How to Care for a Lady

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  And then, before she could even form another thought, she was in his arms. His mouth was on hers, coaxing her lips apart until she gave in, allowing his tongue entry, mingling with her own. Every nerve in her body stood on end, heat flooded her to her core. His hands, so familiar to her now as her doctor, held her so tenderly, caressed her so gently, and she melted against him. She’d been waiting for this for so many weeks now. No, years. She’d dreamt of this kind of passion often during her disappointing marriage, but she never could have imagined how wonderful it would truly be to be held. To be loved.

  “My darling,” Graham whispered—it was easy to think of him as Graham all of a sudden, for who could consider their doctor doing this to them? “Are those tears?”

  Hannah reached up to touch her cheek, which was indeed moist with her tears. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. “I suppose they are.”

  His hazel eyes searched her face. “Might I hope they are tears of happiness?”

  A giggle bubbled up inside of her. “You may,” she replied. “I have never been so happy in all my life.”

  “Then you know exactly how I feel,” he said, just before he captured her lips again and kissed her completely senseless.

  When he pulled away, he stared down at her, his eyes so full of love and tenderness, Hannah thought she might cry all over again. He stroked a finger down her cheek.

  “I’m afraid I must go,” he whispered.

  Hannah didn’t want him to, but she knew he’d be back. She knew she’d see him again, perhaps every day for the rest of her life, if she dared hope such a thing.

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “I will be back in the morning.”

  “I shall count the hours.” Such a silly thing to say, and yet, she knew it was completely true.

  His lips spread into a smile and then he bent down to give her one last swift kiss before leaving her room.

  Graham could hardly believe what was happening. He’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back. It was like a dream—a dream he’d never imagined could come true. But here they were, their feelings out in the open, sealed with a kiss. It was all Graham could do not to skip to his club that afternoon.

  Plato’s Assembly was a club comprised of men of intellect, and they met at a small coffee house in Spitalfields. Graham maintained a brisk walk on his way there, attempting to keep warm amidst the suddenly cooler weather. The sun had gone behind the clouds and rain threatened to pour down on him as gusts of wind tried to steal his hat away. But the one thing the wind couldn’t steal from him was this buoyant mood.

  He arrived at the coffee house and went directly to the back room where many of his friends and colleagues already sat about, sipping the strong Jamaican coffee that the establishment provided. All the way from the Blue Mountains, apparently. Good for one’s rigor and fitness. Graham couldn’t disagree—he always felt quite a bit livelier after a cup or two.

  “Alcott!” His friend and scientist, Albert Baumgarten, waved at him from a nearby table at which sat Harry Cantor, another doctor, and Phillip Graves, a professor of Latin and Classic Literature at Oxford.

  Graham gladly pulled up a chair to join them and promptly received a cup of coffee from the proprietor.

  “Gentlemen,” he said and then took a sip of coffee in hopes of concealing the smile he couldn’t seem to wipe from his face.

  Unfortunately, the men before him were quite astute, and his idiotic grin did not go unnoticed.

  “What is this, my friend?” Cantor was the first to speak up. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve had yourself a bit of fun lately.”

  Graves laughed. “But you do know better,” he said, and then they all laughed, even Graham. He wasn’t typically known for having fun—unless one counted endless hours of reading medical journals fun. Which he did.

  “No, no,” he said, holding up his hands as if in surrender, “Cantor is right. I have been having a bit of fun.”

  “With a bit o’ muslin?” Baumgarten asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

  “Good God, man! What do you take me for? I’m a doctor—I’ve much more sense than to seek out a syphilitic woman.”

  “Rather harsh, don’t you think?” Cantor asked.

  “Not harsh, just true. I’ve cared for plenty of those women, and I don’t judge them for their profession. I’m just not going to bed one, is all.”

  Cantor nodded. “Point taken.”

  “Well, then,” Graves said, leaning forward in his chair and placing his elbows on the rough, wooden table. “Who is she?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say.” Then he added, “Not yet at least.”

