Still, she could not help it. Lavinia had only been thrown out of one other patient’s home, and that was by the daughter of an old woman dying of wasting disease. Lavinia had apparently resembled the old woman’s sister, and had so distressed her with her appearance that the woman’s daughter worried if Lavinia entered the house again, she would shock the old woman into death.
“Best if you go, love. She’s not long for this world anyways. There’s naught you could do to help her,” the old woman’s daughter had told her in a thick Yorkshire accent.
But at least then, there had been reason for Lavinia to go. Whereas with the duke, there was no reason for her expulsion from his chambers. Lavinia was a seasoned and skilled, if not qualified, professional. She was trusted by her father, the duke’s physician, and she had helped His Grace get through his fever. That alone ought to have proved her usefulness, but apparently her sex nullified any of the ways she might positively contribute to the duke’s health.
She had at first found Peter Cadden merely frustratingly attractive, but she had revised her assessment during her journey home that morning. Now, she found him simply frustrating.
“Well, from what you told me of the gossip his maid and his butler shared with you, it is clear that he is mentally agitated. He is not in his right mind. I will conduct an examination tomorrow morning, and hopefully I can make him see reason. It’s likely he will need more care in the coming weeks, and I will most certainly not always be available to give it. He’ll simply have to get used to you,” her father said, shrugging like that would be a simple task.
But Lavinia knew that gentlemen like The Duke of Kingwood did not willingly accept such things. They thought that their money and privilege allowed them to live life exactly as they pleased. And usually, it did, which made it all the more complicated when circumstances beyond their control forced them to accept situations they deemed less than ideal.
It was for this and many other reasons that Lavinia often regarded gentlemen like the duke with something akin to pity. Their lives were, after all, so complicated. The ladies were sold off like cattle at a market, thrown to the highest bidder with the most money and the best reputation. Marriage took up so much thought and consideration, as did clothing, titles, property, and other superficial things that were meant to define a person, but in fact only served to ensure that every person looked, acted, and talked like every other person.
Lavinia often thought of the ton as a bunch of sheep, with the gossip rags and old biddies their shepherds, leading them all toward one trend or another. She was glad not to be one of their set.
Though her life was unusual, she enjoyed it. She never had to worry about coming out to society, about finding the right husband. In fact, she had begun to suspect that her father would be happiest if she stayed unattached for the rest of her days, because it would make it so much easier to work together.
Still, her contentment with her lot in life did not prevent her from despising His Grace, or, as she was now calling in her head, “The Uncouth Duke.”
“…so do not wait for me, for I am not entirely sure when I shall be home.”
Lavinia looked over and realized that while she was thinking unkind thoughts about dukes and sheep, her father had been talking. And of course, he would not repeat himself, so she was forced to glean, from his facial expression and the final words of his speech, a rough summary of what he had said.
He’s leaving. To see a patient? And won’t be home by the time I retire to bed, she guessed, though she did not remember him mentioning any patients earlier that afternoon. Then again, she had been rather distracted then, too. In fact, her thoughts had been unusually unfocused since she returned from the duke’s residence.
“Do try and forget about the duke, my dear. Or at least, think of ways to help him, rather than thinking of clever ways to insult him. It would be a much more productive use of your intelligence,” her father said, showing uncharacteristic attentiveness to her mood.
“Yes, Father. I’ll do my best,” she said, and grabbed Cheyne’s book from the stack beside her, deciding to spend the rest of the evening planning so that when she was eventually let back into the duke’s chambers, she would be prepared.
She would not be distracted by him or anything else. Not when the happiness of the duke’s entire household clearly hung in the balance. The servants needed their duke, that was clear. And she was going to deliver him back to them, a new, improved version of his former self.
Chapter Five
The woman’s crying was echoing in the hall as she ran from his room.
She was not the first woman Peter had made cry that day. In fact, she was the third.
The previous two had the audacity to open his curtains and bring him tea, respectively. The first had been treated to a litany of insults so fierce that she actually seemed to shrink on the spot. Peter watched as she lost inches with each rude word he threw at her, until she seemed hardly bigger than a toadstool as she ran from his room.
The second had been the unfortunate recipient of a cup of boiling tea thrown at her. Thankfully, Peter was so weak that the tea barely made it halfway across the room, landing in a shattered mess of porcelain and boiling water three feet from where the maid stood, cowering in fear.
Stevens had to lead her away, for she was paralyzed with terror. The withering look he had given Peter was enough to send schoolboys crying for their mothers, but it affected Peter little. He was in so much pain that the devil himself could smoulder him with a look and Peter would hardly bat an eyelash.
Now, he was sitting in bed, the pale sunlight shining down onto his coverlet, staring at the few shards of porcelain that Hannah, the head of the household, had neglected to sweep up. Peter hadn’t tried to yell at Hannah. She was in an even worse mood than him most of the time, especially on days when she lost three servants before breakfast had even been served.
