A Warriner To Tempt Her
A Warriner To Tempt Her
Virginia Heath
A shy innocentShe's wary of all men.In this The Wild Warriners story, shy Lady Isabella Beaumont is perfectly happy to stay in the background and let her sister get all the attention from handsome suitors following a shocking incident. However working with Dr Joseph Warriner to help the sick and needy pushes her closer to a man than she’s ever been before. Is this a man worth trusting with her deepest of desires…?
A shy innocent...wary of all men...
Part of The Wild Warriners
After a shocking incident, shy Lady Isabella Beaumont is perfectly happy to stay in the background and let her sister get all the attention from handsome suitors! However, working with Dr. Joseph Warriner to help the sick and needy pushes her closer to a man than she’s ever been before. Is this man worth trusting with her deepest of desires...?
When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep…
Also by Virginia Heath
That Despicable Rogue
Her Enemy at the Altar
The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide
Miss Bradshaw’s Bought Betrothal
His Mistletoe Wager
The Wild Warriners miniseries
A Warriner to Protect Her
A Warriner to Rescue Her
A Warriner to Tempt Her
And look out for the next book
A Warriner to Seduce Her Available May 2018
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
A Warriner to Tempt Her
Virginia Heath
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07339-4
A WARRINER TO TEMPT HER
© 2018 Susan Merritt
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For all my former students at the Hathaway Academy.
Believe you are good enough
and always follow your dreams.
Contents
Cover (#u1bb7ca89-c9cc-5ae5-ab55-3c9b5a54b966)
Back Cover Text (#u63622fc7-fb01-501d-82dd-ddd0456832ae)
About the Author (#ub26d1f21-44eb-5733-b610-95b2bc3f9b11)
Booklist (#u7bc17b7c-9a3e-5fe9-b0a6-d3dd81796797)
Title Page (#u105e6256-ee6e-5424-90a6-e501af64bad9)
Copyright (#u5a6ed325-5b3d-5f39-b84d-64ddd42e36a6)
Dedication (#u28e6c84e-cf80-5c75-aada-c0760b565f79)
Chapter One (#u423a80e0-bb97-5d06-9082-6d77b8e53f06)
Chapter Two (#u0320ad9e-e5b0-562e-90ba-4c3c08050de0)
Chapter Three (#u416f6b2b-7799-5364-b93b-6e5c51395325)
Chapter Four (#ued33d554-475b-5d2b-b03b-38a3c0d82847)
Chapter Five (#u15617c4a-9c44-5e9f-92fa-2dd74488cf3f)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
July 1818
Dr Joseph Warriner sat down behind his desk with an air of resignation. Despite today’s genuine attempt at resolve, he realised such efforts were ultimately futile. His situation was pathetic. Worse—he was pathetic. He flicked out the dented gold pocket watch he always wore secured to his sensible dark waistcoat and knew, before even looking at the dial, it was almost eight o’clock. The fact he had checked the stupid thing every two minutes for the last half an hour irritated him, as did the sorry realisation he had also been drawn to participate in this ridiculous ritual for almost a month now. Drawn like a sailor to the sirens.
And for what? One transient dance exactly twenty-eight days ago. A few exchanged, meaningless pleasantries whilst he had stood with her other eager admirers, tossed randomly like discarded breadcrumbs to a yard full of chickens. Or like today, for a surreptitious glimpse of the cause of his torment, guiltily stolen through the heavy lace that covered the windows, when he knew, deep down, his foolish heart was once again chasing a shadow.
The whole sorry situation was pathetic.
Angrily, he snapped the watch closed and turned his chair towards the window and waited. Just like he had every Tuesday or Friday morning in the last few weeks, at precisely eight o’clock, the glossy black carriage turned into the square exactly on time. It was market day in Retford and she always came to shop on market day. And the fact she was always so punctual also irritated him. Just for once he wished she would be late and he would be forced to attend to his first patient of the day, whose appointment was now timed for five past the hour on market days instead of on the dot of eight as usual. Another sign of how lamentable this folly was. It would be much better to do something worthwhile rather than waste his time engaging in this pointless ritual, especially as he already had a mountain of tasks to complete today. But, no—this carriage was a creature of habit, much like its vexing occupant, and it slowed to a stop just past the window of Joe’s surgery as it always did. To torture him.
Carefully, he moved the very edge of the curtain so that he could get a better view and watched as the footman opened the carriage door. After a few seconds, one surprisingly sensibly shod foot, with an intriguingly shapely ankle, appeared. His breath hitched.
He had never seen her ankles before and was staggered a common formation of bones would affect him so. How many ankles had he seen in his career? Hundreds? Thousands, probably, yet the sight of hers made his heart beat faster.
The glorious ankles was closely followed by a bonnet-covered head. Without even seeing it, he knew her golden hair would be arranged in a becoming and fashionable style, but that already several of the silky strands, the colour of which he had often considered to be the exact shade of wheat freshly harvested and kissed by the sun, would have resent being tamed and begun escaping its pins. True to form, these would frame her bewitching face in tiny spiral curls he yearned to wind around his fingers.
Of course, he could never do that. If he did—well, then he would probably have to remove every single pin so he could enjoy watching that mass of curls tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Especially now he had seen those ankles. He closed his eyes and savoured the fantasy for a moment.
Lady Clarissa Beaumont.
Joe exhaled slowly and watched her gather herself together. For a fleeting moment she turned and he saw just her cheek—perfect peaches and cream skin—but was cruelly denied the sight of her wide, almond-shaped blue eyes in a shade so glorious that it would have made even the Caribbean Sea jealous. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her plump pink lips as she smiled at the footman and a bolt of ridiculous jealousy surged through him at the innocent exchange.
Because the delectable Clarissa, fêted society beauty, was largely ignorant of the fact he even existed. Thank heavens the ethereal Clarissa was also blissfully unaware the man currently hidden behind the curtain of his office was suffering from a terminal case of unrequited love. More painful this morning, for some reason, than it had ever been before. Probably because of those ankles, he realised. A few inches of silk-covered leg and he was already burning with lust. The lust was a new sensation. Up until today his love had been pure, the courtly kind of old and not sullied with that base, human emotion. But up until today he had been denied the sight of those magnificent ankles, so he supposed his sudden physical reaction was to be expected. What was love without passion anyway?
She turned and his heart soared—then promptly plummeted to his toes. She was quite the wrong sister. Not Lady Clarissa Beaumont at all, charming, blonde and effervescent. But Lady Isabella Beaumont. Pretty, yes, and clearly in possession of a damn fine pair of legs, but rather a serious, unsociable individual. And very definitely a brunette. Her ruler-straight dark locks suited her dour personality. She took the basket the footman offered her, stood and regarded the marketplace with obvious disdain and strode away purposefully. Hardly a surprise when Lady Isabella did everything with purpose, whether that be blatantly reading a book during an assembly when every other girl was dancing or doing good deeds.
Whilst she always accompanied the beautiful Clarissa on market days, until this week Joe and the scary Lady Isabella had collided only briefly. Once at the monthly assembly held in the village hall, where she was stood next to her lovely sister. For the duration of the festivities, as far as Joe could ascertain, she had worn what he suspected was a permanent expression of complete disgust, as if the provincial society of dankest Nottinghamshire was quite beneath her. Fortunately, she tended to fade into the background stood next to her sparkling sister, so Joe rarely noticed her.
That wasn’t completely true. He always noticed her; he just wished he hadn’t. Why would he waste time staring at the darkness when he could gaze at sunshine? Yet something about those dark, serious eyes always drew him, nevertheless, and he found himself frowning. A little bewildered. A little irritated, yet oddly curious. Goodness knew why. It was almost as irritating as yearning for her unobtainable sister.
However, since last week, he had seen Lady Isabella twice at the foundling home run by his sister-in-law Letty, so he had no choice in the matter. She was volunteering in the infirmary and watched him like a hawk whenever he visited and while he examined the young patients with such determined concentration, and such a sour expression, it made him feel as though he was not a particularly good doctor at all. It was most disconcerting. Yet she never said a word. Not one! Preferring to loiter in the doorway as he worked and then bolt the moment he turned. It was all very curious. All very odd. Much like Lady Isabella.
If anything, Isabella was vinegar to her sister’s honey. Always so stand-offish. Devoid of any discernible sense of humour as far as he could make out. Dour. Certainly rude. Perhaps even a little intimidating. He felt his lip curl at the thought.
He waited with bated breath for the appearance of the other Beaumont. The one his poor heart yearned to see, but alas, the footman smartly closed the carriage door and took his place at the back, forcing Joe to accept the disappointing fact he would not see the object of his unrequited affections today after all. A crushing blow when he had been so looking forward to it, even though he knew it was an exercise in futility and one which rendered him utterly pathetic. Lady Clarissa would never consider him.
Aside from his unfortunate Warriner ancestors and the dreadful family reputation which still lingered in Retford like a bad smell, he was merely the brother to an earl with no hope of ever getting a title, what with another brother and already two robust nephews in the way. Not that Joe had ever coveted any title other than Dr, but women like Lady Clarissa were raised to care about such things. She was the daughter of the Earl of Braxton and would one day, no doubt, marry another title and live in a grand stately pile surrounded by miles and miles of her rich husband’s land. Such ladies did not marry third sons nor did they marry doctors. His job was as gruesome as it was rewarding. Sometimes he came home with his clothing covered in all manner of unmentionable things—none of which was suitable for the tender sensibilities of a lovely, well-bred woman like her.
If he was lucky, he was able to sleep for a whole night uninterrupted. More often than not, his sleep would be disturbed by a frantic knock on the door and he would be summoned to the bedside of another patient. He got called away from social functions and dinners. He could not even guarantee he would be left in peace on Christmas Day. Not that he minded those things either. It was who he was. His vocation and he would not have it any other way, but it was a big leap of faith to expect another person to be so forgiving of the demands his career placed upon him. Especially if that person was so exquisite she could have her pick from a crop of suitors much more impressive than him.
Mrs Patterson, his formidable housekeeper, rapped her knuckles swiftly on the other side of his consulting room door, bringing Joe unceremoniously, and blessedly, back to the present.
‘Dr Warriner, Mr Simmons is here for his appointment.’
‘Send him in, Mrs Patterson.’ Joe sat up smartly and put on the wire-rimmed spectacles he needed to read his notes. The allotted time for self-indulgent dreams was over.
* * *
Bella stared at the already crowded marketplace and immediately felt nauseous. Usually she made the short walk across the square with Clarissa, which meant it was not as daunting, but her sister had claimed to be ill to get out of the chore of holding Bella’s hand, so drastic times called for drastic measures. Bella could have stayed at home. But at home she would soon become bored because she found no purpose in embroidery. Filling her day with purpose took her mind off the fear and allowed her to leave the house. Purpose was making her better, or so she fervently hoped, and she had to be brave. She would conquer this fear logically. Scientifically.
It was just a short walk to the foundling home.
It was broad daylight.
And nobody here meant her any harm.
She could and would do this!
In less than five minutes she would be safely ensconced in the infirmary. The place she had only just discovered she preferred above all others in the world.
It was rare that she ever felt truly comfortable enough to be herself any more. Ever since the incident, as her family whisperingly called it behind her back, a huge chunk of her character had crawled deep inside her body and was too terrified to come out. Being well meaning and good-natured had been the cause of it, after all, so it was hardly any wonder Bella was reluctant to be so trusting again around a man. Or feel comfortable in crowds. Or go outside alone, for that matter, where danger lurked. Perhaps coming here unaccompanied had been foolhardy. Hasty. She should turn around and get back in the carriage...
You are pathetic! the real her screamed. You managed to live twenty years without coming to any harm at all. You cannot let one incident dictate the way you live your life.
The voice of the real her had been becoming louder and louder for months now. A constant voice in her head which emboldened her to remain hopeful and determined. From its cave inside her soul, it parried with pithy retorts, tackled problems with a level, logical and practical head, revelled in irony, argued against idiocy whilst constantly issuing witty and sometimes hilarious comments about the world around her. That voice might not yet be strong enough to make its way up her vocal chords and out of her once-tart mouth, but it was there. Somewhere. Chivvying her on.
Those foundlings need you. And think of all the wonderful things you are learning.
Bella set her jaw and stared across the crowded square. Those sick foundlings did need her—she was discovering so much about medicine in the infirmary that the hours flew by. For the first time in her life she was doing something she had always yearned to do, something which would have been frowned upon in London, so she had never been able to pursue it. But sleepy Retford wasn’t London and as it was unlikely any of her parents’ society acquaintances would ever hear of it, and because her mama and papa had been delighted Bella had finally found some interest in life again, they had allowed her to volunteer.
Gently bred young ladies were not supposed to find the study of anatomy or healing interesting, yet spending time with those children, learning about what ailed them and the best way to treat it, was one of the most rewarding things Bella had ever done. She had a sneaking suspicion it was her calling, her vocation, and that she had always been meant to be a nurse. Finally, she was putting into practice all the things she had read in the scientific journals she had always devoured like biscuits. It also gave her enough purpose that she quite forgot to be petrified for huge chunks of the day. What was that, if it was not progress? Frankly, she was counting the minutes until she could be back there, roll up her sleeves and help those poor cherubs get better.
All she had to do was walk across this market square alone. Because Bella was tired of always being frightened and the real her was right. Living in fear smacked of surrender and she was determined never to let that bad man win.
She forced herself to smile politely at one of the market traders who greeted her, ignoring the irrational panic which occurred whenever she was close to a man. If she had been a little more observant and a little less terrified, she would have noticed the precarious basket of potatoes on his stall. But because she was feeling exposed and her tenuous grasp on logic was slipping, she did not see the laden basket topple, nor did she see a surge of muddy potatoes as they cascaded from the table like a waterfall and rolled haphazardly across the ground towards her. Too late, Bella turned, allowing a couple of the careening vegetables the opportunity to disappear, like mice in a haystack, beneath her trailing skirts and tangle hopelessly beneath her feet.
Her body lunged sideways when she stepped on one. Her heavy basket tilted, aiding gravity to pull her towards the floor at an alarming rate. Bella landed awkwardly on her front with enough force to knock all her breath from her lungs. The subsequent sharp pain in her ankle brought tears to her eyes. The palms of her hands, now muddied, burned angrily in protest. The puddles floating on the hard cobblestones were already seeping through her clothing whilst humiliation relentlessly seeped into her soul. If there was one thing Bella now hated above all others, it was being the centre of attention when invisible was safe.
Several market traders and locals rushed to her aid, but she assured them that she was quite all right and tried to stand. White-hot pain shot up her leg and forced her to remain exactly where she was. To make matters worse, she helplessly watched the back of the Braxton carriage turn out of the market square as it headed home and her only means of escaping this dreadful spectacle leaving with it. She smiled weakly at the growing crowd of onlookers and tried to pull together the tattered shreds of her dignity whilst fighting the panic of being at the mercy of others. Most of them male.
‘My lady—I am so sorry.’ The stallholder twisted his felt cap in his hands nervously. ‘Are you seriously hurt? Shall I fetch Dr Warriner? His office is just across the square.’
Mortified by the prospect of even greater humiliation in front of the brilliant Dr Warriner, Bella shook her head. The very last person she wanted to witness her clumsy stupidity was the handsome doctor. The man who, despite being a man, made her silly heart flutter every single time he spoke to her, thus rendering her mostly mute. Probably because of his brilliance, rather than his handsomeness, but it was difficult to be sure. ‘That will not be necessary—I think I will be able to stand in a moment or two.’ She would crawl home if she had to.
Two things soon became apparent. Firstly, standing was an impossibility. Bella tried three times and each time fresh, blinding pain shot up her leg and brought tears to her eyes. Secondly, despite her protests to the contrary, somebody had called the good doctor after all. The crowd of onlookers were parting like the Red Sea and he was suddenly striding purposefully towards her.
‘It’s just my ankle... I would prefer you not to waste your time on such a triviality.’ Bella tried to push herself up once again using her hands and failed miserably. The poor man had genuine sick people to heal and certainly far more important things to deal with than a clumsy, irrational girl’s superficial injury. ‘I shall put some ice on it when I get home and keep it elevated.’ She turned her head away and silently willed him to disappear.
