at himself for reacting this way, and refusing to come closer without acknowledgement. “Excuse me. The butler directed me to come straight in.”

  Across the room, Clare did not look his way. In fact, he would have sworn she was refusing to acknowledge him.

  Lucy, however, leaped up from her chair. “Dr Merial!” She bounded toward him, but just as she reached him, her foot caught on her skirts and she tripped into a nearby table.

  “Steady on.” Daniel reached out a hand to right a vase she’d knocked over in her collision. “I think one patient per family is enough on any given day, don’t you?”

  Lucy’s lip stuck out in a gesture that approximated a pout, but it was clear she had too little experience with the notion for proper execution. “We expected you earlier, you know,” she said to Daniel. “I had hoped you might take me on the outing you promised me today, but the day is too far gone. Geoffrey waited as long as he could, but he’s been sent to his books, I’m afraid.”

  Daniel took a step away from the door. He did not want to disappoint this family, but in a doctor’s world—in his world—priorities required constant reordering. He’d been roused from his bed—well, from his desk, really—by a frantic knock at his door before dawn. He’d opened it half expecting to find his landlady standing there in the all-together.

  Instead, he’d found a messenger bearing the news that Lady Austerley had suffered another fainting spell. He’d rushed to the dowager countess’s bedside anticipating that, once again, she would be awake and scoffing at the significance of her attack, though it had scared her servants enough to go dashing off to Smithfield in the dregs of the night.

  But this time she’d still been unconscious when he arrived.

  Daniel had stayed with her until she returned to lucidness, which took far too long for comfort. “My apologies,” he said gruffly to Lucy. “I was detained with another patient.” He eyed the couple on the couch. “I’m already late for my afternoon rounds at St. Bart’s, and I’ve no wish to interrupt. Should I come back another time?”

  Lucy shook her head. “You should wait. I imagine Mr. Alban won’t stay longer than a few more minutes.” She lowered her voice even further, to a conspiratorial whisper. “See how he’s watching the clock, when he’s not staring at Clare? I would guess he’s another appointment to keep after this one.”

  Daniel stared in Clare’s direction. So this was Mr. Alban, the gentleman she hoped to marry. His chest tightened at the thought, and he eyed the man more carefully. Alban was a loose-limbed fellow, well made and handsome enough. But Daniel could scarcely spare the man a proper perusal when his eyes insisted on pulling toward Clare.

  Christ, but she looked lovely today. Like a literal blow to his bruised heart. Her red gown was cut to perfection and her eyes sparkled with interest—though unfortunately not at him. They were fixed tight on the gentleman sitting next to her, and Daniel felt a kick of envy at the sight.

  “Should you tell her I’m here?” he asked.

  “Oh, she knows. See how her head is cocked a little to the left?” Lucy whispered. “That means she’s angry with you. You made her wait, and now in her mind turnabout’s only fair.”

  Daniel looked again. Clare gave every appearance of being riveted by her caller’s conversation, but Lucy was right. Those chestnut curls were tilted in his direction, even if she wasn’t looking at him. So the patient wished him to wait, did she?

  Odd how that only made him want to wrestle a bit of control from her hands.

  “Might I beg a favor?” Daniel pulled a paper box from his pocket and handed it to Lucy. “I’d like you to give this to your sister later, after I leave.”

  Lucy glanced down at the package he pressed into her hands. “What is it?”

  Daniel hid a grin. He was late, to be sure. And short on this month’s rent. But not so late or destitute that he hadn’t taken the time to stop by the confectioner’s shop again. “Just a prescription she is proving reticent to accept.”

  Lucy tucked the box unquestioningly into her pocket. “Now, about our outing—”

  “Next week. I promise.”

  “But—”

  Daniel placed a finger on his lips, and trained his ears in his patient’s direction. Sometimes, just listening to someone speak could tell him as much about their state of health as their words, and something in Clare’s demeanor sounded . . . off. It was hard to put his finger on exactly what it was. Mr. Alban seemed only marginally interested in the conversation, engaging in the same sort of polite chatter Daniel often resorted to with new patients. And while Clare was listening intently to her guest and murmuring occasional encouragements that made Daniel’s collar feel far too tight, she wasn’t contributing to the conversation.

  “Have you been passing the time reading?” he heard Mr. Alban ask. The man gestured to the rumpled newspaper, which lay scattered across a nearby table.

  “Oh, not very much.” Clare offered Alban that vague, half smile she sometimes affected. Daniel didn’t know whether to be glad or offended she so carelessly granted him the full imperfection of her crooked tooth, when she was now so clearly trying to hide it from Mr. Alban. “The Times can be intellectually taxing, don’t you agree?”

  Lucy whispered in Daniel’s ear again. “What rubbish. She’s been ripping through the paper every day, and she finished that book you left by Thursday. You really ought to bring her a few more novels, if you ask me. When her reading material for the day is gone, she terrorizes the household with her boredom.”

  “Now, is it your foot or your ankle that’s been injured?” Mr. Alban asked politely.