Peter was contemplating ringing the bell at his side merely for entertainment, to see who else he could eviscerate with his words, when the knock he had been waiting over an hour for finally sounded.
Finally, Mr. Bell is here.
Though the fever that had plagued him had abated thanks to the ministrations of Mr. Bell’s beautiful but terribly insolent daughter, his legs were now so sore and aching so badly they were driving him mad. He had to hold back grunts of pain every time a new flare of pain arose. It was in fact why he’d thrown the tea cup in the first place. He’d needed something to divert his mind away from fantasies of cutting his legs off and finally being free of the nuisances they brought with them.
The pain had started the day before.
When Mr. Bell came to examine him the previous morning, the feeling had only just begun, and Peter had decided not to mention it to the physician, assuming it would fade. But it had not faded; it had grown worse, eventually waking him up in the middle of the night. To his shame, he had cried out so loudly that his valet, James, had rushed in from the adjoining room. After Peter took a swing at him, bloodying the poor man’s lip, Stevens had eventually been called in to help calm him down.
When words alone did not work, the men turned to that opiate loved by so many and detested by himself: laudanum. Peter hated the taste of it, the way it made him feel, like his mind was made of treacle. He avoided it at all costs.
Stevens, however, had no such aversions to the tonic, and shoved a spoonful into Peter’s mouth when he was mid-shout, then snapped Peter’s jaw shut forcibly, glaring at him until he finally swallowed the acrid mouthful.
After wincing at the taste and using words that not even the grimiest of dock workers knew, Peter had promptly fallen asleep. The sleep had felt like death, and he had in fact hoped that he had died, thereby avoiding any further strife and tribulation in his life.
But then he woke up. The laudanum had worn off, and the pain was even worse. Maids had been exiled, and now he was waiting for salvation in the form of Mr. Bell.
“Come in!” he therefore s
houted at the knock, eager for the physician to enter and examine him. A flare-up of pain followed his shout, and he bit back a growl, reaching out to clutch his legs before recoiling.
But it was not Mr. Bell’s placid face, lean figure, and dark hair that he saw entering his room.
Instead, it was that exquisite and also exquisitely frustrating woman from before who claimed she was a physician. Miss Lavinia Bell. She of the fine freckles, fair hair, and frustrating intelligence.
“What are you doing here?” he barked at her, finding that doing so was a wonderful distraction from another sharp pain, this time to his left shin.
To his extreme annoyance, however, the shout had no effect. Miss Bell ignored him entirely as she continued into the room, stopping at the chair next to his bed. Setting down her bag, she opened it and extracted what looked like a magnifying glass, along with a small, metal hammer that looked like it could do quite a lot of damage in the right hands. Which, in this case, were her hands.
“Get out! I told you the other day and I will tell you again, get out!” he shouted, gnashing his teeth when another pain hit, but once again, his words seemed to wash over her, falling onto deaf ears.
Lavinia placed her tools on the table at his left, then, before he had a chance to prepare, she threw the covers off his legs.
Peter gasped, partly at the rush of cold air on his aching skin, and partly because he had not actually seen his legs in weeks. He closed his eyes when being dressed and bathed, and did his best not to glance at the traitorous things even when they were shrouded in trousers.
They were pale, shrivelled little things, bearing a greater resemblance to birch twigs than anything else. The golden hair on them was matted with sweat, and Peter hated them immediately. Hated them with so much fervency that he forgot all about the pain they were causing him, choosing to focus instead on how entirely pathetic they looked, how unlike his old legs they seemed.
I used to be strong. I could walk for miles, run if I wanted to. These things don’t even look like they can carry me up a flight of stairs.
His destructive thoughts were interrupted, however, by the sweet voice of Miss Bell, who was also staring at his appendages, though her gaze was assessing rather than hateful.
“I am going to examine your legs. If you shout and scream at me, I am prepared to issue you with another dose of laudanum, or, if you prefer, I can simply tie you to the bed. Either option is more than satisfactory for myself; it just depends on your own personal preference.”
She said all this with a simpering smile that made Peter wish that it wasn’t uncouth to curse in front of women, for surely this bluestocking deserved a good, verbal dressing down of the kind he was now seasoned in giving.
A glance at Stevens, however, told Peter that his butler was more than willing to assist in affixing his appendages to the bed if the occasion arose. And considering that laudanum was hardly more preferred to such an occurrence, Peter bit back his retort and resigned himself to his fate.
“Fine. Examine me, and then get out. And be careful. My legs have been paining me all morning,” he snarled.
“Very well,” she said, and looked back at Stevens. “If you would be so kind as to leave us, Stevens, I can ring when we are finished. I promise his lordship is in capable hands, but in order to examine him properly and assess his condition, we need to be alone.”
“Of course, Miss. I trust you implicitly,” Stevens said, executing a rather low, supplicant bow before exiting the room and drawing the door closed behind him.
Traitor.