‘Please do not try to stand, my lady.’ He knelt beside her. ‘I will need to take a look to properly assess the damage first.’ One arm slipped beneath her legs, making her flinch.
He was touching her!
Instinctively, she stiffened and tried to shuffle away. Undeterred, he continued. ‘Place your arms around my shoulders. I promise I won’t drop you.’
Good gracious! He intended to carry her and create even more of a spectacle. ‘I am sure I can manage to hobble to your surgery, Dr Warriner.’ Perhaps then everyone would stop gawping at her when nowadays she preferred to blend in. Except she wouldn’t hobble towards his surgery. She would drag herself back up the lane to the safety of home and never leave it again. Logic could go to hell in a hand cart. She never should have listened to the voice. She never should have come out all alone, but staying home after her sister had claimed a sniffle and remained in bed had felt like defeat. Clarissa had made no secret of the fact she was beyond tired of being her sister’s keeper. Not when it had been over a year and it wasn’t Clarissa’s fault Bella had suffered the incident. Bella had to get over it because it could have been worse.
Worse didn’t bear thinking about. Unfortunately, she thought about it all the time.
The doctor slanted her a superior glance. ‘Hobble, will you? And create more damage for me to fix in the process, no doubt? No, my lady—I will carry you if you don’t mind.’
But she did mind. He was a man and she was now a spectacle. A spectacle who was on the cusp of bursting into tears and apprising everyone of the fact that she was no longer capable of being rational, not quite right in the head any more, yet so desperate to be right again.
Chapter Two (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
You are being ridiculous! Bella scrunched her eyes tightly closed, gripped his shoulders and willed herself lighter in the faint hope it would all be over soon. He hoisted her into the air and began to walk across the square. Less than half a minute later, he gripped her harder still and his breathing became more laboured with exertion. It was then she decided that willing herself lighter was not working in the slightest and began to wish herself invisible instead. Mercifully, he covered the distance to the surgery quickly, and once inside, he deposited her gently on an examination table.
‘I need to fetch some things. I will only be a moment.’
He returned with his housekeeper in tow, no doubt for propriety’s sake. Bella was ridiculously grateful for the woman’s presence and tried to relax.
‘Where does it hurt?’
She touched her left leg in response. ‘My ankle. I was sabotaged by a potato.’ She smiled weakly, praying the fear did not show in her face. Think logically! He was simply doing his job. He had no intention of hurting her. Perhaps if she repeated that mantra, her heartbeat would begin to slow and the tight bands of fear constricting her ribs would loosen.
Bella bit the inside of her cheek as he matter-of-factly lifted the hem of her ruined dress and carefully pushed it to her knee.
He has no intention of hurting you. He is simply doing his job.
To her own ears her breathing was laboured. Dr Warriner appeared to sense her rising panic, although he thought it was caused by pain rather than the acute reminder of another time when a man had lifted her skirts...one filthy hand clasped over her mouth while the other was fumbling with the buttons on his breeches. Touching her.
The unwanted memory made her whimper.
‘Breathe slowly and deeply. That will help.’
She did as he suggested, her eyes never leaving his hands.
He has no intention of hurting you.
His gentle touch around the bones of her ankle did not feel like the worst sort of violation.
He is simply doing his job.
He was a doctor. A man of science. He had the deepest blue eyes Bella had ever seen. Bluer even than Clarissa’s. They were kind eyes, she realised.
Patient.
The voice deep inside of her soothed that she could trust him and she forced herself to believe it.
Slowly, and with surprising tenderness, he removed her half-boot and gently examined the swelling around her ankle. His dark brows were drawn together slightly. He had a good nose, Bella mused to avoid thinking about the past, neither too small nor too large, and a strong chin that was already showing evidence of a very dark beard, even though he had clearly shaved it this morning. His black hair curled slightly at the snowy-white collar of his shirt and fell softly forward over one side of his brow in a slightly boyish manner. The natural style reminded her that the good doctor was not one for pomades or unnecessary frills like the dandies in town. She liked that about him.
Not that he needed them. He was incredibly handsome. Bella had surprised herself by thinking it the first time she had seen him at the local assembly, because it had been over a year since she had thought such things about a man. She had never seen him wear anything other than stark, dark black or navy blue, and although he was always smartly turned out, his attire gave off the air of a man both comfortable in his own skin and far too busy with important things to pay much attention to his wardrobe. He was a true man of science and it showed.
He had handsome hands, too, if indeed hands could be described as such. Clean, sensibly trimmed fingernails, but capable. So very different to the hands of that scoundrel. Healer’s hands. Just like hers.
She found herself scrutinising his technique as the panic began to wane. After all, he had been properly schooled in the precise art of medicine whilst all her knowledge had come from whatever books she could find. Those books were no substitute for practical experience.
‘Mrs Patterson, would you mind...’ His words trailed off and he wore an odd expression as he gestured to his housekeeper to remove the stocking on Bella’s left leg. Feeling horribly exposed and conscious she had been intently staring at him, she lay back on the bed and fixed her gaze on the ceiling as his large hands meticulously prodded and probed her foot, calf and ankle.
He is simply doing his job. Stop being a pathetic coward. It’s irritating. You’re irritating. Be logical.
Once she had succumbed to the inevitability of her situation, and repeated her new mantra another dozen times silently in her head, it turned out not to be such an unpleasant experience. He had lovely warm palms and his deft touch left a trail of tingles on her skin which caused havoc with her pulse. Bizarrely, it had nothing to do with fear or panic. Bella knew those emotions too well and this was nothing like them. How peculiar.
His fingers suddenly left her skin and the real her willed them back. In fact, the real her was positively swooning. ‘The good news is that it is not broken.’ Bella watched those capable hands as he absently returned her skirts to order. He had obviously touched a significant number of ladies’ legs on a regular basis, she concluded, because he looked decidedly nonplussed with hers. ‘But it is badly sprained and bruised, so you will have to keep your weight off it for a few days.’ He smiled his detached doctor smile and spoke quickly to his housekeeper.
‘Mrs Patterson—could you fetch some ice and some towels, please?’
They would be alone! She missed the end of the conversation due to the hammering panic in her head and the older woman left to do his bidding. Bella levered herself to sit, just in case she needed to run, wincing as cuts on her hands protested at being used to lever her.
‘Let me see.’ He said this in a reassuringly detached and professional way as he took both her hands in his. Instantly, her silly pulse leapt even as she froze, then continued to bounce around frenetically as he turned them palms up to examine the filthy grazes caused by her fall. Strangely, there was no urge to run at being so intimately close to him. She hoped that was more evidence of progress. ‘These need cleaning.’
He dropped her hands dispassionately and went across the room to a large washstand. After pouring water into the bowl, he added a generous dash of clear liquid from a bottle next to the jug, and after tossing a clean towel over his shoulder, he carried the basin towards her.
‘Put them in here, please.’
Bella plunged her hands into the water and immediately snatched them out again as it stung so very badly.
‘What is in there—acid?’ She eyed the water warily.
‘Gin. I have noticed that wounds regularly cleaned with alcohol are less susceptible to infection. Besides, it is also very cheap. And I would prefer not to waste good brandy.’
He was attempting to put her at her ease as he did the children in the infirmary. He had such a lovely voice. Deep. Kind. Yet Bella blinked back at him rather than smile at the little joke and saw his own smile slide off his face within seconds. He did not like her and who could blame him when she could not stand her new self either?
A blush of shame bloomed instantly. Here he was, being nothing but nice, and all she could do was blink? Once upon a time she would have responded with something appropriate. Friendly. Usually funny. She missed that girl and willed her back every single day. But the old Bella was missing, presumed dead, and the new one was not quite right in the head.
For the only time in living memory, she fleetingly wished she was her sister. Clarissa would have replied with something witty and charming, happy to talk. Bella remained mute. Even her real self could think of nothing to say, so the silence was quite deafening. Once again the atmosphere became uncomfortable, something she was painfully aware was brought about at her doing, and she wondered if she could drown herself quickly in the shallow basin of water—putting them both out of their misery—while he continued to dab at her hands with the towel.
Satisfied that they were thoroughly clean, he then patted them dry and went to the wall of shelves at the back of the consulting room and rummaged for a pot of salve. He opened it and gently applied the ointment to the worst of the grazes.
‘That smells like honey.’ She willed the words out. It was a desperate and feeble attempt at normal conversation, but at that moment it was all that she had. At least she was conversing with him. A man. Surely she could take heart it signalled progress?
He resealed the pot and put it to one side. ‘That’s because it mostly is honey. We waste it on bread, but the Ancient Egyptians realised that it has exceptional healing powers. Like the gin, I have found honey acts as a barrier against infection. And is perfect on bread, of course.’
He smiled briefly and it did funny things to Bella’s insides. She tried to ignore it and forced herself to stop biting her lip and reply. ‘The Egyptians had metal scalpels, bone saws...’ This comment earned her another odd look, as if she were the most peculiar of females, and made her voice trail off. ‘Or so I have read...’
‘You pass the time by reading about surgical instruments?’
‘I am not an empty-headed ornament.’ And now she sounded snippy and defensive. Clarissa would certainly never try to engage a gentleman in discourse about bone saws! She would smile and compliment him on his superior knowledge. But then Clarissa had been born charming and Bella had lost that part of herself, and her current circumstances were particularly trying.
He was saved from having to respond by Mrs Patterson returning with the ice. It had already been smashed into small chips, which he wrapped in a thin square of linen and placed over her swollen ankle. ‘Your curricle will be five minutes, Dr Warriner.’
He intended to take her home!
Just her and him. The lane to her house was long and deserted. There were trees and bushes on either side. Trees and bushes would hide her from the world if he had a mind to drag her behind them... Fresh fear began to claw in her gut.
‘No! Send a message so that my father’s carriage can collect me directly.’
He straightened, frowned and pinned her with his deep blue stare. ‘Suit yourself. Mrs Patterson will show you to the parlour, my lady. I have other patients to attend.’
* * *
Good lord, she was rude! Joe was still smarting from her peculiar behaviour hours later as he walked towards her front door. She hadn’t even thanked him for his time. Just glared at him as if he was offensive, her face wrinkling in disgust every time he had touched her, and she spoke to him worse than to a misbehaving servant. Whilst he knew full well some folk dealt better with pain than others, he had never seen anyone behave quite so badly over a sprained ankle in his life. Or perhaps it was not the injury at all which had made her so curt and obnoxious. Perhaps that was exactly how she always was? It was a pity. She was lovely. If she learned some manners and smiled occasionally, she would be as dazzling as her sister. Perhaps more so. Those dark almond eyes, framed with even darker lashes, were quite beautiful. When they weren’t narrowed suspiciously at him.
Maybe it was his surname which elicited her hostility? Despite the best efforts of all four Warriner brothers, the memory of their infamous father and grandfather still left a sour taste in the mouths of the locals. Nobody trusted a Warriner. It made no difference to some that his eldest brother, Jack, and his wife, Letty, were now hugely philanthropic within the area. Nor that his brother Jamie and his wife, Cassie, were responsible for bringing many tourists to Retford as their readers travelled across the country to see with their own eyes the locations of the hugely successful Orange Blossom books. Only a few had truly thawed enough to accept the family were decent. A great many more were waiting for them to return to type.
Lady Isabella had obviously been swayed by the malicious gossip and he disliked her for that. She had lived in Retford little more than a month but had already passed judgement! If he were as nefarious as his ancestors, would he have taken time out of his busy day to visit the most ungrateful patient he had ever attended?
However, Lady Isabella’s injury did give him the perfect excuse to call at her home, something he had desperately wanted to do since dancing with the delectable Clarissa at the assembly last month. In fairness, the physician inside him needed to check on his patient more, which was the main reason he was knocking on the Earl of Braxton’s door. He sincerely doubted the dour Isabella would be grateful, yet he was still compelled to do it. Sometimes his own diligence irritated him. As much as he wished he wasn’t so soft-hearted and desperate to help people, especially those who treated him with nothing but disdain in return, Joe could never seem to help himself. He would never get to sleep if he had not first reassured himself she was feeling better. It had been a nasty sprain and occasionally a bad fall caused clots to form in the blood. Such a complication was a rarity, especially in one so young, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Another brief examination of those splendid legs was necessary, no matter how distasteful the patient was.
Truth be told, Joe was also feeling guilty for enjoying the sight of her ankles. Once that silk stocking had been removed, he had had a moment where he forgot to be a detached physician and had gazed upon her silky skin like a man. He never did that. He had sworn the Hippocratic Oath solemnly and took his responsibilities far too seriously to ever allow himself to be waylaid with inappropriate thoughts before. However, Lady Isabella’s habit of regarding him as she would a Viking marauder about to pillage a village soon put paid to his temporary lapse of judgement and he was back to being irritated by her attitude again in seconds. So irritated he almost forgot about her splendid legs.
Joe rapped the knocker smartly. This afternoon’s visit was strictly professional. If he happened to collide with the adorable Lady Clarissa in the process, then it would certainly make it more tolerable. As would the sight of those legs which were unfortunately attached to the other, vexing, Beaumont.
The door opened quickly.
‘Could you inform the Earl of Braxton that Dr Warriner is here to check upon his daughter? I attended her injuries this morning.’
The austere butler appeared confused. ‘The physician is already in attendance, sir.’
Of course he was. No doubt the family had immediately summoned that aged old fool Dr Bentley the moment they learned their precious daughter had been treated by a Warriner. Usually Joe tried to ignore the old prejudices, but sometimes it grated. Especially when he was a far better doctor than the quack they preferred.
‘Even so, I should like to see her, for my own peace of mind, you understand. I will not delay the family long. I will be in and out quicker than a ferret in a rabbit hole.’
Chapter Three (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
The affronted butler invited Joe to wait in the hallway. A few moments later he was ushered into the drawing room, where he was met by the Countess of Braxton. ‘Dr Warriner! I cannot thank you enough for coming to Bella’s aid.’ She squeezed his hands effusively and appeared far too grateful, almost on the cusp of tears, which he supposed made up for her daughter’s blatant disregard.
‘No thanks are needed,’ he said as his eyes automatically scanned the room for Clarissa. The object of his desire was sat in the far corner of the room, embroidering something on a small hoop, and did not bother looking up. Her usually smiling face contorted into a frown. A niggling voice in his head told him she was rude, but he ruthlessly blocked it out. An angel like Lady Clarissa couldn’t be rude. Not like the other one. His eyes drifted to the other side of the room where the younger sister was sat on a sofa, her injured ankle raised on pillows and her eyes narrowed in hostility. Next to her, Dr Bentley was packing away his equipment, which included his ever-present bleeding cups—the old fool’s usual treatment for everything. He glanced at Joe and nodded curtly.
‘Warriner.’
Always just Warriner. Never the title he had earned. The upstart. The charlatan who had the audacity to set up a rival practice in Bentley’s town, taking money which should rightly be his. What did that Warriner know anyway? Joe had studied medicine only since the age of eight. Toiled at medical school in Edinburgh in order to qualify top of his class. Built up a sizeable practice despite the horrendous reputation of the Warriner family because he was damn good at what he did. And he had worked hard, honing his craft every single day since. One of these days Joe would allow himself the pleasure of saying exactly what he thought, then quashed the idea instantly. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Bentley. How is our patient?’
‘She is my patient now and as such I will not discuss her treatments with you.’ Dr Bentley turned towards the Countess. ‘Good day, your ladyship. I will await your further instructions regarding the other matter and hope Lady Isabella sees some sense shortly.’ And off he marched out without a backwards glance. Bentley was obviously miffed. Clearly Lady Isabella had been a delight for him, too.
Because it was what he had come here for, Joe walked towards the sofa and smiled. ‘How is your ankle?’
‘Better now.’ She appeared about to burst into tears. The tears tugged at his heartstrings. He was always too soft and prone to want to rescue. A fault he had apparently been born with and one he had long given up fighting. Without being asked, he lowered himself on to the corner of the sofa and took her hand. He almost dropped it again when odd tingles shot up his arm and he found himself frowning at the anomaly. That had never happened before and certainly shouldn’t be happening with her.