  “Oh, I couldn’t say.” Clare giggled, and her hands flapped like small epileptic birds. “I declare, the bones get all jumbled up in my head.”

  Daniel couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  Out loud.

  The choked amusement escaped his throat before he could stop it, earning him a jab in the ribs from Lucy and a perceptible stiffening of Clare’s slim shoulders. But this was a woman who had quickly grasped the concept of anatomical symmetry when he’d shown her the bones in her foot. Did she really think she was fooling anyone with her claims of ignorance?

  “Well, whichever it is,” Mr. Alban said, “I hope you will be recovered enough to attend Lady Austerley’s musicale this Saturday.”

  Daniel froze, his earlier amusement dying in his lungs.

  Surely he’d just heard wrong.

  He’d left Lady Austerley pale and wan in her bed not a half hour ago, a bevy of servants hovering around her. Once she recovered her capacity to speak, the dowager countess had not said anything to him about hosting a musicale. In fact, she had promised him she would take the time to rest and recover in the aftermath of her last event. Exhaustion was one of the dowager countess’s triggers, and if she was planning another gathering this Season, it could very well send her health spiraling in the wrong direction.

  “Yes, I think I will try to attend,” came Clare’s answer. “I think a musicale would be just the thing to ease me back into the Season, no matter my doctor�
��s opinion on the matter.”

  Daniel gritted his teeth. For the love of all that was holy.

  Did none of his patients listen to his advice?

  The clock chose that moment to strike the half hour. True to Lucy’s prediction, Alban rose. “I’ve no wish to fatigue you any further, Miss Westmore. It has been a pleasure visiting with you, and I do hope I will see you at Lady Austerley’s musicale.” Alban bent over Clare’s proffered hand. Though there was little in the motion that suggested anything beyond gentlemanly manners, the gesture unleashed an unexpected groundswell of jealousy that threatened to take Daniel by the throat.

  He stepped aside as Alban made his exit, then turned to glare at the man’s retreating form. What did Clare see in him, aside from the obvious? Physically, they were a well-matched couple, though Alban seemed far too easily distracted for a man with amorous intentions. Besides, in Daniel’s opinion physical appearances were a poor basis for a marriage. Shared interests and a healthy respect for each other had proven the keys to his own parents’ short but loving marriage. What else held her attention in this man? There was no shortage of money in Alban’s coffers, if the man’s gleaming boots and embroidered waistcoat were any indication.

  But money couldn’t make up for a lack of intellectual capacity.

  And if leaving Clare on the stroke of the half hour was foremost on the gentleman’s mind, Alban was the village idiot.

  Chapter 12

  When Alban had left, Clare stood up, ignoring her ankle’s mild twinge of protest. She’d been achingly aware of Daniel from the moment he’d stepped into the room, and it had been torturous to know he was standing there listening to—and judging—every word she’d said.

  She’d been forced to sit smiling, trapped in a conversation with a man who should have held her full attention but couldn’t quite measure up. Now she was feeling reckless, and the set-down she was itching to deliver required a bit of privacy.

  “Lucy, please go and fetch Geoffrey.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “But . . . he is in the west wing, studying. That will take a good ten minutes,” she protested. “You cannot be left that long without a chaperone.”

  Her sister’s objection might have been encouraging under different circumstances, but given that Lucy had stomped off in a snit and left her alone with the doctor for a good deal longer than ten minutes last week, the reaction seemed misplaced, at best. “Geoffrey wished to speak with Dr. Merial this afternoon, did he not?” Clare was surprised to hear her voice tremble, and readjusted her grip on her emotions.

  Lucy nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “He’s about to miss his opportunity.”

  “Can’t we have Wilson do it?”

  “Please don’t argue, Lucy. Not now,” Clare said between clenched teeth. “I would like a moment alone with Dr. Merial.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed, but she slouched toward the door, her skirts twitching an added protest about her ankles. Clare made a mental note to remind her sister that young women of breeding did not walk like hobbled monkeys. Lucy would need to shorten and refine her steps before her debut next Season, but that could come later.

  For now, she had a doctor to berate.

  She fixed her gaze on Daniel. “Shut the door please, Dr. Merial.”

  “I thought we had agreed on given names,” he said, though he dutifully reached out a hand. The door closed with a soft click.

  “That implies the sort of friendship that would warrant a note of explanation when one is going to be delayed. You’ll forgive me for presuming we had regressed to a more formal state.”

  Outwardly, she was proud of how calm she sounded now. But on the inside she was still seething. She’d tried very hard to play the proper hostess during Mr. Alban’s visit, but it had been impossible to focus on her future duke while it was clear Daniel was judging everything she said and laughing behind her back. She couldn’t scold him for that, because there was no strain of logic she could find where his opinion of her should matter.

  So instead she gave vent to the more obvious complaint.

  “Why are you late?” she demanded.

  Rather than answering her question, Daniel set his bag down on a side table. “Why are you pretending to be a dimwit?”

  Clare gasped. “I beg your pardon?”

