The Duke she Desires

by Violet Hamers

  Perhaps I was wrong about Miss Bell. Perhaps she isn’t very clever after all.

  Normally, Peter found satisfaction in having judged someone correctly, but this time he found, to his shock, that aligning the reality of Miss Bell with his assumptions depressed him, rather than lifting his spirits.

  “Nervous distempers affect both males and females, in equal number, Your Grace,” Miss Bell said, drawing Peter’s attention back to her.

  “Is that so?” he asked sardonically.

  “Yes, it is. If you like, I can bring you at least five articles from five different physicians that echo that statement,” she said, raising her eyebrows in challenge.

  Peter did not take the bait. He suspected that Miss Bell was being very truthful indeed with this threat, and he would not risk humiliation by asking her to fetch her sources. She did not seem a woman who made frequent flippant, insupportable remarks.

  “You believe me,” she said, not a question but rather a statement. “I am glad. It would be such a bother to run home to get those articles. No doubt my father has scattered them about the library and left them in places I will never find. He’s a good physician, my father, but his skill for organization is somewhat lacking,” Miss Bell said, her voice lowering like this was something she was telling him in confidence.

  Peter did not know how to respond to such a comment, and so he stayed silent, allowing Miss Bell to continue.

  “As I was saying, it is an affliction that affects males and females in equal measure. It does, however, disproportionately affect people of your status—that is, gentlemen and ladies of your set.”

  “People of my set?” he asked. Feeling the need to gain back the upper hand in the conversation, he added with a menacing smile, “Do you mean lame dukes with no will to live?”

  He had hoped to shock Miss Bell, but of course, he was ineffectual in his attempt. She merely looked at him with something akin to pity, before shaking her head.

  “No,” she said. “I mean the ton in general. It is thought that people of higher status have a more refined nervous system, which dictates how the body responds to its inner and outer environment. The inner environment being, of course, the mind, and the outer environment referring to the world around you. Because of this sensitivity, you are more likely to suffer from complaints related to this system.”

  Peter balked at the word sensitive. It was one of his least favorite words, especially when it was connected to his person.

  He also wanted to tell Miss Bell that he did not understand her words. He had no idea what the nervous system was or what it did to, in, or about the body. But he was already feeling ill at ease around her now that the full extent of her intelligence was on display.

  Normally, Peter appreciated cleverness in a woman. But he was usually also standing on two feet, dressed in a fine coat and Hessians while engaging in this appreciation. To do so supine, wearing only a cotton shirt, was rather a different matter.

  You are letting yourself be intimidated by a bluestocking.

  It was silly, and yet, he couldn’t admit his stupidity to Miss Bell. He didn’t want to appear any weaker or lesser than her than he already must. He had few shreds of dignity left, but what he retained, he did not wish to lose in front of this woman.

  However, Miss Bell, because she was clever, realized Peter’s confusion and explained, “I think that the reason you cannot move your legs is because your body is reacting to something. And I think that something is in your mind, not your outer environment. You’ve healed from the gunshot wound, and reason dictates that you ought to be able to walk again. That you cannot walk suggests to me that this is a mental complaint, rather than a physical.”

  And she continued, “Mental complaints are much harder to treat than physical, I do not mind telling you. There is far less research done on the mind than the rest of the body. But you are a strong gentleman, of sound mind. I believe that if you allow me to work with you to retrain your legs and your brain, I can cure you. I believe you have the capability to walk, run, even dance, if you so desire. But you will need my help.”

  “Oh really? And why haven’t any of the other fifteen physicians I’ve seen suggested this, this ‘disease of the mind’?” Peter asked, saying the last four words with spiteful derision.

  Miss Bell shrugged. “They were all men. Sometimes, men see the obvious. They do not look at what is lying underneath. It’s one of your sex’s most troubling qualities, in my opinion. It’s why we ought to have more female physicians, or any female physicians, really. It would do the field much good to have people who actually bothered to look under the surface before declaring something or someone a lost cause. It would, for example, have saved you rather a lot of time and, dare I say, humiliating examinations and discussions.”

  Peter had no response to that. He was having trouble responding to anything that Miss Bell was saying, in large part because a disturbing feeling was coming over him. One that, though he had not had much experience with the emotion as of late, held an unsettling similarity to hope.

  I feel hopeful. This woman, this bluestocking chit masquerading as a physician, has made me feel hopeful.

  Peter had no choice, really, but to accept her help then. Though he did growl and shout some more. He felt it necessary. He had a reputation as a brute to uphold, and he was loath to let it go so soon. Grumpiness suited him, he thought.

  At least for now, it does. He watched Miss Bell pack up her things a few minutes later. She smiled at him as she left, a smile that was somehow wicked and innocent all at once.

  With Miss Bell as his personal physician, however, Peter began to wonder whether he might not always be a brute. Perhaps he could become someone new. Not as cheery as his old self—the war had destroyed all vestiges of insouciant joy in him—but perhaps someone who did not scare maidservants out of service in his household on a regular basis.

  A gentleman could hope. And so Peter did.