‘Sprains can hurt like the devil, but in the main they heal quickly with rest.’ He glanced down at her raised foot and the obvious swelling. ‘You need ice.’
‘Dr Bentley said hot water was best for sprains.’ Lady Braxton appeared apologetic at usurping Joe’s advice. ‘He insisted the ice pack was removed.’
‘Ah...’ Tact and diplomacy were second nature, especially when it came to Dr Bentley’s diagnoses. As physicians, they were always at odds. Dr Bentley was mired in tradition and Joe dared to break that mould. ‘Tell me, Lady Isabella, did your ankle feel better with or without the ice?’
‘With,’ she said without hesitation, ‘I queried it at the time.’ It was clear she held Dr Bentley in little regard, so she evidently had a brain underneath all the attitude. Joe smiled in encouragement and watched her dip her eyes.
‘She also refused to be bled.’ Lady Braxton appeared at her wits’ end at her daughter’s stubbornness. ‘Do you think she needs to be bled, Dr Warriner?’
‘I cannot see any cause for it.’ Joe could never see any cause for it as he had never seen the painful procedure achieve any beneficial effects. However, saying such things out loud tended to bother people brought up to revere the wisdom of physicians—most of whom still clung to ideas from the Dark Ages—as well as the supposed health benefits of slimy leeches. ‘Ice and rest are the best treatments for sprains. If the pain is severe, some willow bark tea would not go amiss either.’ She peeked up at him through her ridiculously long, dark lashes and offered him the ghost of a smile. More tingles bounced along his nerve endings and his collar felt suddenly tight. Perhaps Clarissa was watching him. Joe ignored the desire to turn around to check. ‘Do you mind if I take a quick look? Just to be certain it is nothing more than a common sprain?’
Lady Isabella nodded warily, the smile now gone, and bit down on her bottom lip, so he did a swift examination and sat back. ‘Most of the swelling has already gone down. I dare say it will be gone completely by Friday and you will be dancing at the assembly with your sister... Will you all be attending the assembly on Saturday?’
How pathetically unsubtle he sounded to his own ears. Joe cast a glance towards his patient’s sister, who was still jabbing her embroidery with a needle and had yet to acknowledge his presence. He silently willed her to look to no avail, ignoring the niggling voice of outrage in his head. Angels weren’t meant to be rude. They were meant to be...well, angelic. Maybe she hadn’t noticed him. A weak excuse, but she deserved it.
‘Yes, of course we are going!’ Lady Braxton smiled encouragingly at her daughter. ‘And it is splendid news that Bella may be fit enough to dance! Would you like some tea, Dr Warriner?’
‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you...’
‘It’s no trouble at all. No trouble at all.’
She bustled off to ring the bell, leaving Joe with Lady Isabella. Bella—a very pretty name and one he was not sure suited her. It was too vivacious for the quiet, introverted woman next to him. Bella conjured up images of a different sort of girl. One who was witty and a pleasure to be around rather than the one currently judging him in silence. At a loss as to what else to do or say to her, and in view of her older sister’s blatant indifference, Joe smiled his reassuring doctor smile. ‘Is the pain very bad?’
‘No.’ She stared down at her hands and the customary brittle awkwardness she always incited hung heavily in the air. The big question was, did he bother attempting further conversation with either sister, when one was intent on ignoring him and the other looked like she was disgusted by him, or did he quietly wait for the tea? Or better yet, did he make a hasty excuse and escape? Joe had never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin before. He was seriously contemplating the leaving when she finally spoke in a voice so small he had to strain his ears to hear. ‘I should have thanked you for your help this morning. It was unforgivably rude not to have done so at the time...but I am not very good at... Since the... What I mean is...’ She sighed and seemed to steel herself. ‘What I mean is...I wasn’t quite myself.’
Her dark eyes were troubled as they briefly locked with his before she stared back at her clasped hands again. A very becoming pink blush burned on her cheeks. A blush which did not fit with the sour and dour character he had attributed to her. Was it possible Lady Isabella was shy, rather than rude? Or was his innate good nature frantically hunting for an excuse for her bad behaviour? He did have a tendency to attribute better character traits to people than they actually had. Women especially. Joe decided to probe further rather than trust his overly benevolent instincts.
‘You had just been sabotaged by a potato. I doubt I would have been particularly sociable if the tables had been turned.’ Those dark eyes slowly lifted and locked with his.
‘I think you are being kind.’
He was, but she didn’t need to know that. Glancing at the book lying open face down next to her, he acknowledged it with a nod. ‘A scientific tome?’
The blush burned even brighter at being caught reading a flagrantly romantic novel. ‘Sometimes I need to be reminded the world is a good place.’
Joe would have questioned her odd response, but her mother was back, conducting servants carrying the tea things and a small table which was arranged close to the invalid. ‘I hope you have a sweet tooth, Dr Warriner, as there is plenty of cake. And biscuits, too! Both my girls are extremely fond of biscuits. Come along, Clarissa! Come join us for tea!’
The object of his affection slapped down her embroidery with a huff and sauntered to the table like a surly child. Immediately, Joe stood and inclined his head. ‘Lady Clarissa. I hope you are well.’
‘Actually, Dr Warriner, I am not well. I have a cold. But my health must be ignored for the sake of dear Bella, as she is the one everyone must worry about. All of the time.’
‘You have the tiniest of sniffles, Clarissa dear.’ Lady Braxton was embarrassed. ‘And your sister could have broken her leg!’
‘I am here and can attend to you, too, my lady.’ Good grief, he sounded eager. Far too eager. He pasted on a professional expression of concern. ‘What are your symptoms?’
Lady Clarissa cast her sister a brittle smile and plopped her bottom on the chair just placed for her by a footman. It bothered Joe she did not thank the poor fellow for his efforts. ‘My head hurts and my nose is quite blocked.’
‘Congestion of the sinuses does cause headaches. Do you have a fever?’ He avoided the temptation to reach out and touch her forehead.
‘I am a little warm.’
‘Something which might be caused by your insistence on wearing that wool frock in July.’ Lady Braxton’s eyes were shooting daggers at her daughter. There was an undercurrent here, a dynamic Joe didn’t quite understand. Jealousy? Hostility? Palpable underlying friction between the two sisters, although mostly coming from Clarissa. Lady Isabella was the very picture of mortification and back to staring down at her hands. The mother seemed ready to strangle her eldest daughter. ‘Why don’t you go and change and stop wasting the good doctor’s time, dear?’
‘Oh, yes! Why don’t I? Then you can go back to fussing over poor Bella. Why, she hasn’t been fussed over enough, has she? Thanks to her, we are stuck here and I am bored senseless!’
‘Have you tried a steam inhalation?’ Ever the diplomat, Joe intervened and tried to diffuse the fraught atmosphere. If this was a case of sibling rivalry, perhaps Lady Clarissa would return to her sweet self if her minor ailment received some attention and he would stop feeling disloyal for feeling irritated at her. ‘I would recommend a few drops of peppermint oil in boiling hot water. It’s excellent for unclogging sinuses. I could send some back here directly.’
Lady Clarissa beamed at him and Joe basked in the glow. ‘Why, thank you, Dr Warriner. It is so nice to know that someone cares about my well-being.’
* * *
The next half an hour passed without incident. Lady Braxton and he maintained the bulk of the conversation. Lady Clarissa added the odd snippet and her sister not at all. Her silence bothered him, although he couldn’t say why. As he made his goodbyes, Joe made one final attempt at engaging her. Goodness only knew why. ‘I am certain you will be well enough for Saturday’s assembly.’
‘Whether she is or she isn’t, I shall be there. Retford is such a dull place, we must find our entertainments where we can.’ Lady Clarissa rolled her eyes. ‘I cannot wait for this summer to be over.’ Which suggested their residency here was only temporary. Something that was probably for the best. A month of dreaming about the angelic, unattainable Clarissa was a month too many, as his misguided heart was doomed to be disappointed for ever.
‘Then I shall look forward to seeing you there.’
‘I am relying on you to dance with me, Dr Warriner.’ His heart soared. ‘There is a distinct shortage of eligible men in the area and, in the absence of any titled gentlemen, I shall have to content myself with handsome ones instead.’ And his heart dropped back to his toes where it belonged.
‘I am glad to be of service, my lady.’ Although he wasn’t. He was miffed. The butler passed him his hat and Joe started towards the door, feeling dejected and foolish. And angry at feeling guilty for being rightly peeved at Lady Clarissa’s words.
‘Dr Warriner...’ Lady Isabella had found her voice. ‘When might I go back to the infirmary to attend my duties?’
He saw her sister’s obvious eye roll and felt another stab of irritation at her selfishness. At least the dour Bella wanted to help people. Her eagerness shone in her dark eyes. They almost sparkled. ‘I suppose that depends on the type of duties you undertake. Racing around the ward, or standing for long periods of time, not for at least another week. But if you are doing something lighter—reading to the children or keeping a sick child company—I see no reason why you cannot resume those things in a day or two. As long as you are sitting down, of course.’
This answer pleased her immensely and for the first time he saw her proper smile. It was quite something. Quite something indeed. Dazzling, almost, and wholly responsible for a fresh wave of tingles. ‘Thank you, Dr Warriner. And thank you again for this morning.’
‘It was my pleasure, Lady Isabella.’ And for some inexplicable reason, as he left her, it was.
Chapter Four (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
The next two days seemed to go far slower than days ever had before. Being stuck on the sofa with no purpose made Bella’s anxiety worse. She fought it, of course, by reading or painting or sewing—anything to stop the debilitating melancholy which constantly threatened to suffocate her. Logically, she knew keeping active helped to ward off her demons. Dr Bentley’s assessment of her mental state and the invasive treatment he suggested had terrified her, and whilst she was fairly certain he was a quack at best, there was only so long her family would allow her to get over it all herself. Her way. They had moved to Retford, at her insistence, to give her the summer away from London to sort herself out. If she couldn’t, then the threat of more dreadful water treatments, and perhaps even Dr Bentley’s cure for her blatant hysteria, loomed on the horizon because she couldn’t go on like this.
She had to get better. There really was no other option and sitting around all day embroidering handkerchiefs was not helping her recovery or stopping her mind whirring. Her big brain needed proper stimuli, something meaningful, and her big heart needed to focus on others rather than herself.
* * *
On the third day, when her father announced he was going into town, Bella insisted on accompanying him, although he did not take much persuading. Both her parents saw her desire to leave the house as a positive step forward and delighted in seeing tangible evidence of progress, although they never, ever discussed it.
The lack of communication about the incident made it harder. Her parents, or more specifically her father, had decided from the outset it was better for everyone if they pretended it had never happened, as if blithely ignoring that dreadful night in Vauxhall Gardens would somehow erase it from existence. Yet how could it? Bella could still see his eyes boring down into hers. Still smell the fetid odour of the man’s filthy clothes and body. Still feel his hands groping her bare skin, pawing at her breasts and between her legs. Feel that part of him pressing against her flesh insistently. And all of it whilst pinned powerless beneath him in the dark bushes, unable to scream. Unable to run. All around her were the sounds of the laughing crowds and the fireworks and she was at the mercy of a monster.
In that dreadful instant, she had learned that the world was not the safe, cossetted place she had always believed it to be. Darkness and evil lurked, waiting for the unsuspecting. The trusting. The good-hearted. She had stopped to give a poor beggar some coins and he had wanted something else entirely. He’d almost taken it...
‘Will you read to us again, Bella?’
One of the three children currently in the cosy infirmary thrust a book into her hands. She stared down at the colourful picture book and grinned. ‘But I have already read you this one, not an hour ago.’
‘Yes, but we love that book, don’t we?’ Three pairs of angelic eyes pleaded with her. ‘Especially the way you read it. We love the way you do all of the voices.’
‘Very well.’ At least entertaining them gave her some purpose, even though she would much prefer to be doing something more...practical and, frankly, medicinal. Although a part of her enjoyed reading this particular Orange Blossom book, as a certain handsome doctor made an appearance in it, delivering a newborn foal to the horses on behalf of the stork and then a baby to Captain Galahad and Miss Freckles. As the book had been illustrated by Dr Warriner’s older brother Jamie, she was convinced Dr Sensible was based on the local physician. He certainly looked like him. Floppy dark hair, piercing blue eyes behind studious wire spectacles. Kind blue eyes. Eyes which she had noticed gazed longingly at her sister. Why did his obvious interest in Clarissa hurt, when every man had always preferred Clarissa and Bella no longer liked men? And whilst Dr Warriner was a brilliant scientist and she admired him for that, and whilst she might want to convince herself he was kind, trusting and noble, he was still a man. Another man who fancied her sister. No matter how many times she thought about it, it still stung. If it wasn’t so ridiculous a concept, she might even have described her initial reaction as jealousy. Which was impossible when one considered Bella now couldn’t bear the thought of being with a man. Any man. Even a brilliant and handsome doctor, with eyes as blue as the ocean. All in all, it was better to not think about it, despite her brain’s inability to stop.
* * *
Bella had read the book from cover to cover. Two of the children had drifted off to sleep by the time she quietly closed the book. The third, a usually boisterous lad by the name of Tom, stared listlessly at the ceiling. His cheeks were almost scarlet. Earlier, he had complained about a bit of a sore throat and had a slight cough. Now he was glassy eyed and still. Despite promising her father and the matron she would confine herself to the chair, something about the look of the boy did not sit right. She limped towards his cot and laid a hand on his brow. His skin was on fire.
She hobbled across the ward to pour a bowl of cool water and dunked a clean square of linen into it. After placing it across Tom’s fevered brow, Bella quickly found a maid and told her to summon the physician. All her reading told her the rapid onset of a high temperature did not bode well and signalled something nasty.
Back at his bedside, she sat and used the cold flannel to cool the boy’s skin. ‘The doctor is on his way, Tom. Are you in any pain?’
‘My throat.’ His voice was so hoarse he winced as he whispered and frightened tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
‘Let me see.’ His mouth was so swollen that seeing was impossible. Remembering the spare medical tools Dr Warriner kept in the cabinet, Bella rummaged through them and returned with the ivory tongue depressor she had seen him use before. ‘Say ah, Tom.’
The boy did as instructed, with some difficulty, but Bella saw the swollen and infected tonsils. To her untrained eyes they appeared very infected indeed, which suggested quinsy. The high temperature and general malaise confirmed the diagnosis. The poor lad must be in agony and his rapid fever was a worry.
‘Dr Warriner is attending a birth, my lady.’ The matron, Mrs Giles, scurried in, looking flustered. ‘His housekeeper says he might be gone many hours, but she will send him with all haste as soon as he returns.’
‘Then send for Dr Bentley!’ Bella did not want to wait hours. Hours of high fever killed children.
The matron shook her head. ‘Dr Bentley won’t come here.’
‘If it is a matter of money, Mrs Giles, tell him I will pay him personally.’
‘It’s not the money, my lady...it’s the family. Dr Bentley will not come here because it is owned by a Warriner.’
Bella had never heard anything so ridiculous in her life. ‘The man is a physician, is he not? As such, his first duty is to attend to those who need him. Send for him immediately.’ Petty feuds had no place in an emergency.
Just a few short minutes later, word came that Dr Bentley would not be attending the foundling home, now or at any time in the future and no amount of money would sway him. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but the old prejudices still run deep in Retford. I’m sure Dr Warriner will be here presently.’
Such an outrage beggared belief and at some point she fully intended to give the silly man a piece of her mind, but in the meantime Tom was burning up. ‘Can you brew some willow bark tea, Mrs Giles?’ That was known to help reduce a fever. ‘And some ice.’ Common sense told her cooling the boy’s skin might help, just as it had her hot, swollen ankle. Then Bella remembered her conversation with the doctor in his office. Honey fights infection... If it worked externally, then there was a chance it might work internally as well. She called at the woman’s retreating back. ‘And bring me a jar of honey, Mrs Giles!’
A few minutes later, she helped the boy to sit and carefully spooned the warm, hastily mixed willow bark and honey concoction into his mouth. He really didn’t want to swallow, so she tilted his head back to allow the liquid to trickle over those inflamed tonsils and into his stomach.