  He took a deliberate step toward her. “To clarify,” he drawled, “I don’t think you are a dimwit. I think you’re rather an enigma.” His dark eyes pinned her in place, even as his body continued its forward trajectory with what now seemed an almost predatory intent. “But I suspect your suitor might be convinced of it, and I can’t help but think that is by your own design. Why? Is it considered fashionable to belittle your own intellect?” He showed no signs of stopping at a respectable distance, and her treacherous pulse thumped in eager anticipation. “You’ll forgive me if I fail to recognize the appeal.”

  She pulled in a resentful breath as he stopped square in front of her. Her bid for air had the misfortune of filling her nose with a distinctive fragrance of soap and starch and an odd, sweet-smelling chemical fragrance. It annoyed her that she should recognize the scent as belonging uniquely to him. “You haven’t the slightest idea of which you speak.”

  “Don’t I?” he replied softly.

  Clare eyed him warily. He looked tired today, though it did little to detract from his physical perfection. He sported an unshaven jaw and a wrinkled coat, but even disheveled, he struck her as being far more attractive than Alban. The disloyalty of that thought made her feel off-balance. It was one thing to compare the two men and have the scale tip toward even. It was quite another to imagine this man might hold a greater appeal.

  “No. You don’t. And we are not speaking of me,” she added. “We are speaking of you, and how you might have sent a note—”

  “I had no opportunity, Clare.” His expression hardened. “Lady Austerley had a medical emergency this morning, and I was called to her house before dawn.”

  His explanation doused the heat of her anger. What was wrong with her? She was acting like a ninny, snapping at him over a few hours’ delay when she’d not stopped to consider that someone else may have had a greater need. She wasn’t even sure why she was so upset. She knew only that she wanted to strike out and make him feel as small as he’d made her feel when he’d laughed at her.

  She bit her lip. “I am sorry, Daniel. Is she all right?”

  “The countess was resting when I left, although Mr. Alban’s claim that she is hosting a musicale has me worried. Her health is fragile. And you aren’t the only patient who refuses to listen to solid medical advice.”

  Though she was still irritated with the man, Clare’s lips wanted to twitch at that. Despite plainly considering the older woman a bit of a trial, the respect Daniel held for Lady Austerley was clear. “Well then, perhaps you should attend the musicale as well,” she suggested. “To ensure her health.” But even as she said it, she wondered whether the suggestion sprang more from a desire to help or an illogical need to see Daniel outside the confines of her drawing room.

  He leaned in until no more than a few inches separated them. “I do not wish to talk about Lady Austerley in this moment. I wish to talk about you. Why are you pretending to be a flighty young miss for Lord Perfect, when we both know you aren’t anything of the sort?”

  Clare glared at him. “His name is Mr. Alban. And he is not a lord yet.”

  “Ah, you’ll have to forgive me.” He treated her to a slow, spreading smile. “I declare these titles get all jumbled up in my head. It is so academically taxing to remember them all.”

  His teasing bumped her right back up to the keen edge of anger. Had she really started to forget why she ought to be mad at him? How kind of him to open his mouth and remind her.

  “Perhaps you can be excused for your ignorance, given that you do not move in these circles,” she snapped, “but Mr. Alban is a gentleman. Soon to be a titled gentleman, the presumptive heir to a dukedom. I did nothing more
than listen to and support his interests, as any well-bred lady might.”

  “Come now, Clare. I know you a bit better than this by now.” His voice became a sharply seductive tool, boring a hole through her confidence. “Better than Mr. Alban does, at any rate. You are a far more interesting person than your performance supports.”

  Her heart leaped at the faint praise, but she refused to give in to the pleasure his words wanted to kindle. “You don’t know me at all,” she ground out.

  How could he, when she didn’t even know herself in this moment?

  “I know you can name every bone in your foot.” A smirk still hovered on his lips. “I’ll wager you never forget a fact, once it’s lodged in your head.”

  He was wrong. She was hard-pressed to recall her middle name at the moment.

  But while his derision of Alban—or was it of her?—had hobbled her ability to think, her tongue was miraculously free of such a curse. “You are mistaken, sir.” But a series of traitorous words swirled in her thoughts, words and bones that had no business being in a fashionable young lady’s head.

  Cuneiform, cuboid, calcaneous.

  She rattled the syllables back into submission with a brief shake of her head. “I forgot that ridiculous lesson as soon as you imparted it.”

  His smile began to fade. “As your doctor, I can promise you discretion in my dealings, but I refuse to promise you falsehoods. I would hope you would offer me the same.” His dark eyes flickered. “Mr. Alban is a poor intellectual match for you.”

  “How dare you?” She poked her finger into his chest, but the gesture did little more than prove that a coiled, muscled body lurked beneath the cheap wool coat. “Mr. Alban is handsome, and brilliant, and . . . and . . .”

  “Wealthy?”

  “Important. When he speaks, men listen.”

  Daniel scowled. “Is it because they respect the man, or merely his future title?”

  “There is very little difference, in the world in which I live.”