A society lady
...with a secret!
Determined to help people, Letty Barton has a double life—she’s a trained doctor! No one must know “Dr. Hatfield” is actually a woman. Called to an emergency, she comes face-to-face with her patient’s brother, Lord Anthony Ashcroft... They’d once shared a spark-filled flirtation—now he’s a brooding, scarred war hero. But how long will it be before he recognizes her beneath her disguise and the sparks begin to fly once more?
The emotion that Tony had not felt for so long poured into him, drummed through him, making his pulse throb and his heart pound.
Nothing mattered, nothing existed, save for the touch of Letty’s lips, that instinctive bending of her body into him, the soft swell of her breasts against his chest and the eager press of her fingers on his shoulders and winding into his hair.
He pulled her even closer. His hands spanned her back, feeling the curve of her waist. He inhaled the slightly soapy scent of her. His fingers slid up her spine. He touched the soft skin at the nape of her neck and the silky strands of hair not captured in the plait. He loved the feel of her, the warmth of her and her humanness. The connection was sexual but also about the physical connection of being human and alive.
He felt...alive.
For the first time in forever, he felt alive.
Author Note
I never wanted to be a doctor. First, I like sleep too much, and second, I am not good with blood, broken limbs or the knowledge that my decisions result in life or death. Not to mention, high heels in the operating room isn’t really a thing—certainly not a good thing.
However, I relish the fact that, had I shown an aptitude, this career path would have been an option. That choice and many other freedoms come as a result of people, like Letty, who pushed at society’s limits and persisted despite obstacles.
Moreover, although Letty’s character is entirely fictional, individuals have hidden their gender so that they could practice medicine or participate in other nontraditional roles. Indeed, Britain’s first female doctor, Dr. James Miranda Barry, lived as a man for more than fifty years. This lifelong masquerade was only discovered after Dr. Barry’s death.
Many questions and theories remain about Dr. Barry, but one can certainly conclude that this was an individual of brilliance, eccentricity and persistence whose life must have been made harder by society’s rigidity and prejudice.
In creating this story, I wanted to highlight the courage of those who persist in the face of challenges, be they external or, in Tony’s case, internal.
It seems that as I age, I have recognized that success does not come in moments of brilliance but rather years of persistence.
A DEBUTANTE IN DISGUISE
Eleanor Webster
www.millsandboon.com.au
ELEANOR WEBSTER loves high heels and sun, which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences, including a nasty glue-gun episode, have proved that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor has a master’s degree in education and is a school psychologist. She also holds an undergraduate degree in history and loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.
To my family, who has always supported my dreams and encouraged my persistence. To my daughters, who demonstrate their own steadfast persistence as they find and follow their own dreams.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Brooding Duke of Danforth by Christine Merrill
Prologue
1812
It was one thing to be named after a leafy green vegetable, but quite another to resemble one.
Letty stared morosely at her reflection. Her mother had read somewhere that green flattered auburn hair and green eyes. In her opinion, this in no way compensated for the gown’s vibrant colour nor its plenitude of ruffles. Moreover, her eyes were largely obscured by the wire spectacles she wore.
She sighed, tugging at the stray curl her mother’s maid had forced into her stick-straight hair. If only her father was still alive. Of course, he would not have directly opposed the enterprise. He had never directly opposed her mother in anything. But they would have laughed. Together they would have poked fun at the marriage mart, the ludicrously complex dances, the trite conversations and endless rules of etiquette.
And the thought of standing surrounded by pretty girls in their pretty gowns making their pretty speeches would not have seemed so daunting.
Of course, if she were six inches shorter, with natural waves and pleasantly brown hair, pretty girls, gowns and speeches would have been considerably less daunting.
‘Gracious, Letty, must you frown so?’ Her mother bustled into the bedchamber, making a tsking sound to signal her disapproval. ‘You will turn the milk sour and I am certain neither Lord Randolph nor Sir Edwin wish to sit across the breakfast table with someone having a disagreeable disposition.’
‘Any more than I wish to breakfast with anyone having Sir Edwin’s Adam’s apple or Lord Randolph’s whiskers.’
‘Sir Edwin can hardly help his Adam’s apple.’
‘It bobs. And Lord Randolph could certainly do something about his whiskers,’ Letty retorted.
‘You could part him from his whiskers were you to marry him.’
‘Except I do not plan to marry him, not even to save the world from his whiskers.’
Letty kept her voice light, but her stomach plunged somewhere near her feet at the very mention of marriage. It wasn’t even that they needed the money. Her father had made a gadget, which had greatly expedited the manufacture of cloth, leaving them financially secure.
Unfortunately, it had in no way guaranteed their social status and her mother hoped that an advantageous match would serve where her father’s ingenuity had not.