“Now,” Miss Bell said, turning back toward him, a wide smile on her face that had no place in his sick room. “I understand from my father that you are recovered from your fever. We are both uncertain of the cause, but you seem to be exhibiting no lasting signs of illness, which tells me that in that respect, you are healthy. However,” she continued, looking at his legs. “There is the matter of your legs. Am I correct in thinking that you have been shot in your right leg, but that both appendages are immobile?”
Peter was having that daydream about dissolving into liquid again. He hated talking about his legs. To do so while biting back grimaces of pain with an attractive, intelligent female was a new level of humiliation to which he did not particularly want to rise.
However, he was beginning to suspect that Miss Bell was not a woman who gave up anything without a fight, and considering he was in no condition to spar, he reckoned he ought to let her get on with things. With any luck, the examination would be over and done with in ten minutes, and then he could go back to being pathetic in private. And maybe having a good row with Stevens.
Yes, that will make me feel better.
“Yes, you are correct. I was shot in my right calf muscle by a rifle at close range. My left leg wasn’t harmed during the skirmish, but I haven’t been able to move either limb since I woke up in the field hospital nine weeks ago.”
“And this pain you mentioned? Where is it, and when did it start? My father told me of no such ailment when he shared his notes with me this morning.”
“It is all over my lower legs. It ebbs and flows, but the pains are sharp, like knives cutting into my skin. It started yesterday, just before he arrived, but I thought…”
He paused, not wanting to admit that he had withheld the information. He felt foolish for doing so now. He had thought he was being strong, keeping his pain to himself, but Peter realized now that he was being a stupid coward. He was only making his own life worse by denying information to his physician.
“I didn’t mention it your father. I thought it would get better.”
“Ah,” Miss Bell said, nodding like she understood him exactly, which Peter doubted. When he looked in her eyes, he saw a mixture of sympathy and comprehension that made him think that perhaps Miss Bell was physician and gypsy both, for it seemed she could read his mind. “I am sure I do not need to lecture you on the foolishness of withholding information from your physician. It makes our job to cure and yours to convalesce harder.”
Peter said nothing, and thankfully Miss Bell dropped the subject, turning the conversation back toward his legs. He’d never thought of them as a safe subject before, but in comparison to being lectured by a female, discussing them was extremely preferable.
“May I take a look at your legs?” she asked, and to her credit, this she did with a gentler tone, as though she understood just how difficult it was for Peter to expose his wound, to expose any vulnerability, to anyone, but most particularly a woman.
This warmed Peter to her slightly, enough to acquiesce to her demands.
“Yes,” he said. He watched as Miss Bell walked to the other side of the bed and carefully lifted his right leg. Peter did not feel her touch, and it did nothing to either exacerbate or alleviate his pains. He felt nothing. He was numb there, like always.
“The wound has healed well. The gunshot must have only entered the muscle, and not hit any arteries or bone. Can you flex your leg at all?” she asked.
Peter shook his head. “I cannot move it.”
Nodding, Miss Bell moved one hand to his foot and drew it so his toes were pointing toward his shin. Peter watched with fascination as the tiny bump of his calf muscle hardened with the motion, a sign of latent strength still visible.
She did the same with the other leg, and continued performing a series of other tests, moving his legs this way and that, making apparent muscles that Peter had thought completely gone after six weeks in bed doing absolutely nothing to promote the maintenance, let alone growth, of such signs of strength.
As she completed her examination, the pains in Peter’s legs faded, until they were completely gone. The tension in his body resulting from so much distress dulled as well, until he was finally able to relax back into the pillows at his back. It was the best he had felt since…well, since the morning after she had first visited him.
Perhaps she does know what she is doing. Maybe her father did teach her a few things after all
.
Peter would also admit that staring at Miss Bell as she worked was preferable to doing the same with her father; she was infinitely more physically appealing. And the fantasies she had inspired in him began to make an appearance again. Of course, Peter couldn’t let them affect him; his legs and the area between them were both visible to Lavinia’s eyes, though the latter was thankfully covered by his shirt.
Think of Parliament, of sheep giving birth, of…bees.
Bees, however, reminded him of spring, and mating, and that only worsened his problem. What a godsend, therefore, that Miss Bell began speaking a moment later, distracting Peter from his wandering, dangerous ponderings.
“Well, I am pleased to tell you that nothing is physically wrong with you, though I suspect I am not the first physician to say such a thing,” she said, removing her back from the chair and taking a seat.
“No, you are not,” Peter said, his previous sense of calm disturbed by one of foreboding he could not explain. He was so used to these conversations that followed examinations that it was almost a reflex now, to prepare himself for yet another physician telling that he was incurable. This time, however, the conversation did not go at all how he was expecting.
“Be that as it may, I am not sure that any other physician has mentioned a nervous complaint as the result of your immobility,” she said, lacing her hands together and setting them down in her lap.
“Nervous complaint? You mean like what afflicts women? What sends them into hysterics?” he asked with derision. Surely the ailment that sent so many women collapsing into their couches, only to rouse with the aid of smelling salts? Peter could not possibly be associated with such a contingent.
The Duke she Desires Page 5