Mrs Giles moved the other boys to another room at Bella’s insistence and all the windows in the sunny infirmary were thrown open and the blankets stripped from the bed to allow the linen parcels of ice she had made to rest against his limbs, torso and head. Despite her best efforts, the boy’s temperature remained dangerously high. The willow bark alone was not going to be enough. What else could she use? Feverfew—wasn’t that known to have a calming effect on inflammation? And she had recently read a very enlightening paper on the benefits of echinacea flower...
‘Mrs Giles, send somebody immediately to Dr Warriner’s surgery and ask his housekeeper to send us the following things.’ Bella listed all the herbs she could think of which might be of use: yarrow root, black elder berries, chamomile, ginger, more white willow, much more honey. In the absence of a proper physician, Bella was all little Tom had.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Joe finally made it to the infirmary. The twins he had just delivered had been most uncooperative. The first had been breech and the second baby had the cord wrapped around his neck. It had been a difficult and dangerous birth and he was supremely grateful he had been called early enough to be able to save the mother and both of her babies. Now he was practically dead on his feet and had already called for a large pot of coffee to sharpen his wits ready for his next emergency. He only hoped the child’s fever was manageable and that the hours of delay had not been catastrophic. Dealing mostly with the many poor of the parish, Joe was often spread too thin and, because of his innate need to rescue, felt personally responsible for every failure—especially the children. Today, three of them had needed him and he prayed he was not too late for the third.
The ward was dim as he walked in. A single candle burned in one corner of the room and he could just about make out the outline of a napping nurse resting in the chair beside the sleeping boy’s bed, her head buried in the scrunched-up pillow which had been propped behind her and her legs tucked under her skirts. He crept to the opposite side of the bed and rested his palm on the boy’s forehead. He was warm, but not burning. A good sign. Fortunately, this nurse had not closed up the room or had a roaring fire burning in the grate. No matter how many times he told Mrs Giles heat was the worst thing to use to treat a fever, the old matron was set in her ways and always reverted to it in an emergency. It was all she knew.
This nurse was obviously more intelligent. Tom was covered in only a thin cotton sheet, the fireplace was stone-cold and the lace curtains billowed in the gentle summer breeze coming through the wide-open windows. Joe placed his bag on the edge of the bed and the movement woke up the sleeping woman with a start. Her terrified eyes were round in the darkness.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Dr Warriner!’
He knew that voice. ‘Lady Isabella?’ To find her still here, at a sick child’s bedside so late at night, was a huge surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to stay with Tom...just in case his fever returned.’ She had hastily stood and was in the process of lighting a lamp close to the bed. ‘His temperature was so high earlier I was worried about him.’ As usual, she was already backing away towards the open doorway, her posture stiff. He could see her chest rising and falling rapidly almost as if she was in the midst of a panic, but her features were composed, if slightly strained.
‘Is he having any difficulty breathing?’
She took a step forward and gazed down at the sleeping child and shook her head. ‘Not so far—thank goodness.’ In the lamplight, he could see her hairstyle had collapsed on one side. One slippery coil of dark hair hung down against her cheek almost to her waist. The rest of that side of her head charmingly resembled a bird’s nest. Rumpled and groggy with sleep, she appeared younger and much softer than usual. Instead of their usual wariness, those soulful dark eyes were now filled only with concern for the little boy. ‘The fever came on so suddenly.’
‘His temperature is not unduly high now.’
Almost as if she didn’t believe him, her own palm brushed against the boy’s brow and she exhaled in relief. ‘I mixed willow bark with feverfew, echinacea and chamomile in a tea to fight the fever and have been feeding him it every two hours since midday. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Joe took in the scene, the open windows, the ice, the cool cloths draped over the boy’s arms and head. The child’s distinct lack of a nightgown. ‘I think you did everything I would have done. You have managed the symptoms perfectly.’
‘Not all of them. He’s wheezing and his tonsils are badly infected and he is in a great deal of pain. I mixed a generous dollop of honey in with the tea because I recalled you said it had healing properties against infection. I have no idea if it has actually made a difference, but it seemed to help.’
She really had thought of everything. ‘The warmth of the tea will have soothed them and the honey will help to fight the infection. As for the pain, I think you have alleviated a great deal with your quick thinking—he is sleeping very soundly. I doubt he would be so deep in the arms of Morpheus if he were still in the grip of pain. I was expecting to walk into a crisis, but thanks to you, it was deftly avoided... Well done.’
She smiled at him shyly but then brushed the compliment away. ‘I can assure you, it was merely borne out of necessity. When we learned you might not return for hours, I sent for Dr Bentley and the fool refused to come.’ The flash of annoyance had her scowling. ‘And the man has the cheek to call himself a physician!’
‘Dr Bentley is quite particular about who he treats.’ People with no money to pay him for his services up front, for example, were callously ignored. Joe hated that, yet at the same time he was strangely grateful for the fellow’s ambivalence. Had Bentley been a good doctor who treated first and sought payment after, then nobody in his Retford practice would have given Joe a chance. His willingness to treat all comers and to accept whatever payment in kind the families could afford had granted him a level of acceptance he would never have enjoyed otherwise. Of course, it also meant he was given all manner of things he had no use for—like the ornate lady’s hair comb which had been sent to his surgery only yesterday by an elderly patient who was as fit as a fiddle but imagined she suffered from everything. Nothing he could use to pay the wages of an assistant to help him with his growing workload.
‘Doctors have no place being selective in their choice of patients. Ignoring a sick child is nothing short of cruelty. In fact, it is criminal!’
‘I keep trying to appeal to his better nature.’ Joe refrained from saying what he truly thought. Dr Bentley was motivated by money rather than the need to heal. Meanwhile the poverty-stricken people suffered unnecessarily from his neglect. However, knowing what he did about Dr Bentley’s archaic and draconian practices, he supposed it was just as well he was not more charitable. His antiquated methods rarely worked and often made things worse. If Joe ever found himself bleeding to death in the middle of the road, the very last person he would call was Dr Bentley, as he’d probably end up dead.
‘I am not sure that man has a better nature. I didn’t take to him when I first met him and respect him less now. It is a wonder that he is still condoned by the locals when his attitude towards the sick is so appalling.’
‘Dr Bentley has been practising medicine here for as long as I can remember. People are unwaveringly loyal to him after so many years of service.’ And, of course, it helped he did not have the unfortunate surname of Warriner.
‘Service?’ She was so outraged she forgot to whisper. ‘Leaving a sick child to potentially die is hardly service!’ Her fierceness amused him and reminded Joe of the way he had seen Dr Bentley glare at her as he left her the other day. Lady Isabella clearly hid a bit of a temper beneath her usually silent, suspicious exterior. It made her forget to be silent and it was nice not to be on the receiving end of her disdain for once. The noise roused their patient and he whimpered slightly. The change in her was instantaneous. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Tom.’ Her hand brushed his hair affectionately. ‘Dr Warriner is here. He is delighted to see you getting better. Would you like something to drink?’
The boy nodded and she began to fuss over him, so different from the uptight and dour woman he had always assumed her to be. To be still here because a foundling was sick and to be treating him as if she genuinely cared about him was...well, frankly nothing short of admirable and not at all what he would have expected of her. She stepped aside while Joe did his own examination of the boy, watching with barely disguised interest from her preferred spot nearest the door as he took his stethoscope out of his bag and used it to listen to Tom’s chest. ‘His lungs are clear. The wheezing is in his throat, not his chest.’
‘You can tell such things just from listening?’
‘Yes, indeed. With this wonderful instrument I can hear all manner of things I couldn’t before.’
‘Is that Laennec’s stethoscope?’ She took two steps forward. At her apparent fascination with the instrument he passed it to her to examine. She took another step forward, took it eagerly and scrutinised both ends of the wooden tube whilst holding it as if it were as precious as the Holy Grail. ‘I read his paper last year but have never seen one used before.’
She kept surprising him. ‘You read his Treatise on the Diagnosis of the Diseases of the Lungs and Heart?’
‘I didn’t understand all of it,’ she said, holding his stethoscope like a telescope and peering through the hole, ‘but his claims that different diseases caused the chest cavity to sound different was intriguing.’ Lady Isabella was the first person he had ever met who had read the great Dr Laennec’s work, a surprising choice of reading matter for a young lady, yet one which proved she had more than a working knowledge of all things scientific if she had read that weighty academic essay.
‘I had one made to Laennec’s exact design as soon as he began to publish his successes. He has used it to great effect when diagnosing the treatment of consumption. I have heard of a few other physicians who have started to use a stethoscope rather than rely on just their own ears—but it is still a relatively new invention. Everyone who tries it, swears by it. It’s amazing how clearly one can hear congestion in the lungs, or an irregular heartbeat—which in turn makes diagnosis and treatment of such dangerous conditions faster. When an illness affects the lungs, without swift intervention a patient can quickly develop pleurisy or pneumonia. That stethoscope you are holding has saved a few lives here in Retford in the two years I have been using it.’ In fact, it was Joe’s most essential piece of equipment aside from his spectacles. Without those, he couldn’t read a damn thing or see anything close up. ‘I have been experimenting with it with expectant mothers. During the first stage of confinement it is also possible to hear the heartbeats of a foetus.’ Was it appropriate to discuss such things with a gently bred young woman? Probably not, yet her eyes lit up and he reminded himself she had read Laennec.
‘How can you be sure you are simply not hearing the mother’s heart?’
‘Because I can clearly hear both, beating in tandem. The mother’s is louder, as one would expect with an adult, fully grown heart, and the babe’s is softer and beats much more rapidly. I was staggered at how fast it was at first, but it is a wonderful thing to hear.’
‘Rapid heartbeats? How fascinating. To hear life at such an early stage of development. Is the instrument easy to use?’
‘I’m sure young Tom here won’t mind you listening to his chest. Why don’t you give it a go and see for yourself?’
There was no hesitation this time. No wariness. Lady Isabella placed the end on the boy’s sternum, ever so slightly left without having to be told the human heart did not sit dead central, and rested her ear against the other end. Within seconds she was smiling again. ‘My goodness! Why, I can hear it as clear as a bell.’ Then she giggled, a delicious, warm sound which did odd things to his own heartbeat and made him feel uncharacteristically vain. Joe found himself unhooking his spectacles from his ears and stuffing them into his pocket and quashed the urge to neaten his unruly hair. ‘I can also hear your tummy gurgling, young man. There are so many noises going on inside your body it is like an orchestra is playing a symphony with your organs.’
A symphony of organs. What an apt description. ‘Listen again while Tom takes a deep breath. Can you hear any wheezing in his lungs?’
She bent her head again and listened intently for almost half a minute before standing up. ‘You are right. There is no congestion in his lungs. The only sounds of laboured breathing I hear clearly come from the swelling in his throat.’ Anticipating his next move, she handed him the tongue depressor on the nightstand so he could get a better look inside the boy’s mouth at the source of the trouble, then went to fetch the candle to shine light on the right spot. Just as she had said, the offending tonsils were quite nasty, but he had seen far worse. ‘Will you have to remove his tonsils, Doctor?’
Little Tom’s eyes widened and Joe winked at him and shook his head. ‘Only if they keep causing problems. In my experience, this is a stage many children go through and grow out of. I am of the belief, if one is born with an organ, then it serves a greater purpose remaining in the body unless it proves to be absolutely necessary to remove it. For the time being, Tom’s tonsils can stay put.’
The boy yawned and she was all concern again. ‘It’s time for your medicine and then it’s back to sleep for you, I think.’
‘Indeed. A good night’s sleep works wonders, young Master Tom. That and more of Lady Isabella’s tonsil-taming tea.’
She stood and began to limp towards the door to fetch it and Joe remembered she had been injured. ‘I can see to that. You should be at home, resting your ankle. Is your carriage waiting for you or would you like me to send for it?’ He didn’t dare offer to drive her home after the last time.
‘No, thank you, Dr Warriner. I shall stay till morning. I have already sent word to my family not to expect me home until then. The carriage is returning for me at six when Mrs Giles arrives.’ A servant chose that exact moment to return with his pot of coffee, which she glared at with blatant disapproval. ‘Coffee at midnight? Is that wise? If anyone needs rest, it is probably you, not I. You have a great many other patients to attend to tomorrow, including Tom, whilst I can sleep all day if I wish to. I believe your bed will do you more good than coffee will tonight. I can hold the fort here—as you have already plainly seen—and if the danger is passed, you might as well get some well-earned rest. A good night’s sleep works wonders, after all.’
As there was no arguing with his own good advice, he did exactly as she suggested.
Chapter Five (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
The assembly room in Retford was small by London standards, but no less the crush. In the hour since their arrival, Bella had found a group of married ladies she felt comfortable conversing with and had deftly avoided being asked to dance by anyone by looking straight through any man who was fool enough to come close. Like sentries, her parents hovered close by, standing guard, which reassured her immensely. Clarissa, as usual, was stood some distance away surrounded by a positive battalion of men all fawning over her every word, enjoying being the adored centre of attention. As yet the handsome doctor was not one of them, but as he was still to make an appearance, his absence in Clarissa’s entourage did not make her feel any better about it.
She hadn’t seen him since the night he had come to call on Tom and Bella wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about that either. His visits to the infirmary had not coincided with hers, despite the fact she had taken to volunteering every day since the little boy had fallen ill. She had felt somehow responsible for the child, seeing that his treatment regimen had begun with her and the doctor had not altered it. The sense of achievement she had at being instrumental in his recovery was phenomenal. Tom was clearly on the mend now and Bella couldn’t help patting herself on the back for being the cause. Having the brilliant Dr Warriner say ‘well done’, and without being the least bit condescending about it, had been the icing on the cake. And they had conversed about medicine! It had been so enlightening to be able to discuss the things she had only read about. Since being allowed to use his stethoscope, she now had a hundred questions about both lung and heart conditions, which the real her, deep inside, was determined to make her ask. Perhaps she would find her courage and her voice enough to ask one tonight? If he ever turned up, of course, and if he could tear himself away from her sister.
His brothers were all here. All so like him in appearance, yet none quite as handsome despite their near-identical features and physiques. It was probably the scholarly demeanour which made the good doctor stand out as the single most attractive Warriner of the bunch.
And the spectacles.
Not that he wore them often, but when he did they made her mouth strangely dry. They magnified the cobalt irises of his eyes just a little bit, rendering them bluer still and more striking, and when he peered through them they served to magnify the power of his intelligence, too. Which was probably what Bella was drawn to. It couldn’t be anything else. It was only his scientific mind which drew her. His considered and reasoned logic. Even though she couldn’t stop staring at his lovely blue eyes. And perhaps the way his broad shoulders filled out his dark and sensible coat...
She was in the midst of pondering her odd thoughts concerning the good doctor when he strode in, looking quite splendid. In deference to the occasion, his normally plain black waistcoat had been replaced by one of blue silk, which did wonders for his eyes and made her gaze at the wide expanse of his chest for a second because the real her wanted to look and she couldn’t muster up the strength to argue.
He paused in the doorway, scanned the crowd, and Bella watched his eyes settle on her sister before he set his jaw. He watched Clarissa flirting with her harem of vying men for a few seconds, then he seemed to exhale—in defeat, disappointment, perhaps even irritation? Bella couldn’t tell but experienced the sting of it none the less, before he turned away and walked towards his family.
* * *
For over an hour she watched him surreptitiously. He had an easy way about him which she envied, clearly comfortable in his scholarly skin and enjoying the company of his boisterous family. When Bella accompanied her mother to the retiring room, she returned to see him dancing with one of his brothers’ wives. Bella had briefly been introduced to Mrs Cassie Warriner and had liked her immediately. She had not been introduced to her husband but had noticed his pronounced limp the first time she had seen him, so it stood to reason that particular Warriner did not dance, so his brother was standing in for him. Justifying why the doctor was dancing with a pretty woman—a pretty and obviously pregnant woman—made the fact he was dancing with one more palatable, not that Bella wanted to dance with him, of course. Dancing would mean touching and the very thought of that sent her into a panic. She never wanted to be touched again.
At the end of the dance she lost sight of him and was scanning the crowd for his dark head when he came up alongside. ‘I see your ankle is better.’
Instinctively, she jumped and took a step back even though he was not that close. ‘Yes, it is...although it’s not up to dancing.’ Why had she felt compelled to say that when he hadn’t asked her to?