Besides, in her mother’s mind, marriage was a woman’s only choice.
Mrs Barton made a second tsking sound. ‘Lettuce, stop frowning. You are old enough to be realistic. What other option do you have unless you wish to be the unwanted spinster in your brother’s home? Not an enviable position, I assure you. Your father too greatly indulged you, allowing you too much time on science which has a most deleterious effect on the female mind.’
Letty did not bother to reply. She did not even hope to explain how articles about science and medicine had opened up her world, transporting her from this sleepy village to ancient ruins, battlefields and the cosmos beyond.
Her mother could not understand. It wasn’t that Mrs Barton did not wish to, rather that she could not. Her world revolved around her husband, family and society. The concept that such a life might not be enough was foreign to her.
‘And do leave your spectacles here. You look so much better without them,’ Mrs Barton added briskly.
Letty groaned. ‘Except everything becomes annoyingly blurry.’
‘Then you will not be bothered by either Lord Randolph’s whiskers or Sir Edwin’s Adam’s apple, will you?’
With this statement, Mrs Barton firmly removed the offending spectacles, closed her lips with a final tsk and marched from the
room.
* * *
Two hours later, Letty leaned against the wall at Lady Entwhistle’s ballroom. The heat had made her carefully placed curls frizz except for those now plastered to her forehead and dangling into her eyes.
Thankfully, she’d not had to dance, except one time with Lady Entwhistle’s eldest son. His toes had remained unscathed, but Letty was quite certain she’d miscounted her steps and sadly lost the rhythm.
It would be bad enough to lack co-ordination if one were petite with tiny dainty feet. It was worse when one was tall with feet which could never be called dainty.
He had not asked again.
Still, even blurry, the scene was pleasant to observe. Dancing had a science to it, she decided. Some individuals moved with fluidity, as though innately able, while others stepped with measured care, each movement requiring concentration. Sometimes, she wondered if the ability to move rhythmically was but another skill just like her brother could write while she retained everything she read so easily.
Which reminded her... Letty straightened with sudden determination. Lord Entwhistle had the most delightful, wonderful of things: a fully stocked library. Since her father’s death, her mother had cancelled the subscriptions to all scientific journals and Letty almost salivated with her eagerness.
With a furtive glance, Letty sidled along the wall. Her mother appeared to be conversing with a lady some distance away. Given the frequency of her nods and the way she leaned into the speaker, Mrs Barton’s attention seemed unlikely to waver.
With another furtive glance, Letty slipped from the bustle of the ballroom and into the corridor’s cooler air. She inhaled, thankful to escape from the noise and warmth of the dance. Now, she need only walk the few steps to the library and hope that it was not otherwise occupied.
It wasn’t. The large dim room was wonderfully empty. Its curtains were not yet drawn and pale moonlit shone through the windows. Wall sconces bathed the room in a golden light so that the embossed titles glinted with magical promise.
She loved libraries. She liked the excitement of seeing those bound volumes, each promising information, knowledge and unknown worlds. She liked the smell of them, that dusty, leathery scent, as though the air itself was steeped in history.
Anticipation mixed with the nostalgia of childhood memories pulsed through her as she stepped forward, running her fingers across the smooth leather spines. She knew exactly which title she needed. Ah, there it was. Grabbing the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, she pulled it off the shelf and clutched it to her chest. There was a fascinating article that she’d been wanting to read for ever. Well, since her brother had written to her about it. Ramsey was a wonderful brother, so like her father it hurt. It was quite possible that life as his spinster sister would be better than that of some bewhiskered worthy’s wife.
Except she didn’t want to be wife or spinster. She wanted the impossible.
Still, she refused to descend into the doldrums, particularly when she’d just found her favourite scientific journal. Sinking into the cushiony depths of the armchair, she pulled out her spectacles, thankful she had thought to secrete them in her reticule.
Positioning herself under the wall sconce, she glanced furtively to the door. Likely her mother would look for her soon, but she was a fast reader and able to skim through the words, retaining almost every word for review later.
Running her fingers gently over the leather bindings, she opened the tome. Very carefully, she found the article and with a sigh of deep content started to read.
* * *
Tony strode into the library. He felt like a fugitive. Indeed, if he had to talk to one more vapid school miss... What did those mealy-mouthed governesses teach anyway? Certainly not the art of interesting conversation—he did not know which was worse: the tongue-tied, big-eyed silence or the foolish chatter about ribbons, bonnets and the like.
A noise startled him. He scanned the room, irritated that even here he had failed to find solitude. To his surprise, he saw a female figure curled within the library chair and apparently perusing a large volume. She wore a dreadful, ruffled gown of vibrant green. Her hair was an equally vibrant red and she was so absorbed in her reading that she had not looked up. He cleared his throat.
