A moment later, a knock sounded on the door, and Stevens entered.
“Sir? I heard a shout and came to see that all was well,” the butler said, peering worriedly over at Peter.
“All is far better than well, Stevens. I can move my legs! Here, come see!” Peter said, not caring that such a command might not be entirely in the realm of the usual interactions of a master of the house and his servant.
Stevens hurried into the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him, a true sign that he was excited. The man generally took his butler duties very seriously, closing doors among them.
“Look,” Peter said, throwing the blankets off his legs and demonstrating his newfound abilities.
He was rewarded with the sight of Stevens actually clapping his hands with joy, and beaming like a fool.
“Your Grace! I have never been so happy! Well done!” he exclaimed.
Peter echoed Stevens’s beaming smile as he wiggled his legs, relishing in the feel of the sheets against his skin, the muscles and bones moving exactly as he told them to.
He did not consider himself an overly emotional man. He hadn’t cried since his mother’s passing. Hadn’t even shed a tear after he was carted into the field hospital and the physician fished the bullet out without so much as a dose of laudanum to numb him. But now, Peter found his eyes tearing up with happiness and relief.
He felt strong, able, hopeful. Of course he’d felt hope as soon as Miss Bell was ensconced in his house as his physician, he’d still held doubts about her efficacy. Now, however, he knew the woman to be a true genius of the medical sciences. He would never doubt a person just because of their sex again.
The woman herself entered his chambers only minutes later, having been called by Stevens. The butler had opted to flout protocol and instead just shout down the stairs that His Grace needed Miss Bell urgently.
“I’m here! What is wrong?!” she asked, breathless as she entered the room. It was clear she’d dressed in haste; Peter could tell she wasn’t wearing stays from the way her breasts hung on her chest, and the lush curves he could see peeking through the fabric. Her bun was also not nearly so severe as normal; he was certain that all it would take was an expertly placed tug and those beautiful locks would come tumbling down.
“Nothing is wrong. In fact, for perhaps the first time in months, something is actually going right,” Peter said, beckoning her to his bed with a gesture of his hand.
Lavinia hesitated, but Peter could not bear it, and he fairly shouted, “Get over here, Miss Bell!” His volume was harsh but his words were jovial, and she quickly walked to his bed.
“Why are you legs uncovered?” she asked, gasping when Peter began to demonstrate the range of motion he was now suddenly capable of. “Goodness! You can move!” she shouted, her eyes lighting up with joy. “Your Grace, you can move!”
She laughed, clapping her hands together and turning back to Stevens, who now looked positively overcome with emotion.
“Stevens, did you see? Did you see what His Grace can do?”
“Indeed, Miss Bell, I did,” he said, his voice rough, almost like he was holding back tears.
Peter’s own tears had thankfully receded back into his tear ducts the moment Lavinia walked into the room in her rumpled state. He was still happy, overjoyed, actually, but he did not want his physician to see him in quite such a vulnerable state.
She might know quite a lot about him by now, thanks to all her examinations and the hours of notes she had taken on his condition and recent past. However, she need not know that Peter was the kind of poor sop who actually teared up when happy. Now that there was a chance of him regaining his reputation as a strong and stable gentleman, he did not want to risk it with such a blatant show of emotion.
“This is wonderful,” Lavinia said now. “I think in a few days, we should begin walking exercises, Your Grace.”
“Really?” Peter asked, sitting up.
“Yes. The first goal was to get movement and feeling back in your legs. The next is to build up your strength so you can walk. Then, we will move onto running.”
“So you think I’ll be able to do all that, eventually?” he asked.
“Your Grace,” Lavinia said, a smile on her face that made her look positively angelic, “I think you can do anything you set your mind to. That, if nothing else, is clear now. The power of your mind did this. Let it continue its work, and there is nothing you will not be able to do.”
Peter would have kissed her for that, were Stevens not in the room. As he was, he settled for giving her his widest smile, and a saucy wink as well, to let her know what he’d rather be doing at that moment.
His wink was met with a blush that took over the woman’s cheeks, making her look far more innocent than he now knew her to be.
Lavinia was in her room, writing down the day’s observations and notes, which were far more exclamatory than normal.
His Grace could walk! Was repeated on multiple lines, for she could not help shouting about the accomplishment, not even in her writing. She was immeasurably proud of him. She could not imagine what a trial it must have been to wage war in his head, banishing all those negative thoughts that told him he was weak, a waste of a title.
But by God, he had waged that war, and won, and his victory was the beautiful moment of two limbs that she knew would one day be nearly, if not just as, strong as they had once been.
She had just dotted her fourth exclamation point when she heard the sound of shouting. Immediately, her mind went to Lady Magdalene, but then of course, she was reminded that Lady Magdalene was no longer a part of the duke’s life.
And thank heavens for that. With each passing day, she found herself growing more and more attached to the duke. She had learned that he wasn’t the cruel, prejudiced gentleman he had at first seemed. In fact, the last week had shown her that he was a good, kind person— proud, of course, but also fiercely protective of those he held dear, which, in her observations, seemed to be his household staff, particularly Stevens and his valet, James.
