A Debutante in Disguise

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘Thank you,’ he said once more.

  ‘I didn’t do that much. Doctors still know so little.’

  ‘You fought for him. You never gave up.’

  ‘And you believed in me. It is the first time that anyone has believed in me—I mean, as opposed to Dr Hatfield.’

  ‘Were you able to rest?’

  ‘Yes, for hours. I got up only a short while go. I checked on Teddy and Elsie. They are both sleeping.’

  ‘I sent most of the servants to bed early, too. I don’t think they’d slept either while Teddy was ill.’

  They fell silent again, staring across the velvet darkness of the garden. The leaves still danced, rustling over flagstones as light, wispy clouds fluttered across the sky.

  ‘You can work as Dr Hatfield for as long as you want. I’ll say nothing. I don’t think Jamison will either.’

  ‘Thank you. What about the servants here? They must guess?’

  ‘They will say nothing.’

  She glanced at him. In profile, his scar was not noticeable and she could see only the strong lines of his chin. He reached somewhat cumbersomely across his body, resting his uninjured hand upon her own. His palm was warm and dry and her entire awareness seemed focused on his touch.

  She turned slightly towards him and, very gently, touched his wounded hand, feeling the taut, tight skin where the wound had so recently healed.

  He made to move it away.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

  Tenderly, she ran her finger light across his palm. ‘I am glad you have taken off the glove.’

  ‘Why?’

  They stood so close that she could feel the whisper of his breath.

  ‘Because it shows that you survived. It is not a sign of weakness, but strength.’

  ‘Is it? Is it strength to survive?’ he asked. ‘Or merely a twist of fate?’

  He spoke so quietly that Letty had to shift closer to hear him.

  ‘It takes strength to keep going.’

  * * *

  Tony closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. He thought of George and Edgar and the nameless boy with the bayonet stuck in his gut.

  ‘I see them, too,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She looked towards the garden. ‘I see them. The people I could not help. Patients. And my father. He died quite suddenly. It was his heart. I felt like I should have been able to help. Even as a child I’d read about medicine. I thought I should have been able to do something. With all those hours of reading, I should have been able to help my own father.’

  ‘But you couldn’t?’

  ‘No. He died in front of my eyes. I know it is not the same, but I wanted you to know—’

  ‘I see George,’ he cut in. ‘I see George.’ Not really, George, of course. Rather the remnants of what had been George. ‘And this boy. He had a bayonet in his stomach. I pulled it out. He died.’

  ‘You blame yourself?’

  He glanced at her, expecting to see condemnation in her clear gaze. ‘Yes. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No. You did your best. That is all any of us can do. Likely the bayonet was preventing blood loss by placing pressure on a severed vessel. But he couldn’t have been saved. At least he died knowing someone cared and wanted to help.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have died.’

  ‘None of those young men should have died. Young men should not be sent to battle as cannon fodder at the whim of politicians. But it is not your fault. Your survival did not make them die. There is no correlation. No causal effect.’

  His lips twisted into a wry smile. Always the bloody scientist. Yet, despite their oddness, her words comforted more than the polite platitudes that had been sent in all those pretty, gushing notes with their black-trimmed edges and copperplate penmanship.

  ‘Oddly, that helps,’ he said.

  They were silent for a moment and it struck him that the silence was comfortable. Even as a healthy young man, he’d felt a restlessness, a need to move, to climb, to run, to talk and to fill in the quiet moments. Since his accident, he’d hated the company of others yet, conversely, dreaded solitude. He supposed that was why he’d sought the oblivion of brandy which provided a facsimile of peace.

  But here, with this woman, he felt an ease.

  ‘Why did you tell me to read Goethe?’ he asked.

  She showed no surprise at his sudden change in topic. ‘He described the sound of the incoming shells at the Battle of Valmy. He said he felt different afterwards, less of a person. No, maybe it was not that he was less of a person, but that he was isolated, remote from others in a way he had not been before.’

  ‘Perhaps I should read Goethe.’

  ‘If you read enough literature and with sufficient variety, there will always be something to comfort or inform. I find books more reliable than people.’

  He smiled, but it was true. Knowing that Goethe had also experienced this odd, peculiar, awful disconnected sensation helped. He was not alone. Or mad. Or, if he were mad, it was a madness shared by others—Goethe and that French fellow who fell into the canal.

  He felt a flicker of humour and was conscious of that unusual mix of emotion, which Letty always engendered.

  Muddled in with the humour, there was a stirring, an awareness of their solitude and that the moonshine highlighted her cheeks, making her long lashes cast lacy shadows. Perhaps it was the mention of Goethe which made him remember that other night with sudden clarity. In that moment, he saw her in the voluminous nightdress, her hair wildly dishevelled, her lips parted.

  Or maybe, more seductive than all the rest, was the notion that tonight, on this terrace and in this moment, he was not a solitary creature.

  The comfort of her presence morphed into something else. He found his gaze drawn to her profile, to the turn of her cheek, the pert outline of her nose and the fullness of her lips. The moonlight gleamed on the gold wire of her spectacles through which her eyes looked huge and green and luminous. The breeze made a stray strand brush against her cheek.