  “Ah.” Baumgarten relaxed against the back of his chair. “A patient, then.”

  “I never said anything of the sort. Just that I’m not at liberty to talk about it yet.”

  “We all know you’re caring for the Widow Beeston,” Cantor said, lowering his voice. “I would hesitate to engage in any—”

  “It isn’t her,” Graham snapped. Damn his idiotic grin! He’d always prided himself on being able to mask his emotions—it came in handy when dealing with the ailing and downtrodden all the time. If he allowed his emotions to show, his patients would be in constant states of panic and fear, for many times the prognosis was heartbreaking.

  “Fine,” Cantor pressed. “But if it is, you should be warned.”

  An ominous silence fell over the table. Graham wanted to know what the hell his friend was talking about, but if he asked him to elaborate, would it implicate him in the affair? It took all his strength to keep silent, but thankfully, Cantor went on without provocation.

  “It is rumored that Beeston isn’t really dead.”

  A sick feeling stirred in Graham’s belly. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “He might still be alive.”

  “Yes, I gathered that from your first statement,” Graham bit back, growing exasperated with his colleague. “But why? And where are you getting your information?”

  “A maid in the Hawthorne household heard it from a footman in the Hastings household who’d heard it from a stable boy in the Hart household who’d—”

  “Dammit, man! Get to the point!” Graham slammed his fist on the table. “What did they hear?”

  “That the Duke of Somerset may have paid off Beeston and sent him to America.”

  A coldness washed over Graham. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. If Beeston was still alive, exiled or not, then Hannah was not a free woman. If Beeston came back to claim her—

  No. He couldn’t even fathom it. Surely, if this were true, the man wouldn’t dare step foot on English soil again. Somerset would surely kill him for good this time.

  Damn it all. He knew Somerset was a powerful man, but had he truly gotten the magistrate to fake a death certificate?

  Graham shook his head. How did he know if there even was a death certificate? Perhaps everyone had simply taken him at his word.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, standing abruptly and sending his heavy wooden chair backwards until it thudded to the floor. In a fluster, he righted it, and then swiftly quit the room. Perhaps his friends would suspect his smile was due to Lady Beeston now—how could they not draw that conclusion? But he was beyond caring at this point. He trusted them to keep the confidence. But his confidence in a certain duke had been swayed now, and duke or not, he owed him an explanation.

  Or did he? Damn.

  Graham stopped on the sidewalk outside the coffee house, vaguely aware of the noise and activity around him. His mind was whirling with the possible consequences of confronting the duke, even though every muscle in his body was aching to do so. But it was unlikely the man would take too well to being called out by a doctor. And then what would happen? More than likely he’d lose his post and never see Hannah again.

  He closed his eyes and clutched his walking stick for support as people brushed past him. There was nothing for it. He was o
ut of options. He couldn’t confront the duke. He couldn’t tell Hannah. He could only wait, and watch, and hope that what he’d just heard was only a rumor not grounded in any sort of truth.

  Chapter 15

  Hannah could hardly contain her excitement. Today was to be her first outing since she’d been wounded. Now that Grace was feeling better thanks to Graham’s ginger concoctions, Hannah would accompany her and her relations on a little shopping trip. Nothing terribly strenuous—just a visit to the modiste, where she and Grace could sit most of the time. She had a lofty dream that they might have a ready-to-wear gown for her that she could wear to Lady Wolverly’s soiree in a few days’ time. She knew Graham held her in high esteem no matter what she looked like—he’d seen her at her very worst, after all, and had still somehow fallen in love with her—but she still wanted to surprise him by looking her absolute smartest for his sister’s party.

  “Are you ready?” Grace asked, poking her head around the door of Hannah’s bedchamber.

  Hannah turned slowly from the mirror and smoothed her skirts, noticing that the color was back in Grace’s cheeks. One would hardly have known that just a few days ago she could barely get out of bed.