Therefore, she was much cheered now that he was once again mobile, his legs and feet moving more and more each day. Between the stretches and the new strengthening movements she had introduced, Lavinia had high hopes that she would have the duke walking by Michaelmas.
Of course, this would mean that her position in as his in-house physician would be over in a matter of weeks. From then on, she would only need to see the duke once or twice a week to check on his progress. But the very thought of leaving him behind made her throat thick and her eyes burn with unshed tears.
The truth, though Lavinia rarely admitted it to herself, was that she was falling in love with Peter Cadden. Had fallen in love, really. She was infatuated with the man, who flouted every preconceived notion she had about the upper classes.
He’d been curmudgeonly when she first entered the household, of course, and gossip from the servants told her he’d been the same for a month or so before that. But now that she was there, and now that he was regaining his strength and confidence, the duke was showing himself to be a humble, gracious gentleman.
He was not arrogant, did not look down on her or his servants or make much of the difference in their classes. He respected and listened to her, valued her opinion as his friend and physician. In fact, the night before, he had even told her she was the best physician he’d ever had.
“Would that the Royal College accepted females,” he had rued. “For if the city is full of women half as clever as you, there ought to be a fair few more female physicians.”
Lavinia had practically glowed after such a compliment. Not even her father, who she knew both valued and believed in her, had ever said anything of the kind.
Indeed, the duke was a good gentleman, which was why she rose from her desk, threw open her door and went to see what all the shouting was about. He didn’t deserve any more arguments or dramatics; she would see to it that whoever was bothering him was shortly banishe
d from the property.
However, when she ascended to the first floor drawing room, where the voices were coming from, it was to find the door closed and bolted. The door itself was thick oak, but there was a gap at the bottom that allowed Lavinia to hear most of the conversation within.
She could hear his calm, pleasing voice being interrupted by what sounded like an animal growling. A moment later, the growling turned into words, which were shouted a top volume.
“How dare you do this to my daughter!”
Oh dear. It seemed the Marquess of Stafwood was there. And he did not sound very happy.
“Lord Stafwood, I beg you, please lower your voice. You will startle my servants if you continue with your shouting,” Peter said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his tone.
He’d been deep into the history of Rome, and had just gotten to the scintillating section about Mark Antony’s marital and sexual exploits when the door flew open and the marquess strode in. The gentleman’s footsteps were so loud it sounded like a stampede of cows entering the room.
Stevens had rushed in after, shouting, “My Lord, I did not say you were allowed entry into the house! Please, leave this room at once!”
The marquess had responded to this command by turning around and spitting at Stevens, before screaming, “Leave us, servant!”
Peter had nodded at Stevens, who had looked positively bewildered at being treated in such a way. Peter had just begun to admonish the marquess for speaking so rudely to his butler, but then the screaming had begun, and Peter had struggled to get a word in edgewise ever since.
Now, however, the marquess was taking a deep breath, no doubt preparing himself for another round, allowing Peter to once again plead for him to calm down.
“Please, do have a seat and we can talk about this like civilized folk,” Peter said, gesturing to a chair by the window of the room.
Peter himself was seated in the chair across from the one he had pointed out, his book still sitting on his lap, his index finger holding his page.
Images of bringing the book down on the marquess’s head flashed through his mind but were quickly dismissed. He was not steady enough on his legs yet to get the leverage needed for such an endeavor, and besides, it wouldn’t do to beat the marquess. No matter how much his behavior might warrant it.
A sigh of relief escaped him when the marquess collapsed into the chair next to Peter’s, but the relief was short-lived. Being seated seemed to allow him to grow, if possible, more agitated. His face went from puce to burgundy, and there was a large vein standing out on the marquess’s forehead as he opened his mouth and continued his shouting.
“It is bad enough that you are breaking a promise to marry my daughter,” the marquess said. “That alone will make her the pariah of the ton. Everyone will want to know what she did to make her betrothed leave her, to make him prefer a lack of attachment to a union between two of society’s wealthiest and most well-placed families.”
“Now, My Lord, I do not think it will make anyone question—” Peter began, but the Marquees interrupted him, looking, if possible, even angrier now that Peter had tried to speak once again.
“How should you know? You, who hasn’t been out in society in months? I know how people talk, boy,” the marquess barked back.
Peter marveled at being called “boy,” something not even his father had done. The late Duke of Kingwood had felt the address disrespectful and demeaning to his young son, choosing instead to call him “dear Peter” or, in times of great affection, “Pete.”
Normally, he would not stand for such stark impertinence in his household, but Peter knew that any attempts to quell the marquess, in word or inaction, would be futile. He had to let the marquess get out all his anger. Eventually, hopefully, the marquess would exhaust himself, not unlike a small child having a tantrum, and then Peter would be able to reason with him.
“Did you hear me, boy?” the marquess asked, and Peter turned to see the marquess clearly waiting for his acknowledgement.
“Er, yes,” he said.
“Good, because I have plenty more to say.”
Of course you do.
Peter settled deeper into his chair, knowing that if he was going to spend his afternoon being berated by the Marquess of Stafwood, at least he could be comfortable doing so.