  Gently, he reached forward and, with one finger, touched her soft skin, gently tucking her hair behind her ear. He felt her start at his touch. He heard her gasp and saw her eyes widen.

  ‘I am going to remove your spectacles.’

  ‘Why?’ Her word was more exhalation than speech.

  ‘Because your eyes are beautiful.’ Gently, he removed her eyewear. ‘Besides, your spectacles will get in the way when I kiss you.’

  With equal deliberation, he touched her chin, tipping it slightly upwards and bending forward to kiss her pert, upturned nose, her forehead, her cheek and, at last, her lips. He heard her muted gasp. He heard the rustle of her clothes as she shifted forward towards him.

  A sense of life, of promise, of need, pulsed through him, filling him and making him forget about his marked face and scarred shoulder.

  Her lips parted with a sound which seemed half-pleasure and half-surprise. Her hand reached up, touching his chin and the nape of his neck.

  This time he felt no impulsivity, but a certainty. The kiss deepened. His grip tightened, his fingers splayed against the fabric of her gown, pulling her tighter to him.

  A need, a desire, like a primal life force, engulfed him.

  He cupped her face with his hands, despite his injury. He stared down at her, as though memorising the curve of her cheek and the strong lines of brow and chin.

  For long seconds, they stood bound together and then, by mutual accord, turned from the garden view towards the house as though a question had been asked and answered.

  Chapter Twelve

  The balcony door clicked shut behind them as they moved down the long hallway towards her bedchamber. Infrequent wall sconces lit their way, providing puddles of warm yellow light.

  They stopped at the door. She placed her hand upon
the brass doorknob and he was aware of this moment as a single entity—as though disconnected from past or future.

  She glanced at him. She opened the door and then turned, reaching for his hand. He folded her fingers within his own. He felt the slight roughness of her skin which should be odd in a woman’s hand, but wasn’t.

  ‘Letty—’ The word was dragged from him.

  He should leave. He must leave.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave,’ she said.

  ‘Letty, Letty, I...we...’ He tried to hold on to sense...restraint.

  ‘I’ve never felt like this before.’ She spoke with an appealing wonder, curiosity threading the soft huskiness of her tone.

  With exploratory fingers, she reached up to his face. She touched his chin. She ran her fingers along his jawline and touched the tip of the scar as it snaked down his cheek. On tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his lips. The touch was sweet and chaste.

  Its very chastity undid all restraint.

  Gently, he tipped her chin upwards. Her lips parted with a muted gasp. He claimed her mouth, tasting her sweetness. She leaned into him, her movement unschooled and spontaneous.

  The door was already ajar and, as his kiss deepened, they pushed it open, half-stumbling as they stepped over the threshold. The chamber was dark save for the fire’s amber glimmer and the curtains had not yet been drawn. The moon and a myriad of stars twinkled in the dark velvet sky visible through the leaded panes and casting diamonds of silvery moonshine on to the wooden floor.

  He caught her lips, no longer tentative.

  Bending further, he kissed the smooth line of her jaw, her neck and the sweet spot on her collarbone where he could feel the beat of her pulse. He kissed the small triangle of skin visible at the neckline of her dress. Her skin had a dewy softness. She smelled of—He chortled. She smelled of soap.

  His hands dropped to her waist. He could feel her curves through the cloth. His fingers ran up her back, until he found the buttons.

  He undid them one by one so that her bodice loosened and he was able to push it down from her shoulders. She wore only a chemise and the pale skin of her shoulders and neck gleamed in the lamplight. Through the thin cotton, he could see the darker outline of her nipples straining through the cloth. Her hair had come undone and fell in loose tangles about her face.

  ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said. He touched the thin cloth of her shift and felt the nipple pucker, pressing against his hand. He heard her quickened exhalation.

  * * *

  Letty knew that scientifically she was not beautiful. She did not fit the criteria for classical beauty and yet, as Tony’s hand cupped her breast and she felt the warm, strength of his other hand, sliding down her spine, it did not matter.

  She felt...beautiful.

  Instinctively, she pressed herself closer so that she could feel the strong, hard lines of his body. She lifted her arms, caressing the hard muscles of his shoulders and running her fingers into his hair. She heard the wild drumming of her own pulse. It seemed that her body became molten, no longer stiff bone, but sensuous and fluid.

  Thought ceased, swamped in sensation. Letty knew a wild freedom. She moved without thought, instinctively responding to the driving heat which started at her core, pulsing and expanding throughout her body.

  She felt an exaltation, an awareness of her body and a cessation of thought and reason with a singularity of focus on this one moment. She felt his urgency as he pulled at the ties of her chemise. He tugged at them, pushing the cloth aside so that it hung about her waist. Her skin was bare.

  They stood so close that she could feel the cotton of his shirt brush against her. Her hands slipped from his shoulders, moving under the cloth of his shirt. She wanted to feel his skin. She wanted to feel the tiny hairs on his chest, the flat male nipples and the sinewy movement of his muscles.