  “How do I look?” Hannah asked. She wore a day gown of dark lavender trimmed with a floral chintz pattern. Her maid had braided her hair into a crown on top of her head, leaving a few tendrils to peek out from beneath her yellow bonnet, which she was currently tying around her neck.

  Grace smiled sweetly at her. “Oh, Hannah, we thought you’d never walk again, and now look at you. You’re as lovely as ever.”

  “Well, perhaps not as ever,” Hannah deflected, “but I must say, I’m feeling quite in my prime, even if I do walk with a bit of a limp.”

  “One can hardly even notice,” Grace gushed. “Besides, there are lots of people who walk with limps. Miss Macintosh, for one. She had some awful disease as a child and never fully recovered.”

  And the girl used it to her every advantage. She was quite pretty and she knew it, so she often played Damsel in Distress with the young men of the ton who were more than happy to take pity on her and dance their attentions upon her. Of course, there were others who weren’t so kind, but Miss Macintosh didn’t seem to notice them. Hopefully, Hannah would be oblivious to those who might mock her as well.

  “While that is meant to be comforting, this affliction is not something I would wish on anyone.”

  “Oh, of course you wouldn’t,” Grace said. “You’re far too good-hearted for that.”

  “I am only that which God made me.”

  “Well, God made you the nicest of all, then.”

  Hannah laughed. “You’re awfully nice yourself, you know?”

  Grace scoffed. “Hardly! But it is kind of you to say so. I do love you so, Hannah.”

  “And I you,” Hannah replied, taking her sister-in-law by the arm. “Shall we go?”

  She limped alongside Grace to the carriage, which conveyed them across town to Regent Street, where they were to meet the others. Hannah was somewhat acquainted with all the Wetherby women—of course, Lady Chloe lived right next door, so she knew her best. Lady Chloe’s cousin, who also happened to be her sister-in-law, wouldn’t be in attendance, as she lived in Scotland. But the Duchess of Hart would be there, along with her sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Eastleigh, and the marchioness’ dear friend, the Viscountess Hastings. She sincerely hoped that would be everyone. Being her first outing in so long, she was a bit nervous about becoming overwhelmed by all the activity.

  “You needn’t be nervous,” Grace said, as if reading her mind. Or perhaps simply noticing that Hannah was mangling her skirts with her fingers as they rumbled along.

  Hannah stopped her fidgeting. “There are so many of them,” she replied, not bothering to deny that she was nervous.

  “And they’re all aware of the ordeal you’ve been through,” Grace said. “They’ve promised to be…subdued today.”

  “Oh, goodness.” That didn’t really make Hannah feel any better. She didn’t want anyone to compromise who they were for her sake. “They don’t have to do that for me.”

  “But they want to. For both our sakes’ really.”

  “You seem to be right as rain now,” Hannah pointed out. “Dr. Alcott must have some magical spell he puts into all his concoctions.”

  “Indeed,” Grace agreed. “I’m still a bit tired, and occasionally I’m surprised by a wave of nausea, but heavens, I feel so much better than I did.”

  Hannah was about to respond when the carriage came to a halt. She peered out the window to see they had pulled up in front of the modiste’s shop, and a moment later, the door flung open for them.

  “Thank you, John,” Grace said to the driver as a footman handed her to the ground. “We won’t be but an hour or so.”

  John nodded. “I shan’t be far, milady.”

  Hannah stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath before following Grace into the shop. They were all there already, poised around the sitting area with glasses of champagne in their hands. Her Grace, the Duchess of Hart, was the first to greet them in a whirl of red silk.

  “There you are!” she exclaimed, rushing to kiss them each on the cheek. “You dear things, we’re so glad to have you join us today. And I insist you call me Katherine, all right? Now, come say hello to the others.”

  If this was subdued, Hannah shuddered to think what the duchess was like on a regular day.

  While Grace went around the room, greeting the others, the duchess refreshed Hannah on who everyone was—Lady Eastleigh, a lovely brunette with a kind smile, and Lady Hastings, a voluptuous blonde with eyes the color of emeralds. And of course, Lady Chloe, whose red hair seemed even more fiery today—Hannah wondered briefly if they’d be able to find her amidst all the brightly colored autumn trees were she to stand amongst them.