Idiot. He dances so well, too. I miss dancing.
The voice inside was sighing. It was most disconcerting.
‘Tom is doing well.’ A safer topic and one Bella could manage without palpitations.
‘The inflammation is almost gone and there has been no sign of a raised temperature for a whole day now,’ she said.
‘I think we should keep him in the infirmary for at least another day. Little boys tend to pass on illnesses in the dormitories and we don’t want any more cases of quinsy if we can help it.’
We.
He kept referring to the patient as theirs, as if they shared the responsibility of his treatment, and that warmed her. He recognised her part in Tom’s recovery and her place in the infirmary. Recognised it and acknowledged it. ‘I shall check on him on Monday, and if he continues to make rapid progress, we can send him back to be with his friends.’
‘He’s very bored.’ Now that the crisis had passed, Tom wanted constant entertaining. She had read him every book on the little bookshelf. Some of them twice.
‘Excellent news. Bored is good. The very ill are rarely bored. They are too busy being ill. Only the well get bored.’
You’re bored, the voice inside her reminded her. Bored is good. He just said so. Do you remember when you were too terrified to be bored? What is that if not progress?
‘Dr Warriner!’ her mother interrupted a little too casually, with her father in tow. ‘You have not yet met my husband, have you?’
‘Your lordship.’ Joe bowed his dark head politely. ‘It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.’
‘I was curious to meet the man behind the infirmary my daughter is wedded to.’ Her father looked the doctor up and down, assessing his worthiness, and to Bella’s mind he did not approve of what he saw. ‘It seems I must thank you for coming to her rescue the other day. Bella speaks very highly of your skills as a physician.’
‘She does?’ Those fathomless blue eyes regarded her with amusement and she blushed crimson to the tips of her toes. Subtlety was never her father’s strong suit and he had rather given the impression she had been waxing lyrical, which perhaps she had once or twice when she regaled her day to her family over dinner. It was splendid to be doing something again. Especially something as useful and important as healing.
‘I’ve been telling my parents about Tom’s tonsils and...’ Perhaps it was better not to try to explain and simply brush it off, except she couldn’t muster the nonchalance to brush it off when he was still smiling at her, so she clamped her mouth shut instead.
Always so benevolent, Dr Warriner finished her sentence for her. ‘And I hope you have also told them how your swift intervention prevented him from going downhill. I was detained with another patient and your daughter single-handedly brought down the poor lad’s fever. By the time I arrived, the crisis had passed and he was already on the path to recovery.’
Both of her parents gaped at her. ‘You did?’
Once upon a time they would have expected her resourcefulness. It was a stark reminder of how far she had fallen in a year that they were both astounded and pathetically grateful to see some remnants of their old daughter return. It made Bella even more self-conscious than she was already. ‘I only brewed some willow bark tea.’
‘I fear I must contradict you there, my lady.’ Kind blue eyes were even more amused. ‘She sent to my surgery for a precise concoction of herbs to ease the child’s distressing symptoms. I was mightily impressed with her knowledge of medicine.’
Her mother was now completely beside herself with joy, reading far too much into a silly potion than the thing warranted. As if being able to remember a few herbs would somehow return her to her old self. Her father was positively scowling. How she wished they would all stop staring at her. ‘Bella has always had a very scientific mind. Had she been born male, I have no doubt she would have been the most dedicated and brilliant of scholars.’ Her father disapproved of her ‘hobby’ but had allowed it in Retford while she ‘convalesced’, even though he had decreed that daughters of earls were not supposed to get their hands dirty. He was, however, prepared to indulge her for the duration of the summer whilst she was out of sight in Retford to see if industry reaped better rewards than the water treatments and bloodletting.
‘If you’ll pardon me for saying it, sir, your daughter is a dedicated and brilliant scholar. Anyone who is familiar with the recent writings of Dr Laennec has a knowledge of medicine which exceeds that of the average layman.’ Things her father would be mortified to hear. Dr Warriner began to rifle in his coat pocket. ‘Which reminds me, I brought you this, Lady Isabella.’ He handed her a wooden stethoscope. ‘This was the original one I had made, but it is far too dainty for my enormous hands and I thought you might like it.’
Bella supposed most girls would melt if a man gave her flowers, but the exquisitely turned medical instrument was more beautiful to her than a bouquet of a thousand crimson roses. A funny little nerve jumped in her tummy and her heartbeat was so fast and so loud in her own head she doubted anyone would need a stethoscope to hear it. ‘I don’t know what to say... Thank you... I shall treasure it.’
Her parents shared a knowing look and instantly Bella wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Her father was clearly both concerned and horrified in equal measure. They were reading things into this innocent exchange which were not there. Dr Warriner was being nice and respected her mind. Just as she respected his mind...except there was so much more she was coming to like about him.
‘There you are, Dr Warriner!’ Clarissa sailed towards them and his eyes swivelled automatically. She threaded an arm through his possessively. ‘You did promise to dance with me, did you not?’
‘I did.’ Apparently, Bella was now forgotten, which was probably just as well. She had no place having fanciful thoughts about a man when being alone with one of them terrified her and the thought of being touched by one was quite repellent. Although Dr Warriner’s touch hadn’t been exactly that. If at all.
‘I pencilled you in for the waltz, which is the next dance. Isn’t it a good job I found you in time?’ As she led him away, clamped to him like a barnacle to the hull of a ship, Clarissa briefly turned back and smiled, letting Bella know the handsome doctor had been stolen away on purpose—because she could steal him, or any other man for that matter, away. Ever since she had been lauded as the Incomparable of the previous Season, Clarissa had become preoccupied with her own attractiveness. She had to be the prettiest girl in any room and all the handsome men, even the untitled ones, had to want to fall at her graceful feet. Dr Warriner was yet another willing conquest, something Bella suddenly found irritating.
Her father seemed fit to burst. ‘I shall be having words with Clarissa. I do not approve of her dancing with that man. I’ve heard dreadful stories about that family—and we already know about his brother’s antics in London. Jacob Warriner is a shocking rake and, if the locals are to be believed, the elder two are no better. Both tricked innocent girls into marriage. The Reverend Reeves lost his daughter after one of them seduced her. Father and daughter are now quite estranged as her husband cruelly keeps them apart. He told me so himself just a few minutes ago.’ The stick-thin vicar was stood piously in the corner, clutching his tattered Bible, silently but obviously disapproving of the dancing. ‘There is also talk the eldest abducted his wife to get his hands on her fortune. How else would such a man come to marry the Tea Heiress?’
Bella glanced across the room to the group of laughing Warriners. The wives appeared very happy with their husbands. The two women and their men could not look more besotted if they tried, and after Dr Bentley’s scandalous refusal to attend to Tom, Bella was inclined to be on the family’s side rather than the humourless vicar’s. ‘There are as many people here in Retford who would tell you the Warriners are good people. Dr Warriner runs a busy practice and the Countess of Markham runs the foundling home I have been volunteering in.’
‘That is as may be, but until I see tangible proof they are not as they have been reported, I should prefer it if my daughters maintained a safe distance. And that includes any and all dealings with Dr Warriner.’
Bella felt compelled to defend him, even if she was disappointed he preferred her self-absorbed sister. ‘Dr Warriner is a brilliant physician, Papa.’
‘Hmm.’ His eyes followed his eldest daughter to the dance floor. ‘I doubt you would be so foolish, Bella, but if he asks you to dance tonight, make sure you decline.’
‘I do not wish to dance with him, or anyone, Papa.’ The real her inside was longing to dance with the doctor. To be twirled around and to gaze up into those spectacled eyes. Where did that thought come from?
‘But he is very handsome.’ This came from her mother and it earned her a sharp look from her husband which she ignored. ‘And he seemed very taken with you.’
‘Are you blind, woman? The scoundrel has clearly set his cap at Clarissa. Or perhaps, like his eldest brother, it is her dowry which appeals to him.’
‘Dr Warriner is a man of science, not a fortune-hunter.’ Bella was compelled to defend him.
‘Then already he has lured you into his web of deceit if you believe such nonsense! Are you telling me you are also tempted by Dr Warriner?’
‘The only part of Dr Warriner which interests me is his brain.’ Liar. ‘Clarissa is welcome to the rest of him.’ Lord, spare me the sight of the pair of them together. ‘When can we go home?’
* * *
Miraculously, Joe enjoyed an entire night of uninterrupted sleep at his brother’s house. Jack and Letty had insisted he come home and spend a Sunday with the family because he looked tired and needed a break. Knowing they were right, he hadn’t argued. Mrs Patterson knew exactly where to find him and would not hesitate to rouse him for the smallest emergency, yet thankfully no midnight messengers had come to spoil his slumber. Joe woke naturally to soft daylight and the delicious smell of a hot breakfast for the first time in months.
He was also feeling pretty pleased with himself. He had danced with the delectable Clarissa twice and one of those had been the only waltz of the evening. As he had spun her around the floor, several pairs of male eyes had watched them jealously, all coveting the rare prize in his arms. Not only had the woman of his dreams danced with him, she had favoured him with her attention throughout. They had chatted over refreshments and she had practically dragged him towards her gaggle of admirers and kept hauling him back every time he wandered off. Clarissa might not be head over heels in love with him, or, if he was being brutally honest with himself, anywhere close, but she certainly now knew he existed. His poor heart swelled at the knowledge and he ignored the nagging voice which kept questioning why there had been no intriguing tingles when he had touched her hand or held her close.
Instead, Joe took his time shaving and dressing, intent on savouring the luxury of time passing, and sauntered into the breakfast room feeling more refreshed than he had in ages. His younger brother, Jake, was the only occupant and was sat with his feet crossed on another chair, reading a newspaper.
‘Good morning.’
His brother’s head popped over the newspaper and he grinned. ‘I should imagine it certainly is! I never thought I’d see the day when my scholarly big brother was wooing two ladies simultaneously.’
‘Two?’ Joe was genuinely baffled. ‘How much did you drink last night?’
‘Nowhere near enough to miss the delicious frisson in the air. But be warned, Dr Sensible, whilst I heartily approve of wooing two ladies at the same time, the fact they are sisters will cause all manner of complications. Juggling both Beaumonts is not going to be easy. Especially with their father watching you like a hawk.’
‘Very funny.’ Joe began to load his plate with the bounty on the sideboard. ‘But as usual you have got the wrong end of the stick.’ He balanced two crisp rashers of bacon on the mountain of scrambled eggs and carried a slice of toast to the table in his teeth.
‘I most certainly haven’t. I have eyes.’
‘Which clearly do not work if you believe I am juggling both Beaumonts.’ Jake had a way with the ladies and out of the four brothers they were closest in age. Joe couldn’t resist asking his opinion. ‘What do you think of Lady Clarissa?’
His brother shrugged. ‘Very pretty. Very highly thought of in London and considered quite the catch—and knows it, if you want my honest opinion. But I know the type too well to fall for her man-traps. Man-traps, I noted, she was using to great effect with you.’
‘Man-traps?’ The words came out mumbled as Joe enjoyed the first delicious mouthful of eggs. Mrs Patterson could cook, but the chef his sister-in-law Letty had brought with her from Mayfair was a culinary genius. Who knew the humble egg could taste so sublime?
‘Yes, indeed. The subtle, oh-so-casual way she kept touching your arm. The tinkling laugh. The flirtatious way she kept batting her eyelashes at you.’
‘She was?’ Joe had enjoyed the flirting immensely but had no intention of letting on. ‘I thought she had a touch of conjunctivitis.’
‘That would be why you were falling all over yourself to be so attentive. It was purely medical. My mistake.’ Jake snapped the paper back up in front of his face. ‘Yet it still doesn’t explain your fascination with the bookish Beaumont, who, by the way, I think is a much more exciting prospect.’
‘Bella!’ The very idea was preposterous. ‘I am not fascinated by Bella.’
‘Bella... Ah. My mistake.’ Joe could tell his brother was smiling behind his newspaper wall. Jake’s smugness always grated. ‘I shall assume all the lingering glances I witnessed were not lingering at all.’
‘Bella was not glancing at me in a lingering manner. The girl’s nose was constantly in her book.’
Jake threw his head back and laughed. ‘Not her, you idiot. The lingering glances were yours, else how would you know her nose was in her book? You were looking. You kept looking. Even whilst waltzing with the calculated Clarissa, your eyes kept wandering to her beautiful sister.’
A valid point, although his brother was quite mistaken as to why. His eyes had sought Bella out, but only out of concern. Seeing her sat amongst the wallflowers, doing her best to blend into the walls, bothered him. Nothing more. ‘She hurt her ankle a few days ago and I treated her. I was merely checking she was not in pain.’
‘Of course you were. I’ve often thought your concerned physician face mirrors your soppily pining face. And, I suppose, giving the lady a gift was also part of your medical service? I saw you give her that trumpet thing.’
‘It was a stethoscope. Lady Isabella has an interest in science and is volunteering at the foundling home.’
Jake gave up his pretence of reading his paper and dropped it on his lap. ‘The plot thickens. Have the pair of you been making gooey eyes over the patients?’ He sighed wistfully and clutched his heart. ‘How romantic...’
Joe had had quite enough. ‘My relationship with Bella is...well, for want of a better word, professional. A boy has been suffering from quinsy and we have been treating him. Bella has a brilliant mind...’ At his brother’s grin he scowled. ‘But if you must know, I prefer her sister.’ Not strictly true. Joe was coming to like Bella, too. She was clever and resourceful, and he was now convinced she was more shy than dour. And, of course, she had magnificent legs and then there were those tingles.
‘I see. So you find Clarissa attractive and Bella interesting.’
‘Clarissa is also interesting.’ If he was honest, her conversation last night had been a bit dull. But mundane topics like favourite colours or flowers were to be expected when an acquaintance was so new—and Lady Clarissa was not exactly the type to find discourse about stethoscopes or bone saws riveting. The fact Joe had struggled to care about the scintillating parties she attended in London was proof he was working too hard and had simply forgotten how to have fun. As they became more familiar with one another, he was convinced they would find a great deal in common. A great deal. It did not mean anything that he might have tried to escape her company once or twice, or had found his eyes wandering to her sister in the corner. He merely felt uncomfortable in the crowd of admirers he had no desire to be part of.
His foolish brother did not need to know Joe had toyed with the idea of asking Isabella to dance as well. Then remembered she couldn’t dance. She had firmly stated her ankle was still not strong enough. Although she walked with no difficulty, he noticed. Each time he saw her move, she glided effortlessly without any discernible sign of a limp and her hips undulated in a very pleasing fashion with each graceful step. Towards the end of the evening, his feet had been compelled to head in her direction again. The studious Bella might appreciate his scholarly conversation and he was tired of making small talk with those who would deign to tolerate a Warriner. He was curious to know her thoughts on Laennec’s paper, or maybe to discuss ancient Egyptian medicine some more. Even the state of Tom’s tonsils was more appealing than listening to more gossip and nonsense about ribbons. He had been a few feet away when the ethereal Clarissa had appeared out of nowhere and claimed him again for a second dance and then the opportunity was gone. The Beaumont carriage had left shortly afterwards after both girls were ushered out by their father, who had obviously had quite enough provincial society for one evening. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed Clarissa’s company.’
‘And the lovely Bella?’
‘Frankly confuses me. One minute she is as prickly as a hawthorn and the next she is...’ How to explain it? Joe frowned and pondered for a moment. ‘Bella is obviously clever and her commitment to the infirmary is surprising for a woman of her upbringing. Yet she is eminently capable, very well read...yet insular. Sometimes she is downright snippy, although I suspect she is shy. And then—bang—she is animated and engrossed in a topic.’ Like his stethoscope and Laennec’s research. ‘Half the time I don’t know what to make of her.’
Jake had leaned forward and was listening intently. ‘She’s a conundrum.’
‘Yes. I suppose she is.’
‘You’ve always liked a conundrum. They excite that enormous brain of yours.’ He grinned, looking every inch the rake he was. ‘Admit it! You find the enigmatic Bella intriguing.’
‘I find her sister intriguing—and Bella interesting.’