She glanced in his direction. Her brows, surprisingly dark, drew together over gold-rimmed spectacles as she eyed him with an intense gaze. ‘I thought I was alone.’
Her tone and expression indicated that solitude would be preferable. Indeed, her rather stern aspect did not contain any of the giddy girlishness he had come to expect.
‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ he said.
She nodded, offering none of the usual polite platitudes and turned back to the book, an obvious dismissal which would irritate if it were not so damned amusing. For a moment, he watched her, fascinated by the apparent intensity of her concentration as well as the strong lines of her face, chin and high forehead.
Again momentarily aware of his presence, she glanced up, removing her spectacles. ‘Please sit, if you would like.’
She fixed him with her direct gaze. Her eyes were very green, a true green, not that wishy-washy mix of brown or grey which people called hazel. He sat, momentarily discomforted by the intensity of her gaze.
‘You also find dances overwhelming?’ she asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘You looked pale. You sat with an abrupt motion as though off balance. However, you appear too young and healthy to suffer from any malaise. And you do not seem intoxicated. Not that I have a great deal of experience with intoxication, but I saw my brother the worse for drink on one occasion and his speech was slurred and voluble while you have said little but with clear enunciation. Anyway, I wondered if you also found the noise and movement of the dance floor exhausting?’
‘Um...not usually,’ he said after this monologue. Indeed, this was a tame event, too full of debutantes, anxious mothers and warm lemonade to encourage inebriation. He would not have attended except for his sister. ‘I take it you are not enjoying the festivities?’
She pulled a face, but then smiled. He found the change from a serious demeanour to one of mischief intriguing. ‘Not entirely, although having access to Lord Entwhistle’s library is a solace, to be sure. You won’t tell?’
‘I am the soul of discretion.’ Although he doubted that the kindly Lord Entwhistle would care. He glanced at the book which so obviously fascinated her, uncertain what to expect. His sister liked novels and botanical books from which she would copy flowers and ferns with scrupulous attention to detail.
More recently, she had also taken to devouring fashionable journals and often begged their mother for the latest mode.
‘Goodness!’ He gave a spontaneous chuckle as he read the title of the article. ‘“Cowpox”? You are reading about cowpox?’
‘Yes, and smallpox. Neither of which is a subject for amusement,’ she said reprovingly.
He straightened his countenance. ‘No...um... I should not have laughed.’ This rather odd female seemed to have made him abandon a decade of niceties. And he was not exactly inexperienced. He had travelled the Continent and attended any number of balls and dances in London without feeling in any way socially inadequate.
‘You likely found the peculiarity of the subject amusing. My mother says that discussions about such topics will make me an oddity.’
‘She may be correct,’ he said, his lips twitching again.
‘She usually is. Or if not, her conviction of her own infallibility makes everyone believe it must be so.’
‘She sounds rather like my father,’ he said.
He was still angry about a lecture his father had given him on a large sum of money he had lost in a bet. It had started with a card game and ended with a fast gallop across Rotten Row. Fun, but not good for the pocket.
‘Did your father tell you to com
e here, then?’ she asked.
‘No, that was Mother, actually. She is quite positive that my presence will greatly enhance my sister’s marital chances.’
‘And will it?’
‘Possibly. I decided that if I had to suffer, I would ensure that my friends were similarly afflicted.’
‘Misery loves company.’
‘Indeed.’ Although his best friend, George, did not seem particularly miserable.
Infatuated, more like. What did one feel when one’s best friend suddenly falls head over heels with one’s sister? And George had always been such a sensible fellow. And he’d known Elsie for ever, except now he looked at her as though she was some miraculous creature—as if gowns and ribbons had the power to transform.
‘So, what is the fascination with cowpox?’ he asked, searching for a more pleasant topic.
She did not answer for a moment, again fixing him with her disconcertingly direct gaze. ‘Did you want to know? Or do you merely aim to be polite?’
‘Actually, I find I want to know,’ he said, rather to his own surprise.
‘Very well.’ She spoke with the tone of a schoolmaster. ‘The concept of introducing a pathogen to develop a strength is so interesting. And then there is the controversy. You see, Dr Jenner is thought to have first identified that a person may be less likely to contract smallpox if they have been previously infected with cowpox. But Jesty the farmer may have had the idea first.’
‘Controversial cowpox—even more entertaining.’
She frowned, fixing him with a dubious gaze. ‘Not the adjective I would use, but I surmise you are an individual frequently in search of entertainment.’
She spoke with surprising perspicacity for one so interested in cowpox.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘My brother is the responsible one. Do you not find that life can become remarkably dull, remarkably quickly?’
‘At times,’ she agreed, nodding her head for emphasis. ‘But you have no excuse for boredom. You can read whatever you want and likely no one cancels your scientific journals.’
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