The marquess went on to accuse Peter of being inconsiderate, ignoble, and a myriad of other insulting words that Peter struggled not to let wound him. He knew the marquess was partly being irrational, but there was also a measure of guilt he’d been carrying in the days since his argument with Lady Magdalene.
Though it had ultimately been her decision to cut ties, Peter knew he had driven her to that point. His morose attitude, his lack of affection and, perhaps worst of all, his lack of appreciation for her efforts to heal him had resulted in a distance between them. A distance that had eventually grown so great that not even Lady Magdalene and her determinedly sunny attitude could traverse it.
Interrupting the marquess, who was now off on a tangent about how Lady Magdalene could ever hope to find a match nearly so perfect, Peter said, “I am sorry, My Lord. I am sorry for the pain and difficulty this break has caused you and your family. Please know that it was not taken lightly, but rather with much contemplation from both parties.”
Peter had hoped, perhaps rather naively, that this would quell the marquess’s anger. After all, he was admitting fault, which seemed to be the marquess’s main aim in his tirade.
But much to Peter’s shock and frustration, the marquess leapt out of his chair and rounded on Peter, sticking his finger right in his face as he screamed, “How dare you lie in such a fashion! My Maggie would never think to break ties with you. I know it was you who made the decision for her. She has been absolutely dejected these last few days. Why, she hardly comes out of her room! I have not seen her smile since she left your estate. This is your doing. Yours, and yours alone, Cadden.”
Peter was not in the habit of forcing those of his acquaintance to call him by a particular address. He was more than happy with “Your Grace,” “Duke,” or even “Kingwood” among his familiars. He did not, however, appreciate being talked down to, disrespected, by a marquess, who was below him in the noble hierarchy.
His pride overtook him for a moment, and in that moment, he pushed the marquess’s finger away with such force that the man’s arm flailed to the side.
“I’ll thank you to address me as my status demands, Lord Stafwood. And I also think it pertinent to make plain that I was in fact lying earlier, when I said that the decision to part ways was mutual between your daughter and myself. In fact, it was your daughter who suggested that we break our engagement. I merely agreed with her, knowing she was anxious to marry, and that I would not be willing to do so until I was fully recovered.”
“Impossible!” the marquess sputtered. “Such slander about my daughter will not be tolerated! Why, I ought to challenge you to a duel for even suggesting a thing!”
“It is not slander, Lord Stafwood, and if you did challenge me, I would not accept. Challenging a duke who cannot even walk? What would society say about you?” Peter said, knowing he was goading the marquess, but unable to find the decorum within him to care or cease his teasing.
They continued to argue, the marquess claiming that Peter had ruined his daughter’s life, when really, it was clear the marquess was thinking only of himself and his reputation. Peter continued to plead his case, until eventually it became clear that no truce could be reached.
It was dusk by the time the marquess was led out of the house by a stone-faced Stevens. Peter was feeling absolutely exhausted, far too tired to sit at the dinner table, as he had begun to once again do, now that his legs could hold him.
Instead, he took a tray in his room. All the arguing had made him ravenous, and he had eaten his plate clean by the time Miss Bell knocked on his door and gained entry with a brief shout of “enter!” from him.
“It sounds like you h
ad quite the afternoon squabble,” she said as she walked in.
The first thing Peter noticed was that her hair was down. The golden mane fell about her shoulders and chest, and Peter longed to reach out and once again take one of the strands in his hands and wrap it around his fingers. He could still feel the silk of it on his hands days after he’d first touched it, could still smell the lilac and lavender scent it carried with it. That same scent assaulted his senses now, and he breathed it in happily.
But then his eyes fell lower, and all thoughts of happy memories and scents were gone, because by God, the woman was wearing a dress that was…flattering! It was a white and light blue striped thing with a rounded neckline that showed off many inches of her beautifully pale, creamy skin. The dress fit her perfectly, accentuating her waist and bust and flowing gently over her rounded hips.
“Your Grace? Did you hear me?” Lavinia asked, her eyebrow quirked in amusement, as though she knew exactly what had distracted him.
“Hm?” Peter said, suddenly jerking his head up to meet her eyes. “Oh! Yes! Quite the squabble with the Marquess of Stafwood, Lady Magdalene’s father. He seems to think I have some deeply malicious plan to bring scandal upon him and his loved ones. Accused me of being the one to riven my engagement, and did not respond kindly when I informed him that it was his daughter who was the true culprit.”
“Oh dear. How did you end things?” she asked as she approached Peter’s bed.
Her proximity, combined with her dress, made it rather hard for him to focus on things like forming coherent sentences, so his respond came out as a mumble of “Well…you know…as one does…”
He was gratified to hear her laugh at that, though of course, her laughter reddened her cheeks and, if possible, made her look even more beautiful than before. So beautiful that Peter couldn’t really help what he did next, which was to pull her by the waist toward him, reach up and cup her cheek, bringing her face down to his.
He kissed her then, a soft kiss, no parting of lips, just a sensual press of his mouth against hers.
The Duke she Desires Page 10