Jake pierced him with a glare, one which reminded Joe his flippant brother was more astute than he liked to let on. ‘You’re lying. I saw you trying to sneak off when she was surrounded by her other suitors. I saw you look at your pocket watch, the wall, her sister...you were bored stiff by Clarissa!’
‘I adore Clarissa. She is an angel. A diamond...’
‘Good grief, you’re at it again! Listen to yourself—diamonds. Angels! Why is it whenever you set your cap at a girl, she becomes this ethereal object to be revered from a distance? A woman of such dazzling perfection she is untouchable and unflawed.’
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Virginia Heath
A shy innocentShe's wary of all men.In this The Wild Warriners story, shy Lady Isabella Beaumont is perfectly happy to stay in the background and let her sister get all the attention from handsome suitors following a shocking incident. However working with Dr Joseph Warriner to help the sick and needy pushes her closer to a man than she’s ever been before. Is this a man worth trusting with her deepest of desires…?
A shy innocent...wary of all men...
Part of The Wild Warriners
After a shocking incident, shy Lady Isabella Beaumont is perfectly happy to stay in the background and let her sister get all the attention from handsome suitors! However, working with Dr. Joseph Warriner to help the sick and needy pushes her closer to a man than she’s ever been before. Is this man worth trusting with her deepest of desires...?
When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep…
Also by Virginia Heath
That Despicable Rogue
Her Enemy at the Altar
The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide
Miss Bradshaw’s Bought Betrothal
His Mistletoe Wager
The Wild Warriners miniseries
A Warriner to Protect Her
A Warriner to Rescue Her
A Warriner to Tempt Her
And look out for the next book
A Warriner to Seduce Her Available May 2018
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
A Warriner to Tempt Her
Virginia Heath
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07339-4
A WARRINER TO TEMPT HER
© 2018 Susan Merritt
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For all my former students at the Hathaway Academy.
Believe you are good enough
and always follow your dreams.
Contents
Cover (#u1bb7ca89-c9cc-5ae5-ab55-3c9b5a54b966)
Back Cover Text (#u63622fc7-fb01-501d-82dd-ddd0456832ae)
About the Author (#ub26d1f21-44eb-5733-b610-95b2bc3f9b11)
Booklist (#u7bc17b7c-9a3e-5fe9-b0a6-d3dd81796797)
Title Page (#u105e6256-ee6e-5424-90a6-e501af64bad9)
Copyright (#u5a6ed325-5b3d-5f39-b84d-64ddd42e36a6)
Dedication (#u28e6c84e-cf80-5c75-aada-c0760b565f79)
Chapter One (#u423a80e0-bb97-5d06-9082-6d77b8e53f06)
Chapter Two (#u0320ad9e-e5b0-562e-90ba-4c3c08050de0)
Chapter Three (#u416f6b2b-7799-5364-b93b-6e5c51395325)
Chapter Four (#ued33d554-475b-5d2b-b03b-38a3c0d82847)
Chapter Five (#u15617c4a-9c44-5e9f-92fa-2dd74488cf3f)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
July 1818
Dr Joseph Warriner sat down behind his desk with an air of resignation. Despite today’s genuine attempt at resolve, he realised such efforts were ultimately futile. His situation was pathetic. Worse—he was pathetic. He flicked out the dented gold pocket watch he always wore secured to his sensible dark waistcoat and knew, before even looking at the dial, it was almost eight o’clock. The fact he had checked the stupid thing every two minutes for the last half an hour irritated him, as did the sorry realisation he had also been drawn to participate in this ridiculous ritual for almost a month now. Drawn like a sailor to the sirens.
And for what? One transient dance exactly twenty-eight days ago. A few exchanged, meaningless pleasantries whilst he had stood with her other eager admirers, tossed randomly like discarded breadcrumbs to a yard full of chickens. Or like today, for a surreptitious glimpse of the cause of his torment, guiltily stolen through the heavy lace that covered the windows, when he knew, deep down, his foolish heart was once again chasing a shadow.
The whole sorry situation was pathetic.
Angrily, he snapped the watch closed and turned his chair towards the window and waited. Just like he had every Tuesday or Friday morning in the last few weeks, at precisely eight o’clock, the glossy black carriage turned into the square exactly on time. It was market day in Retford and she always came to shop on market day. And the fact she was always so punctual also irritated him. Just for once he wished she would be late and he would be forced to attend to his first patient of the day, whose appointment was now timed for five past the hour on market days instead of on the dot of eight as usual. Another sign of how lamentable this folly was. It would be much better to do something worthwhile rather than waste his time engaging in this pointless ritual, especially as he already had a mountain of tasks to complete today. But, no—this carriage was a creature of habit, much like its vexing occupant, and it slowed to a stop just past the window of Joe’s surgery as it always did. To torture him.
Carefully, he moved the very edge of the curtain so that he could get a better view and watched as the footman opened the carriage door. After a few seconds, one surprisingly sensibly shod foot, with an intriguingly shapely ankle, appeared. His breath hitched.
He had never seen her ankles before and was staggered a common formation of bones would affect him so. How many ankles had he seen in his career? Hundreds? Thousands, probably, yet the sight of hers made his heart beat faster.
The glorious ankles was closely followed by a bonnet-covered head. Without even seeing it, he knew her golden hair would be arranged in a becoming and fashionable style, but that already several of the silky strands, the colour of which he had often considered to be the exact shade of wheat freshly harvested and kissed by the sun, would have resent being tamed and begun escaping its pins. True to form, these would frame her bewitching face in tiny spiral curls he yearned to wind around his fingers.
Of course, he could never do that. If he did—well, then he would probably have to remove every single pin so he could enjoy watching that mass of curls tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Especially now he had seen those ankles. He closed his eyes and savoured the fantasy for a moment.
Lady Clarissa Beaumont.
Joe exhaled slowly and watched her gather herself together. For a fleeting moment she turned and he saw just her cheek—perfect peaches and cream skin—but was cruelly denied the sight of her wide, almond-shaped blue eyes in a shade so glorious that it would have made even the Caribbean Sea jealous. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her plump pink lips as she smiled at the footman and a bolt of ridiculous jealousy surged through him at the innocent exchange.
Because the delectable Clarissa, fêted society beauty, was largely ignorant of the fact he even existed. Thank heavens the ethereal Clarissa was also blissfully unaware the man currently hidden behind the curtain of his office was suffering from a terminal case of unrequited love. More painful this morning, for some reason, than it had ever been before. Probably because of those ankles, he realised. A few inches of silk-covered leg and he was already burning with lust. The lust was a new sensation. Up until today his love had been pure, the courtly kind of old and not sullied with that base, human emotion. But up until today he had been denied the sight of those magnificent ankles, so he supposed his sudden physical reaction was to be expected. What was love without passion anyway?
She turned and his heart soared—then promptly plummeted to his toes. She was quite the wrong sister. Not Lady Clarissa Beaumont at all, charming, blonde and effervescent. But Lady Isabella Beaumont. Pretty, yes, and clearly in possession of a damn fine pair of legs, but rather a serious, unsociable individual. And very definitely a brunette. Her ruler-straight dark locks suited her dour personality. She took the basket the footman offered her, stood and regarded the marketplace with obvious disdain and strode away purposefully. Hardly a surprise when Lady Isabella did everything with purpose, whether that be blatantly reading a book during an assembly when every other girl was dancing or doing good deeds.
Whilst she always accompanied the beautiful Clarissa on market days, until this week Joe and the scary Lady Isabella had collided only briefly. Once at the monthly assembly held in the village hall, where she was stood next to her lovely sister. For the duration of the festivities, as far as Joe could ascertain, she had worn what he suspected was a permanent expression of complete disgust, as if the provincial society of dankest Nottinghamshire was quite beneath her. Fortunately, she tended to fade into the background stood next to her sparkling sister, so Joe rarely noticed her.
That wasn’t completely true. He always noticed her; he just wished he hadn’t. Why would he waste time staring at the darkness when he could gaze at sunshine? Yet something about those dark, serious eyes always drew him, nevertheless, and he found himself frowning. A little bewildered. A little irritated, yet oddly curious. Goodness knew why. It was almost as irritating as yearning for her unobtainable sister.
However, since last week, he had seen Lady Isabella twice at the foundling home run by his sister-in-law Letty, so he had no choice in the matter. She was volunteering in the infirmary and watched him like a hawk whenever he visited and while he examined the young patients with such determined concentration, and such a sour expression, it made him feel as though he was not a particularly good doctor at all. It was most disconcerting. Yet she never said a word. Not one! Preferring to loiter in the doorway as he worked and then bolt the moment he turned. It was all very curious. All very odd. Much like Lady Isabella.
If anything, Isabella was vinegar to her sister’s honey. Always so stand-offish. Devoid of any discernible sense of humour as far as he could make out. Dour. Certainly rude. Perhaps even a little intimidating. He felt his lip curl at the thought.
He waited with bated breath for the appearance of the other Beaumont. The one his poor heart yearned to see, but alas, the footman smartly closed the carriage door and took his place at the back, forcing Joe to accept the disappointing fact he would not see the object of his unrequited affections today after all. A crushing blow when he had been so looking forward to it, even though he knew it was an exercise in futility and one which rendered him utterly pathetic. Lady Clarissa would never consider him.
Aside from his unfortunate Warriner ancestors and the dreadful family reputation which still lingered in Retford like a bad smell, he was merely the brother to an earl with no hope of ever getting a title, what with another brother and already two robust nephews in the way. Not that Joe had ever coveted any title other than Dr, but women like Lady Clarissa were raised to care about such things. She was the daughter of the Earl of Braxton and would one day, no doubt, marry another title and live in a grand stately pile surrounded by miles and miles of her rich husband’s land. Such ladies did not marry third sons nor did they marry doctors. His job was as gruesome as it was rewarding. Sometimes he came home with his clothing covered in all manner of unmentionable things—none of which was suitable for the tender sensibilities of a lovely, well-bred woman like her.
If he was lucky, he was able to sleep for a whole night uninterrupted. More often than not, his sleep would be disturbed by a frantic knock on the door and he would be summoned to the bedside of another patient. He got called away from social functions and dinners. He could not even guarantee he would be left in peace on Christmas Day. Not that he minded those things either. It was who he was. His vocation and he would not have it any other way, but it was a big leap of faith to expect another person to be so forgiving of the demands his career placed upon him. Especially if that person was so exquisite she could have her pick from a crop of suitors much more impressive than him.
Mrs Patterson, his formidable housekeeper, rapped her knuckles swiftly on the other side of his consulting room door, bringing Joe unceremoniously, and blessedly, back to the present.
‘Dr Warriner, Mr Simmons is here for his appointment.’
‘Send him in, Mrs Patterson.’ Joe sat up smartly and put on the wire-rimmed spectacles he needed to read his notes. The allotted time for self-indulgent dreams was over.
* * *
Bella stared at the already crowded marketplace and immediately felt nauseous. Usually she made the short walk across the square with Clarissa, which meant it was not as daunting, but her sister had claimed to be ill to get out of the chore of holding Bella’s hand, so drastic times called for drastic measures. Bella could have stayed at home. But at home she would soon become bored because she found no purpose in embroidery. Filling her day with purpose took her mind off the fear and allowed her to leave the house. Purpose was making her better, or so she fervently hoped, and she had to be brave. She would conquer this fear logically. Scientifically.
It was just a short walk to the foundling home.
It was broad daylight.
And nobody here meant her any harm.
She could and would do this!
In less than five minutes she would be safely ensconced in the infirmary. The place she had only just discovered she preferred above all others in the world.
It was rare that she ever felt truly comfortable enough to be herself any more. Ever since the incident, as her family whisperingly called it behind her back, a huge chunk of her character had crawled deep inside her body and was too terrified to come out. Being well meaning and good-natured had been the cause of it, after all, so it was hardly any wonder Bella was reluctant to be so trusting again around a man. Or feel comfortable in crowds. Or go outside alone, for that matter, where danger lurked. Perhaps coming here unaccompanied had been foolhardy. Hasty. She should turn around and get back in the carriage...
You are pathetic! the real her screamed. You managed to live twenty years without coming to any harm at all. You cannot let one incident dictate the way you live your life.
The voice of the real her had been becoming louder and louder for months now. A constant voice in her head which emboldened her to remain hopeful and determined. From its cave inside her soul, it parried with pithy retorts, tackled problems with a level, logical and practical head, revelled in irony, argued against idiocy whilst constantly issuing witty and sometimes hilarious comments about the world around her. That voice might not yet be strong enough to make its way up her vocal chords and out of her once-tart mouth, but it was there. Somewhere. Chivvying her on.
Those foundlings need you. And think of all the wonderful things you are learning.
Bella set her jaw and stared across the crowded square. Those sick foundlings did need her—she was discovering so much about medicine in the infirmary that the hours flew by. For the first time in her life she was doing something she had always yearned to do, something which would have been frowned upon in London, so she had never been able to pursue it. But sleepy Retford wasn’t London and as it was unlikely any of her parents’ society acquaintances would ever hear of it, and because her mama and papa had been delighted Bella had finally found some interest in life again, they had allowed her to volunteer.
Gently bred young ladies were not supposed to find the study of anatomy or healing interesting, yet spending time with those children, learning about what ailed them and the best way to treat it, was one of the most rewarding things Bella had ever done. She had a sneaking suspicion it was her calling, her vocation, and that she had always been meant to be a nurse. Finally, she was putting into practice all the things she had read in the scientific journals she had always devoured like biscuits. It also gave her enough purpose that she quite forgot to be petrified for huge chunks of the day. What was that, if it was not progress? Frankly, she was counting the minutes until she could be back there, roll up her sleeves and help those poor cherubs get better.
All she had to do was walk across this market square alone. Because Bella was tired of always being frightened and the real her was right. Living in fear smacked of surrender and she was determined never to let that bad man win.
She forced herself to smile politely at one of the market traders who greeted her, ignoring the irrational panic which occurred whenever she was close to a man. If she had been a little more observant and a little less terrified, she would have noticed the precarious basket of potatoes on his stall. But because she was feeling exposed and her tenuous grasp on logic was slipping, she did not see the laden basket topple, nor did she see a surge of muddy potatoes as they cascaded from the table like a waterfall and rolled haphazardly across the ground towards her. Too late, Bella turned, allowing a couple of the careening vegetables the opportunity to disappear, like mice in a haystack, beneath her trailing skirts and tangle hopelessly beneath her feet.
Her body lunged sideways when she stepped on one. Her heavy basket tilted, aiding gravity to pull her towards the floor at an alarming rate. Bella landed awkwardly on her front with enough force to knock all her breath from her lungs. The subsequent sharp pain in her ankle brought tears to her eyes. The palms of her hands, now muddied, burned angrily in protest. The puddles floating on the hard cobblestones were already seeping through her clothing whilst humiliation relentlessly seeped into her soul. If there was one thing Bella now hated above all others, it was being the centre of attention when invisible was safe.
Several market traders and locals rushed to her aid, but she assured them that she was quite all right and tried to stand. White-hot pain shot up her leg and forced her to remain exactly where she was. To make matters worse, she helplessly watched the back of the Braxton carriage turn out of the market square as it headed home and her only means of escaping this dreadful spectacle leaving with it. She smiled weakly at the growing crowd of onlookers and tried to pull together the tattered shreds of her dignity whilst fighting the panic of being at the mercy of others. Most of them male.
‘My lady—I am so sorry.’ The stallholder twisted his felt cap in his hands nervously. ‘Are you seriously hurt? Shall I fetch Dr Warriner? His office is just across the square.’
Mortified by the prospect of even greater humiliation in front of the brilliant Dr Warriner, Bella shook her head. The very last person she wanted to witness her clumsy stupidity was the handsome doctor. The man who, despite being a man, made her silly heart flutter every single time he spoke to her, thus rendering her mostly mute. Probably because of his brilliance, rather than his handsomeness, but it was difficult to be sure. ‘That will not be necessary—I think I will be able to stand in a moment or two.’ She would crawl home if she had to.
Two things soon became apparent. Firstly, standing was an impossibility. Bella tried three times and each time fresh, blinding pain shot up her leg and brought tears to her eyes. Secondly, despite her protests to the contrary, somebody had called the good doctor after all. The crowd of onlookers were parting like the Red Sea and he was suddenly striding purposefully towards her.