  With the introductions out of the way, Hannah accepted a glass of champagne and a seat on the settee between Grace and Lady Chloe. She took note of how she was feeling, being careful not to overwhelm herself, but thankfully, she felt quite wonderful. The ladies chatted around her, sharing stories of their children and husbands, discussing the cooling weather and the soirees they’d be attending in the coming days. It was no surprise to hear they’d all be at the Wolverly soiree, which was rather comforting to Hannah—the more familiar faces, the better.

  The modiste began a parade of fabrics, over which they all Ooh’d and Ah’d. The duchess was partial to the shiny silks and satins, while Lady Eastleigh was drawn to more practical, muted tones. Lady Hastings barely said a word after declaring she was quite content with her wardrobe as it was, and Lady Chloe seemed to share the sentiment. Grace merely stared longingly, complaining every now and again that it would be some time before she had a gown commissioned.

  “Nonsense,” Katherine finally exclaimed. “Just because you are enceinte doesn’t mean you’re dead. You should certainly have some dresses made for your confinement.”

  Grace sighed. “You really think so?”

  “At least something pretty for Christmas,” Lady Chloe, who had been mostly silent, put in.

  “Oh, I suppose you’re right.” Grace cheered a bit. “Madame Morisette,” she called without even bothering to use the correct French pronunciation, “might I see what you have in a dark green fabric?” Then she turned to the others. “Green over red, don’t you think?”

  They all nodded in agreement. Green was a lovely color on Grace.

  Once her sister-in-law had chosen the fabric and trim and consulted every last fashion plate in the shop, the hour was up and it was time to go. Only, Hannah had yet to ask about any ready-made dresses.

  Before Grace began saying her goodbyes, Hannah stopped her and addressed the proprietress. “Perhaps before we go, you could show me some ready-made dresses, Madame Morisette?”

  Grace stared at her, wide-eyed, while the others smiled on.

  “You’re buying a dress?”

  Hannah star
ed back. “I would like to,” she replied. “Hardly anything fits me anymore, and I thought it might be nice to have something new for the Wolverly soiree.”

  And so began another half hour of assessing and trying on what the modiste had in her shop. There was a gown of dark olive with yellow and beige flowers embroidered along the edges, a red silk gown, not unlike the one the duchess wore today, with tiny black beads for trim, and finally, a white gown with a filmy white overlay, dabbed with blue embroidered flowers and trimmed with ruffles. They were all exquisite in completely different ways, and every lady in attendance had an opinion on which one they preferred. But Hannah wasn’t really conflicted at all. She knew which one she wanted, and so, without hesitation, she asked the modiste to wrap it up, while Grace instructed the assistant to charge it to the duke’s account.

  At last, it was time to make their departure. Hannah was starting to wilt a bit, and she could see Grace was in need of a nap herself. They said their goodbyes and went out to the sidewalk. The Somerset crest gleamed from the side of the coach across the street, and John immediately moved to bring it ‘round for them.

  Hannah smiled as she looked up and down the street. It was all so lively and exciting—she’d missed this, being part of society, the hustle and bustle and—

  “What is it?” Grace asked, and only then did Hannah realize her gasp had been audible.

  But now she was frozen in fear, her heart racing, her lungs struggling to take in air.

  “Hannah,” Grace persisted. “What is it? What is the matter?”

  Hannah blinked as she followed the figure with her eyes. A man with the same stature as her late husband. The same balding head. The same belabored stride, a result of too much wine and meat.

  Grace must have spotted him too, for she grabbed Hannah’s hand, now cold with fear. “It can’t be,” she whispered.

  And then the man turned, sending relief rushing through Hannah’s body. “Dear God,” she muttered. “I do think my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

  “It wasn’t just you,” Grace said. “The resemblance was uncanny—until he showed his face, of course. Heavens, my heart can’t take much of that.”