  Chapter Six

  “I cannot believe he sent this! As though I am under your thumb, subject to your every whim and fancy! As though I am not my own woman, and could not possibly have the mental acuity to make decisions for myself!” Lavinia shouted as she flapping the letter back and forth in her hand.

  “My dear, do keep your voice down. It is not good to grow so agitated after supper. You know it interferes with digestion,” her father said in a tired tone as he ran a hand through his hair.

  They were once again in the library, enjoying glasses of sherry and whiskey. Her father was on his third glass of sherry, apparently having needed a drop of sweet stuff to calm him after a day of delivering more babies. Lavinia was soothing her anger with whiskey, the fiery liquid doing a delightful job of warming her insides. However, it was doing nothing to calm the ire she felt towards the duke, a gentleman who until an hour ago she was beginning to think was not nearly so miserable as his actions might make him seem.

  “But Father, you must realize how entirely disrespectful this is. To write you a letter asking your permission to allow me to act as the duke’s live-in physician? Am I unable to make such a decision for myself? I can diagnose his nervous disorder and be sufficiently trusted to direct his recovery, and yet I cannot decide for myself where I can and should reside? Such insolence! Such arrogance! But then, what else should I expect from a member of the ton?!”

  Lavinia harrumphed then, downing her whiskey and setting the glass down beside her with rather more force than she was intending. The smack of the glass hitting the wood below it rang out in the relative silence of the room, earning her a sour look from her father.

  “You must understand, Linny,” her father said, using her childhood nickname, no doubt in an attempt to placate her. “Gentlemen like the duke do not think females ought to be independent. Their very existence is based on centuries of primogeniture. Females are, by their very nature, subservient in their worlds. They are for marrying and making babies with, and nothing else. Maybe some embroidery, a little drawi
ng or singing now and then, but little else. No activities that truly challenge the mind.”

  “No, Lord forbid they do something that uses their mind. Then they might get ideas above their station,” Lavinia remarked with sarcasm.

  “Precisely, my dear. That is precisely it. Ladies are not meant to be intelligent. It is not becoming, and it would give them ideas about equality and natural rights that would only complicate these great gentlemen’s lives. His Grace cannot fathom a woman like you, a woman who is intelligent, independent, and cares naught for fashion or sewing,” he said, adding, “Unless, of course, it is the sewing together of wounds.”

  Lavinia giggled a little at that. Her father was a serious man by his nature, but he did occasionally say things that were inadvertently funny. It was one of her favorite things about him.

  “Just send a letter back saying you give yourself permission to move into his residence tomorrow. It will remind him that you are unlike the rest of your sex, and will also allow me to go to bed without first having to engage in correspondence, which, as you know, is an activity I despise.” With this, he, too, gulped down his drink, though unlike Lavinia, he set his glass down gently.

  “Good night, my dear. I am proud of you, you know,” he said, getting up from his chair and coming over to her own seat. “To cure an affliction of the mind is a far less exact science than that of most other forms of medicine, but it is one in which you are eminently suitable. I have complete faith that you can have this duke walking about within a few months,” he said, leaning down and kissing her on the forehead.

  He stood up, and was halfway across the room when he added over his shoulder, “And, perhaps, you can enlighten him to the capabilities of your sex. His set ought to learn that women are not merely baubles to admire. They have brains and brawn, the same as anyone else!”

  Lavinia heard her father chuckling to himself as he closed the door behind him. She sat back in her chair and smiled. She already knew the duke was uncomfortable with her intelligence. But perhaps, with time, she could teach him that a smart woman was not something to be feared. It was something worth celebrating.

  I am something worth celebrating. She rose to pour herself another whiskey. After a day with the Duke of Kingwood, she certainly deserved the dram.

  “If that is you, Stevens, with another wide-eyed footmen and a plate of biscuits, I vow to throw each and every one of them at your head!” Peter yelled through the door, where someone outside had just had the indecency to knock, interrupting his solemn musings.

  He should have known it would be Miss Bell walking through it instead of Stevens. After all, her letter, which was so dripping with irreverence that it was practically laughing at him, alerted him of her arrival at no later than eleven that morning. And, according to the small clock on the table by his bed, it was nearing eleven o’clock. Miss Bell seemed like the exact sort of woman to arrive at somewhere at precisely the moment she promised, so it ought not to have surprise Peter at all to see her walking through his door.

  However, it did surprise him. Despite her letter accepting a position as his live-in physician, and the two bags of her belongings that had arrived earlier that morning, Peter had still held a fear that she would not come. That she would change her mind.

  After all, he had been rather horrible to her for the majority of their assignation, first during his fevered delirium and, perhaps even more embarrassingly, while he was perfectly in his right mind. Or as in his right mind as a gentleman with a “nervous distemper” was capable of being.

  Yet here she was, striding toward him in yet another hideous frock, this one the color of wet mud. It was loose on her figure, leaving the true shape of her form entirely to his imagination.

  Not that Peter had imagined her form…much. Sleeplessness had colored the previous night, and he had at some point begun imagining what Miss Bell did in her spare time. These imaginings, which had begun their life as short, innocent clips, had gradually turned into sultry, sensual fantasies that would make a woman of pleasure blush.