‘It’s just my ankle... I would prefer you not to waste your time on such a triviality.’ Bella tried to push herself up once again using her hands and failed miserably. The poor man had genuine sick people to heal and certainly far more important things to deal with than a clumsy, irrational girl’s superficial injury. ‘I shall put some ice on it when I get home and keep it elevated.’ She turned her head away and silently willed him to disappear.
‘Please do not try to stand, my lady.’ He knelt beside her. ‘I will need to take a look to properly assess the damage first.’ One arm slipped beneath her legs, making her flinch.
He was touching her!
Instinctively, she stiffened and tried to shuffle away. Undeterred, he continued. ‘Place your arms around my shoulders. I promise I won’t drop you.’
Good gracious! He intended to carry her and create even more of a spectacle. ‘I am sure I can manage to hobble to your surgery, Dr Warriner.’ Perhaps then everyone would stop gawping at her when nowadays she preferred to blend in. Except she wouldn’t hobble towards his surgery. She would drag herself back up the lane to the safety of home and never leave it again. Logic could go to hell in a hand cart. She never should have listened to the voice. She never should have come out all alone, but staying home after her sister had claimed a sniffle and remained in bed had felt like defeat. Clarissa had made no secret of the fact she was beyond tired of being her sister’s keeper. Not when it had been over a year and it wasn’t Clarissa’s fault Bella had suffered the incident. Bella had to get over it because it could have been worse.
Worse didn’t bear thinking about. Unfortunately, she thought about it all the time.
The doctor slanted her a superior glance. ‘Hobble, will you? And create more damage for me to fix in the process, no doubt? No, my lady—I will carry you if you don’t mind.’
But she did mind. He was a man and she was now a spectacle. A spectacle who was on the cusp of bursting into tears and apprising everyone of the fact that she was no longer capable of being rational, not quite right in the head any more, yet so desperate to be right again.
Chapter Two (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
You are being ridiculous! Bella scrunched her eyes tightly closed, gripped his shoulders and willed herself lighter in the faint hope it would all be over soon. He hoisted her into the air and began to walk across the square. Less than half a minute later, he gripped her harder still and his breathing became more laboured with exertion. It was then she decided that willing herself lighter was not working in the slightest and began to wish herself invisible instead. Mercifully, he covered the distance to the surgery quickly, and once inside, he deposited her gently on an examination table.
‘I need to fetch some things. I will only be a moment.’
He returned with his housekeeper in tow, no doubt for propriety’s sake. Bella was ridiculously grateful for the woman’s presence and tried to relax.
‘Where does it hurt?’
She touched her left leg in response. ‘My ankle. I was sabotaged by a potato.’ She smiled weakly, praying the fear did not show in her face. Think logically! He was simply doing his job. He had no intention of hurting her. Perhaps if she repeated that mantra, her heartbeat would begin to slow and the tight bands of fear constricting her ribs would loosen.
Bella bit the inside of her cheek as he matter-of-factly lifted the hem of her ruined dress and carefully pushed it to her knee.
He has no intention of hurting you. He is simply doing his job.
To her own ears her breathing was laboured. Dr Warriner appeared to sense her rising panic, although he thought it was caused by pain rather than the acute reminder of another time when a man had lifted her skirts...one filthy hand clasped over her mouth while the other was fumbling with the buttons on his breeches. Touching her.
The unwanted memory made her whimper.
‘Breathe slowly and deeply. That will help.’
She did as he suggested, her eyes never leaving his hands.
He has no intention of hurting you.
His gentle touch around the bones of her ankle did not feel like the worst sort of violation.
He is simply doing his job.
He was a doctor. A man of science. He had the deepest blue eyes Bella had ever seen. Bluer even than Clarissa’s. They were kind eyes, she realised.
Patient.
The voice deep inside of her soothed that she could trust him and she forced herself to believe it.
Slowly, and with surprising tenderness, he removed her half-boot and gently examined the swelling around her ankle. His dark brows were drawn together slightly. He had a good nose, Bella mused to avoid thinking about the past, neither too small nor too large, and a strong chin that was already showing evidence of a very dark beard, even though he had clearly shaved it this morning. His black hair curled slightly at the snowy-white collar of his shirt and fell softly forward over one side of his brow in a slightly boyish manner. The natural style reminded her that the good doctor was not one for pomades or unnecessary frills like the dandies in town. She liked that about him.
Not that he needed them. He was incredibly handsome. Bella had surprised herself by thinking it the first time she had seen him at the local assembly, because it had been over a year since she had thought such things about a man. She had never seen him wear anything other than stark, dark black or navy blue, and although he was always smartly turned out, his attire gave off the air of a man both comfortable in his own skin and far too busy with important things to pay much attention to his wardrobe. He was a true man of science and it showed.
He had handsome hands, too, if indeed hands could be described as such. Clean, sensibly trimmed fingernails, but capable. So very different to the hands of that scoundrel. Healer’s hands. Just like hers.
She found herself scrutinising his technique as the panic began to wane. After all, he had been properly schooled in the precise art of medicine whilst all her knowledge had come from whatever books she could find. Those books were no substitute for practical experience.
‘Mrs Patterson, would you mind...’ His words trailed off and he wore an odd expression as he gestured to his housekeeper to remove the stocking on Bella’s left leg. Feeling horribly exposed and conscious she had been intently staring at him, she lay back on the bed and fixed her gaze on the ceiling as his large hands meticulously prodded and probed her foot, calf and ankle.
He is simply doing his job. Stop being a pathetic coward. It’s irritating. You’re irritating. Be logical.
Once she had succumbed to the inevitability of her situation, and repeated her new mantra another dozen times silently in her head, it turned out not to be such an unpleasant experience. He had lovely warm palms and his deft touch left a trail of tingles on her skin which caused havoc with her pulse. Bizarrely, it had nothing to do with fear or panic. Bella knew those emotions too well and this was nothing like them. How peculiar.
His fingers suddenly left her skin and the real her willed them back. In fact, the real her was positively swooning. ‘The good news is that it is not broken.’ Bella watched those capable hands as he absently returned her skirts to order. He had obviously touched a significant number of ladies’ legs on a regular basis, she concluded, because he looked decidedly nonplussed with hers. ‘But it is badly sprained and bruised, so you will have to keep your weight off it for a few days.’ He smiled his detached doctor smile and spoke quickly to his housekeeper.
‘Mrs Patterson—could you fetch some ice and some towels, please?’
They would be alone! She missed the end of the conversation due to the hammering panic in her head and the older woman left to do his bidding. Bella levered herself to sit, just in case she needed to run, wincing as cuts on her hands protested at being used to lever her.
‘Let me see.’ He said this in a reassuringly detached and professional way as he took both her hands in his. Instantly, her silly pulse leapt even as she froze, then continued to bounce around frenetically as he turned them palms up to examine the filthy grazes caused by her fall. Strangely, there was no urge to run at being so intimately close to him. She hoped that was more evidence of progress. ‘These need cleaning.’
He dropped her hands dispassionately and went across the room to a large washstand. After pouring water into the bowl, he added a generous dash of clear liquid from a bottle next to the jug, and after tossing a clean towel over his shoulder, he carried the basin towards her.
‘Put them in here, please.’
Bella plunged her hands into the water and immediately snatched them out again as it stung so very badly.
‘What is in there—acid?’ She eyed the water warily.
‘Gin. I have noticed that wounds regularly cleaned with alcohol are less susceptible to infection. Besides, it is also very cheap. And I would prefer not to waste good brandy.’
He was attempting to put her at her ease as he did the children in the infirmary. He had such a lovely voice. Deep. Kind. Yet Bella blinked back at him rather than smile at the little joke and saw his own smile slide off his face within seconds. He did not like her and who could blame him when she could not stand her new self either?
A blush of shame bloomed instantly. Here he was, being nothing but nice, and all she could do was blink? Once upon a time she would have responded with something appropriate. Friendly. Usually funny. She missed that girl and willed her back every single day. But the old Bella was missing, presumed dead, and the new one was not quite right in the head.
For the only time in living memory, she fleetingly wished she was her sister. Clarissa would have replied with something witty and charming, happy to talk. Bella remained mute. Even her real self could think of nothing to say, so the silence was quite deafening. Once again the atmosphere became uncomfortable, something she was painfully aware was brought about at her doing, and she wondered if she could drown herself quickly in the shallow basin of water—putting them both out of their misery—while he continued to dab at her hands with the towel.
Satisfied that they were thoroughly clean, he then patted them dry and went to the wall of shelves at the back of the consulting room and rummaged for a pot of salve. He opened it and gently applied the ointment to the worst of the grazes.
‘That smells like honey.’ She willed the words out. It was a desperate and feeble attempt at normal conversation, but at that moment it was all that she had. At least she was conversing with him. A man. Surely she could take heart it signalled progress?
He resealed the pot and put it to one side. ‘That’s because it mostly is honey. We waste it on bread, but the Ancient Egyptians realised that it has exceptional healing powers. Like the gin, I have found honey acts as a barrier against infection. And is perfect on bread, of course.’
He smiled briefly and it did funny things to Bella’s insides. She tried to ignore it and forced herself to stop biting her lip and reply. ‘The Egyptians had metal scalpels, bone saws...’ This comment earned her another odd look, as if she were the most peculiar of females, and made her voice trail off. ‘Or so I have read...’
‘You pass the time by reading about surgical instruments?’
‘I am not an empty-headed ornament.’ And now she sounded snippy and defensive. Clarissa would certainly never try to engage a gentleman in discourse about bone saws! She would smile and compliment him on his superior knowledge. But then Clarissa had been born charming and Bella had lost that part of herself, and her current circumstances were particularly trying.
He was saved from having to respond by Mrs Patterson returning with the ice. It had already been smashed into small chips, which he wrapped in a thin square of linen and placed over her swollen ankle. ‘Your curricle will be five minutes, Dr Warriner.’
He intended to take her home!
Just her and him. The lane to her house was long and deserted. There were trees and bushes on either side. Trees and bushes would hide her from the world if he had a mind to drag her behind them... Fresh fear began to claw in her gut.
‘No! Send a message so that my father’s carriage can collect me directly.’
He straightened, frowned and pinned her with his deep blue stare. ‘Suit yourself. Mrs Patterson will show you to the parlour, my lady. I have other patients to attend.’
* * *
Good lord, she was rude! Joe was still smarting from her peculiar behaviour hours later as he walked towards her front door. She hadn’t even thanked him for his time. Just glared at him as if he was offensive, her face wrinkling in disgust every time he had touched her, and she spoke to him worse than to a misbehaving servant. Whilst he knew full well some folk dealt better with pain than others, he had never seen anyone behave quite so badly over a sprained ankle in his life. Or perhaps it was not the injury at all which had made her so curt and obnoxious. Perhaps that was exactly how she always was? It was a pity. She was lovely. If she learned some manners and smiled occasionally, she would be as dazzling as her sister. Perhaps more so. Those dark almond eyes, framed with even darker lashes, were quite beautiful. When they weren’t narrowed suspiciously at him.
Maybe it was his surname which elicited her hostility? Despite the best efforts of all four Warriner brothers, the memory of their infamous father and grandfather still left a sour taste in the mouths of the locals. Nobody trusted a Warriner. It made no difference to some that his eldest brother, Jack, and his wife, Letty, were now hugely philanthropic within the area. Nor that his brother Jamie and his wife, Cassie, were responsible for bringing many tourists to Retford as their readers travelled across the country to see with their own eyes the locations of the hugely successful Orange Blossom books. Only a few had truly thawed enough to accept the family were decent. A great many more were waiting for them to return to type.
Lady Isabella had obviously been swayed by the malicious gossip and he disliked her for that. She had lived in Retford little more than a month but had already passed judgement! If he were as nefarious as his ancestors, would he have taken time out of his busy day to visit the most ungrateful patient he had ever attended?
However, Lady Isabella’s injury did give him the perfect excuse to call at her home, something he had desperately wanted to do since dancing with the delectable Clarissa at the assembly last month. In fairness, the physician inside him needed to check on his patient more, which was the main reason he was knocking on the Earl of Braxton’s door. He sincerely doubted the dour Isabella would be grateful, yet he was still compelled to do it. Sometimes his own diligence irritated him. As much as he wished he wasn’t so soft-hearted and desperate to help people, especially those who treated him with nothing but disdain in return, Joe could never seem to help himself. He would never get to sleep if he had not first reassured himself she was feeling better. It had been a nasty sprain and occasionally a bad fall caused clots to form in the blood. Such a complication was a rarity, especially in one so young, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Another brief examination of those splendid legs was necessary, no matter how distasteful the patient was.
Truth be told, Joe was also feeling guilty for enjoying the sight of her ankles. Once that silk stocking had been removed, he had had a moment where he forgot to be a detached physician and had gazed upon her silky skin like a man. He never did that. He had sworn the Hippocratic Oath solemnly and took his responsibilities far too seriously to ever allow himself to be waylaid with inappropriate thoughts before. However, Lady Isabella’s habit of regarding him as she would a Viking marauder about to pillage a village soon put paid to his temporary lapse of judgement and he was back to being irritated by her attitude again in seconds. So irritated he almost forgot about her splendid legs.
Joe rapped the knocker smartly. This afternoon’s visit was strictly professional. If he happened to collide with the adorable Lady Clarissa in the process, then it would certainly make it more tolerable. As would the sight of those legs which were unfortunately attached to the other, vexing, Beaumont.
The door opened quickly.
‘Could you inform the Earl of Braxton that Dr Warriner is here to check upon his daughter? I attended her injuries this morning.’
The austere butler appeared confused. ‘The physician is already in attendance, sir.’
Of course he was. No doubt the family had immediately summoned that aged old fool Dr Bentley the moment they learned their precious daughter had been treated by a Warriner. Usually Joe tried to ignore the old prejudices, but sometimes it grated. Especially when he was a far better doctor than the quack they preferred.
‘Even so, I should like to see her, for my own peace of mind, you understand. I will not delay the family long. I will be in and out quicker than a ferret in a rabbit hole.’
Chapter Three (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
The affronted butler invited Joe to wait in the hallway. A few moments later he was ushered into the drawing room, where he was met by the Countess of Braxton. ‘Dr Warriner! I cannot thank you enough for coming to Bella’s aid.’ She squeezed his hands effusively and appeared far too grateful, almost on the cusp of tears, which he supposed made up for her daughter’s blatant disregard.
‘No thanks are needed,’ he said as his eyes automatically scanned the room for Clarissa. The object of his desire was sat in the far corner of the room, embroidering something on a small hoop, and did not bother looking up. Her usually smiling face contorted into a frown. A niggling voice in his head told him she was rude, but he ruthlessly blocked it out. An angel like Lady Clarissa couldn’t be rude. Not like the other one. His eyes drifted to the other side of the room where the younger sister was sat on a sofa, her injured ankle raised on pillows and her eyes narrowed in hostility. Next to her, Dr Bentley was packing away his equipment, which included his ever-present bleeding cups—the old fool’s usual treatment for everything. He glanced at Joe and nodded curtly.
‘Warriner.’
Always just Warriner. Never the title he had earned. The upstart. The charlatan who had the audacity to set up a rival practice in Bentley’s town, taking money which should rightly be his. What did that Warriner know anyway? Joe had studied medicine only since the age of eight. Toiled at medical school in Edinburgh in order to qualify top of his class. Built up a sizeable practice despite the horrendous reputation of the Warriner family because he was damn good at what he did. And he had worked hard, honing his craft every single day since. One of these days Joe would allow himself the pleasure of saying exactly what he thought, then quashed the idea instantly. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Bentley. How is our patient?’
‘She is my patient now and as such I will not discuss her treatments with you.’ Dr Bentley turned towards the Countess. ‘Good day, your ladyship. I will await your further instructions regarding the other matter and hope Lady Isabella sees some sense shortly.’ And off he marched out without a backwards glance. Bentley was obviously miffed. Clearly Lady Isabella had been a delight for him, too.
Because it was what he had come here for, Joe walked towards the sofa and smiled. ‘How is your ankle?’