  She felt him respond to her touch and thrilled to his soft needful groan.

  They shifted backwards in an intimate dance until she felt the mattress at the back of her legs. Half-stumbling, they fell to the bed. The mattress sank under their weight. He kissed her, long drugging kisses. For a brief moment he moved away. She heard him remove his shirt. Through half-closed eyes, she watched the way his muscles moved, highlighted within the low amber glow of the fire and by the moon’s light.

  He bent forward, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her neck.

  Cupping her face, he caressed her slowly, gently, tenderly.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  She could not turn from this. It was bigger than thought or logic. She couldn’t turn from this, from him or from this wild, new, wonderful part of herself.

  Life was not just about saving life. It was also about living, she thought with a drugged part of herself until thinking stopped.

  He pulled off his trousers and lay beside her. He felt warm and strong. He kissed her slowly, gently, so that she arched against him, wanting him faster, harder, deeper.

  Darts of feeling, that mix of pain and pleasure, pulsed through her. She clung to him, her body demanding something which was foreign to her, but in a heady, wonderful way.

  Tony groaned as he pulled at her skirts and underclothes, peeling them off her body, until she lay nude. She felt the whisper of air against her nakedness, but knew no hesitation or embarrassment.

  Instead, she felt only a needful joy as he lowered himself so that his body covered her own.

  * * *

  When Tony awoke, Letty was sitting at the desk in the corner of her room. It appeared to be still early. The sun was not yet high in the sky.

  Letty had put on her serviceable gown and tied her hair back into a neat bun as was her custom. With head bowed, she was writing. He could hear the scratch of the nib and the concentration apparent in the lines of her body.

  For a moment he was content to watch. Early morning sun bathed her, making her red hair gleam. Every so often, she would pause and chew her lip or conversely drum her fingers against the desktop. Then, after a moment of apparent contemplation, she would bend her head again and the chamber would become quiet, the silence punctuated only by the scratch of her nib.

  Finally, when she showed no sign of pausing, he sat up. The cloth rustled and she turned to him, flushing quite delightfully. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  They both paused as though ludicrously uncertain how next to respond. ‘I am glad you are awake,’ she said in those clear, firm tones that were typical for her—except for that wonderful, husky breathiness yesterday.

  ‘Indeed. Although I would prefer to have you awake and beside me and wearing considerably fewer clothes.’

  ‘I would like that, too,’ she said. ‘But, well, I thought we should talk.’

  ‘Definitely not what a man wants to hear after a night of lovemaking. Do you regret last night?’ he said, sitting up straighter.

  ‘No, no. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled with some satisfaction.

  ‘But I have done some calculations.’

  ‘Calculations?’

  He reached forward to take a sip from the water glass on the bedside table. Prior to Waterloo he’d had one or two dalliances and he could not recall ever waking to find his amour doing mathematical calculations.

  ‘You will be glad to know that there is very little chance I am with child.’

  ‘What—?’ He put the tumbler down so heavily that the liquid splashed.

  ‘I looked at the dates on the calendar and determined it is unlikely I would have conceived last night. I wish I could say that I was sufficiently logical that I completed the calculations prior to making love, but that would not be entirely accurate.’

  Again he felt that wash of emotions, each so intense, so intertwined that he could not discern each feeling: embarrassment, confusion, ir
ritation, desire and, under it all, sadness.

  A dream he hadn’t even known he’d built tumbled into sudden disarray.

  ‘So even after last night, you do not wish to get married.’ He spoke flatly, a statement, not a question.

  He had thought...he had hoped...he had assumed...

  ‘What? No, I mean, unless my calculations are wrong which I hope they are not. Please do not mistake my meaning, I—I—’ She had the grace to blush more furiously, glancing down and rubbing the grey fabric between her fingers. It made a scratching noise. ‘I am glad and thankful and joyful about last night. I learned so much—’

  Learned? Learned?

  He pulled on his trousers, standing. ‘So glad to know that making love with me has had a similar impact to that of a dusty tome or dictionary.’

  ‘You are angry?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve always aspired to be likened to a scientific tome.’

  ‘No—no. This is coming out all wrong. I should revise. It is just that I know that I am not the type of wife you need—’

  ‘I do not—’

  She waved a hand at his instinctive protest. ‘You will. You will eventually want and need a wife who can help you assume your role as lord.’

  ‘It is a role I never wanted and for which I have no training.’

  ‘Which is why it is even more important that you have a wife to support you now. Someone who knows how to socialise and run a house and host parties. Even if I am no longer practising as Dr Hatfield, that part of my life might be disclosed. Mr Jamison knows. Your servants here must suspect. It would cause scandal. You are a peer. You have a place in the House of Lords.’

  ‘I don’t care if—’

  ‘You will. You will care. Your father and brother left you a legacy and you will want to honour that by being the best in that role. I can’t be the person you need. Yesterday is something I will treasure but... I am not the type of woman you need for a wife.’

  Except I love you.

  The thought slammed through him. He jolted with its impact. It struck not only in his mind, but also like a blow to his gut and searing pain beneath his breast bone.