  At first, he had simply thought of her walking through one of London’s parks, the wind blowing wisps of her blonde curls around her heart-shaped face. Then, it turned into her leaning against one of the trees in the park, admiring a sunset. In this vision, her arms were crossed behind her back, putting what he suspected was a modest but shapely bosom to best advantage.

  From there, his imagination began to run wild, until he finally ended the night dreaming of sending Miss Bell into such wild pleasure that she could do nothing but shout his name. It was the first time since he’d returned from the war that Peter had even felt such desire. He’d felt numb all over, but apparently all it took was a day in Miss Bell’s presence to remind him of the working appendage he had been ignoring these last few weeks.

  Though it was due to Miss Bell that Peter had spent perhaps his most pleasurable night as an immobile invalid, that the object of his dreams was now striding toward him made things a bit awkward. Because suddenly, Peter didn’t feel like yelling at anyone. Suddenly, he wasn’t angry.

  No, instead, he was aroused. Intrigued.

  By a bluestocking! he added, in case he needed reminding of how very much he had changed. He hardly recognized himself, but with Miss Bell around, he didn’t mind the alterations to his person nearly so much. He rather thought he wouldn’t mind anything so much when she was around.

  Miss Bell, however, did not seem to share in his enthusiasm at their meeting again.

  Indeed, her face was set in a frown, and her finger was poised in the air, pointed at him. The finger began to wag as words tumbled from her mouth, words that doused whatever fire of desire had begun to build in his loins, his brain, or any other part of his body.

  “How dare you! It is clear that your household has been holding their tongues, but I am under no such obligation. Therefore, I do not mind telling you that you have been a horrible brute to your servants. I have just been informed that you had sent not one, not two, but three maids home with your temper! And there is currently a footman cowering at the bottom of the stairs, looking like an abused animal! Is this how you treat the people that have been waiting you on hand and foot for the last month? The servants who have been praying for your recovery, doing their utmost to ensure that you are as comfortable and cared for as is possible in your condition?”

  Peter’s eyes were fixed on Miss Bell’s wagging finger. It seemed a safer thing to focus on, for her honey brown eyes were practically red with rage as she continued to berate him.

  “You will stop this treatment of your servants this instant, or I will quit this house and not return, and I am sure you are well aware by now that there is no other physician who can or will help you. Do you promise to treat your staff with the respect their devotion deserves?” Miss Bell asked.

  Peter was so focused on her finger that at first he did not hear her words. He only became aware that she was waiting for his response when she cleared her throat, rather loudly, and he looked up to find her staring at him menacingly.

  “Yes, I promise,” he croaked. “I will not mistreat them any longer.”

  Normally, he would not hold with such treatment by a glorified servant. After all, he was a duke! Dukes were meant to be the ones giving the orders, but he suddenly suspected that saying as much to Miss Bell would have her exiting his room with bracing swiftness.

  Best to agree with her, he thought. It pained him to do so, to so easily defer to the lesser sex of a lesser set, but her presence was, ultimately, beneficial, after all.

  “Good,” she said, lowering her finger. Peter watched it fall to her side, realizing for the first time that Miss Bell had rather delicate hands. All the other physicians he had seen had calloused, gnarled fingers, no doubt the result of grinding medicines, kneading muscles and the like. But whether from youth or the result of hereditary blessing, Miss Bell’s hands were pale silk, with long, slender fingers that ended in perfectly rounded nails. They were a lady’s hands,
better suited to needlepoint than the manual labor of a physician.

  But Peter suspected that if he paid the woman such a compliment, she would at best accept it grudgingly, and at worst scoff at him for his frippery.

  Best keep it to myself, then.

  Miss Bell gestured for him to sit up and remove his blanket.

  Perhaps someday, when she does not distrust me so much, I might be able to tell her without it resulting in an immediate grimace. One can hope.

  Peter found himself contemplating hope rather a lot in Miss Bell’s presence, and he found that he did not entirely abhor the pattern. She rid him of the numbness that seemed to so define him these days.

  Perhaps, in time, she can even teach me to feel again.

  He immediately admonished himself for being such a romantic. Pretty words were for Lord Byron, not dukes.

  It was Lavinia’s third day as the duke’s residential physician when she heard the yelling. For the past few days, the duke had been making such progress. A thrice-daily regimen of stretching and strengthening his legs had resulted in tingling sensations in his lower calves, which she hoped would in time lead to the return of feeling in his lower extremities.

  She suspected that what he had needed all along was not more medicines or doctors pinching and poking him, but rather a good, sound verbal trouncing. He had been feeling sorry for himself in his bed, wallowing at his misfortune. It behoved him little to do so; indeed, what he had needed all along was a strong woman like herself to instil discipline and a lot of hope.

  Men are rather like children that way, she often thought to herself. They need looking after and coaching the same as any schoolboy.

  That Peter had also divulged to her that the instance of pain he experienced the other morning with her was not singular further confirmed her suspicions that his was a nervous complaint. His legs had been either numb or in severe pain since returning to war, when, once the gun wound had healed, they ought to have worked nearly as well as before. Certainly the uninjured leg should have retained full sensation and range of movement, but it had fallen lame at precisely the same time as the inured one.