‘Better now.’ She appeared about to burst into tears. The tears tugged at his heartstrings. He was always too soft and prone to want to rescue. A fault he had apparently been born with and one he had long given up fighting. Without being asked, he lowered himself on to the corner of the sofa and took her hand. He almost dropped it again when odd tingles shot up his arm and he found himself frowning at the anomaly. That had never happened before and certainly shouldn’t be happening with her.
‘Sprains can hurt like the devil, but in the main they heal quickly with rest.’ He glanced down at her raised foot and the obvious swelling. ‘You need ice.’
‘Dr Bentley said hot water was best for sprains.’ Lady Braxton appeared apologetic at usurping Joe’s advice. ‘He insisted the ice pack was removed.’
‘Ah...’ Tact and diplomacy were second nature, especially when it came to Dr Bentley’s diagnoses. As physicians, they were always at odds. Dr Bentley was mired in tradition and Joe dared to break that mould. ‘Tell me, Lady Isabella, did your ankle feel better with or without the ice?’
‘With,’ she said without hesitation, ‘I queried it at the time.’ It was clear she held Dr Bentley in little regard, so she evidently had a brain underneath all the attitude. Joe smiled in encouragement and watched her dip her eyes.
‘She also refused to be bled.’ Lady Braxton appeared at her wits’ end at her daughter’s stubbornness. ‘Do you think she needs to be bled, Dr Warriner?’
‘I cannot see any cause for it.’ Joe could never see any cause for it as he had never seen the painful procedure achieve any beneficial effects. However, saying such things out loud tended to bother people brought up to revere the wisdom of physicians—most of whom still clung to ideas from the Dark Ages—as well as the supposed health benefits of slimy leeches. ‘Ice and rest are the best treatments for sprains. If the pain is severe, some willow bark tea would not go amiss either.’ She peeked up at him through her ridiculously long, dark lashes and offered him the ghost of a smile. More tingles bounced along his nerve endings and his collar felt suddenly tight. Perhaps Clarissa was watching him. Joe ignored the desire to turn around to check. ‘Do you mind if I take a quick look? Just to be certain it is nothing more than a common sprain?’
Lady Isabella nodded warily, the smile now gone, and bit down on her bottom lip, so he did a swift examination and sat back. ‘Most of the swelling has already gone down. I dare say it will be gone completely by Friday and you will be dancing at the assembly with your sister... Will you all be attending the assembly on Saturday?’
How pathetically unsubtle he sounded to his own ears. Joe cast a glance towards his patient’s sister, who was still jabbing her embroidery with a needle and had yet to acknowledge his presence. He silently willed her to look to no avail, ignoring the niggling voice of outrage in his head. Angels weren’t meant to be rude. They were meant to be...well, angelic. Maybe she hadn’t noticed him. A weak excuse, but she deserved it.
‘Yes, of course we are going!’ Lady Braxton smiled encouragingly at her daughter. ‘And it is splendid news that Bella may be fit enough to dance! Would you like some tea, Dr Warriner?’
‘I wouldn’t want to trouble you...’
‘It’s no trouble at all. No trouble at all.’
She bustled off to ring the bell, leaving Joe with Lady Isabella. Bella—a very pretty name and one he was not sure suited her. It was too vivacious for the quiet, introverted woman next to him. Bella conjured up images of a different sort of girl. One who was witty and a pleasure to be around rather than the one currently judging him in silence. At a loss as to what else to do or say to her, and in view of her older sister’s blatant indifference, Joe smiled his reassuring doctor smile. ‘Is the pain very bad?’
‘No.’ She stared down at her hands and the customary brittle awkwardness she always incited hung heavily in the air. The big question was, did he bother attempting further conversation with either sister, when one was intent on ignoring him and the other looked like she was disgusted by him, or did he quietly wait for the tea? Or better yet, did he make a hasty excuse and escape? Joe had never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin before. He was seriously contemplating the leaving when she finally spoke in a voice so small he had to strain his ears to hear. ‘I should have thanked you for your help this morning. It was unforgivably rude not to have done so at the time...but I am not very good at... Since the... What I mean is...’ She sighed and seemed to steel herself. ‘What I mean is...I wasn’t quite myself.’
Her dark eyes were troubled as they briefly locked with his before she stared back at her clasped hands again. A very becoming pink blush burned on her cheeks. A blush which did not fit with the sour and dour character he had attributed to her. Was it possible Lady Isabella was shy, rather than rude? Or was his innate good nature frantically hunting for an excuse for her bad behaviour? He did have a tendency to attribute better character traits to people than they actually had. Women especially. Joe decided to probe further rather than trust his overly benevolent instincts.
‘You had just been sabotaged by a potato. I doubt I would have been particularly sociable if the tables had been turned.’ Those dark eyes slowly lifted and locked with his.
‘I think you are being kind.’
He was, but she didn’t need to know that. Glancing at the book lying open face down next to her, he acknowledged it with a nod. ‘A scientific tome?’
The blush burned even brighter at being caught reading a flagrantly romantic novel. ‘Sometimes I need to be reminded the world is a good place.’
Joe would have questioned her odd response, but her mother was back, conducting servants carrying the tea things and a small table which was arranged close to the invalid. ‘I hope you have a sweet tooth, Dr Warriner, as there is plenty of cake. And biscuits, too! Both my girls are extremely fond of biscuits. Come along, Clarissa! Come join us for tea!’
The object of his affection slapped down her embroidery with a huff and sauntered to the table like a surly child. Immediately, Joe stood and inclined his head. ‘Lady Clarissa. I hope you are well.’
‘Actually, Dr Warriner, I am not well. I have a cold. But my health must be ignored for the sake of dear Bella, as she is the one everyone must worry about. All of the time.’
‘You have the tiniest of sniffles, Clarissa dear.’ Lady Braxton was embarrassed. ‘And your sister could have broken her leg!’
‘I am here and can attend to you, too, my lady.’ Good grief, he sounded eager. Far too eager. He pasted on a professional expression of concern. ‘What are your symptoms?’
Lady Clarissa cast her sister a brittle smile and plopped her bottom on the chair just placed for her by a footman. It bothered Joe she did not thank the poor fellow for his efforts. ‘My head hurts and my nose is quite blocked.’
‘Congestion of the sinuses does cause headaches. Do you have a fever?’ He avoided the temptation to reach out and touch her forehead.
‘I am a little warm.’
‘Something which might be caused by your insistence on wearing that wool frock in July.’ Lady Braxton’s eyes were shooting daggers at her daughter. There was an undercurrent here, a dynamic Joe didn’t quite understand. Jealousy? Hostility? Palpable underlying friction between the two sisters, although mostly coming from Clarissa. Lady Isabella was the very picture of mortification and back to staring down at her hands. The mother seemed ready to strangle her eldest daughter. ‘Why don’t you go and change and stop wasting the good doctor’s time, dear?’
‘Oh, yes! Why don’t I? Then you can go back to fussing over poor Bella. Why, she hasn’t been fussed over enough, has she? Thanks to her, we are stuck here and I am bored senseless!’
‘Have you tried a steam inhalation?’ Ever the diplomat, Joe intervened and tried to diffuse the fraught atmosphere. If this was a case of sibling rivalry, perhaps Lady Clarissa would return to her sweet self if her minor ailment received some attention and he would stop feeling disloyal for feeling irritated at her. ‘I would recommend a few drops of peppermint oil in boiling hot water. It’s excellent for unclogging sinuses. I could send some back here directly.’
Lady Clarissa beamed at him and Joe basked in the glow. ‘Why, thank you, Dr Warriner. It is so nice to know that someone cares about my well-being.’
* * *
The next half an hour passed without incident. Lady Braxton and he maintained the bulk of the conversation. Lady Clarissa added the odd snippet and her sister not at all. Her silence bothered him, although he couldn’t say why. As he made his goodbyes, Joe made one final attempt at engaging her. Goodness only knew why. ‘I am certain you will be well enough for Saturday’s assembly.’
‘Whether she is or she isn’t, I shall be there. Retford is such a dull place, we must find our entertainments where we can.’ Lady Clarissa rolled her eyes. ‘I cannot wait for this summer to be over.’ Which suggested their residency here was only temporary. Something that was probably for the best. A month of dreaming about the angelic, unattainable Clarissa was a month too many, as his misguided heart was doomed to be disappointed for ever.
‘Then I shall look forward to seeing you there.’
‘I am relying on you to dance with me, Dr Warriner.’ His heart soared. ‘There is a distinct shortage of eligible men in the area and, in the absence of any titled gentlemen, I shall have to content myself with handsome ones instead.’ And his heart dropped back to his toes where it belonged.
‘I am glad to be of service, my lady.’ Although he wasn’t. He was miffed. The butler passed him his hat and Joe started towards the door, feeling dejected and foolish. And angry at feeling guilty for being rightly peeved at Lady Clarissa’s words.
‘Dr Warriner...’ Lady Isabella had found her voice. ‘When might I go back to the infirmary to attend my duties?’
He saw her sister’s obvious eye roll and felt another stab of irritation at her selfishness. At least the dour Bella wanted to help people. Her eagerness shone in her dark eyes. They almost sparkled. ‘I suppose that depends on the type of duties you undertake. Racing around the ward, or standing for long periods of time, not for at least another week. But if you are doing something lighter—reading to the children or keeping a sick child company—I see no reason why you cannot resume those things in a day or two. As long as you are sitting down, of course.’
This answer pleased her immensely and for the first time he saw her proper smile. It was quite something. Quite something indeed. Dazzling, almost, and wholly responsible for a fresh wave of tingles. ‘Thank you, Dr Warriner. And thank you again for this morning.’
‘It was my pleasure, Lady Isabella.’ And for some inexplicable reason, as he left her, it was.
Chapter Four (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
The next two days seemed to go far slower than days ever had before. Being stuck on the sofa with no purpose made Bella’s anxiety worse. She fought it, of course, by reading or painting or sewing—anything to stop the debilitating melancholy which constantly threatened to suffocate her. Logically, she knew keeping active helped to ward off her demons. Dr Bentley’s assessment of her mental state and the invasive treatment he suggested had terrified her, and whilst she was fairly certain he was a quack at best, there was only so long her family would allow her to get over it all herself. Her way. They had moved to Retford, at her insistence, to give her the summer away from London to sort herself out. If she couldn’t, then the threat of more dreadful water treatments, and perhaps even Dr Bentley’s cure for her blatant hysteria, loomed on the horizon because she couldn’t go on like this.
She had to get better. There really was no other option and sitting around all day embroidering handkerchiefs was not helping her recovery or stopping her mind whirring. Her big brain needed proper stimuli, something meaningful, and her big heart needed to focus on others rather than herself.
* * *
On the third day, when her father announced he was going into town, Bella insisted on accompanying him, although he did not take much persuading. Both her parents saw her desire to leave the house as a positive step forward and delighted in seeing tangible evidence of progress, although they never, ever discussed it.
The lack of communication about the incident made it harder. Her parents, or more specifically her father, had decided from the outset it was better for everyone if they pretended it had never happened, as if blithely ignoring that dreadful night in Vauxhall Gardens would somehow erase it from existence. Yet how could it? Bella could still see his eyes boring down into hers. Still smell the fetid odour of the man’s filthy clothes and body. Still feel his hands groping her bare skin, pawing at her breasts and between her legs. Feel that part of him pressing against her flesh insistently. And all of it whilst pinned powerless beneath him in the dark bushes, unable to scream. Unable to run. All around her were the sounds of the laughing crowds and the fireworks and she was at the mercy of a monster.
In that dreadful instant, she had learned that the world was not the safe, cossetted place she had always believed it to be. Darkness and evil lurked, waiting for the unsuspecting. The trusting. The good-hearted. She had stopped to give a poor beggar some coins and he had wanted something else entirely. He’d almost taken it...
‘Will you read to us again, Bella?’
One of the three children currently in the cosy infirmary thrust a book into her hands. She stared down at the colourful picture book and grinned. ‘But I have already read you this one, not an hour ago.’
‘Yes, but we love that book, don’t we?’ Three pairs of angelic eyes pleaded with her. ‘Especially the way you read it. We love the way you do all of the voices.’
‘Very well.’ At least entertaining them gave her some purpose, even though she would much prefer to be doing something more...practical and, frankly, medicinal. Although a part of her enjoyed reading this particular Orange Blossom book, as a certain handsome doctor made an appearance in it, delivering a newborn foal to the horses on behalf of the stork and then a baby to Captain Galahad and Miss Freckles. As the book had been illustrated by Dr Warriner’s older brother Jamie, she was convinced Dr Sensible was based on the local physician. He certainly looked like him. Floppy dark hair, piercing blue eyes behind studious wire spectacles. Kind blue eyes. Eyes which she had noticed gazed longingly at her sister. Why did his obvious interest in Clarissa hurt, when every man had always preferred Clarissa and Bella no longer liked men? And whilst Dr Warriner was a brilliant scientist and she admired him for that, and whilst she might want to convince herself he was kind, trusting and noble, he was still a man. Another man who fancied her sister. No matter how many times she thought about it, it still stung. If it wasn’t so ridiculous a concept, she might even have described her initial reaction as jealousy. Which was impossible when one considered Bella now couldn’t bear the thought of being with a man. Any man. Even a brilliant and handsome doctor, with eyes as blue as the ocean. All in all, it was better to not think about it, despite her brain’s inability to stop.
* * *
Bella had read the book from cover to cover. Two of the children had drifted off to sleep by the time she quietly closed the book. The third, a usually boisterous lad by the name of Tom, stared listlessly at the ceiling. His cheeks were almost scarlet. Earlier, he had complained about a bit of a sore throat and had a slight cough. Now he was glassy eyed and still. Despite promising her father and the matron she would confine herself to the chair, something about the look of the boy did not sit right. She limped towards his cot and laid a hand on his brow. His skin was on fire.
She hobbled across the ward to pour a bowl of cool water and dunked a clean square of linen into it. After placing it across Tom’s fevered brow, Bella quickly found a maid and told her to summon the physician. All her reading told her the rapid onset of a high temperature did not bode well and signalled something nasty.
Back at his bedside, she sat and used the cold flannel to cool the boy’s skin. ‘The doctor is on his way, Tom. Are you in any pain?’
‘My throat.’ His voice was so hoarse he winced as he whispered and frightened tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
‘Let me see.’ His mouth was so swollen that seeing was impossible. Remembering the spare medical tools Dr Warriner kept in the cabinet, Bella rummaged through them and returned with the ivory tongue depressor she had seen him use before. ‘Say ah, Tom.’
The boy did as instructed, with some difficulty, but Bella saw the swollen and infected tonsils. To her untrained eyes they appeared very infected indeed, which suggested quinsy. The high temperature and general malaise confirmed the diagnosis. The poor lad must be in agony and his rapid fever was a worry.
‘Dr Warriner is attending a birth, my lady.’ The matron, Mrs Giles, scurried in, looking flustered. ‘His housekeeper says he might be gone many hours, but she will send him with all haste as soon as he returns.’
‘Then send for Dr Bentley!’ Bella did not want to wait hours. Hours of high fever killed children.
The matron shook her head. ‘Dr Bentley won’t come here.’
‘If it is a matter of money, Mrs Giles, tell him I will pay him personally.’
‘It’s not the money, my lady...it’s the family. Dr Bentley will not come here because it is owned by a Warriner.’
Bella had never heard anything so ridiculous in her life. ‘The man is a physician, is he not? As such, his first duty is to attend to those who need him. Send for him immediately.’ Petty feuds had no place in an emergency.
Just a few short minutes later, word came that Dr Bentley would not be attending the foundling home, now or at any time in the future and no amount of money would sway him. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but the old prejudices still run deep in Retford. I’m sure Dr Warriner will be here presently.’
Such an outrage beggared belief and at some point she fully intended to give the silly man a piece of her mind, but in the meantime Tom was burning up. ‘Can you brew some willow bark tea, Mrs Giles?’ That was known to help reduce a fever. ‘And some ice.’ Common sense told her cooling the boy’s skin might help, just as it had her hot, swollen ankle. Then Bella remembered her conversation with the doctor in his office. Honey fights infection... If it worked externally, then there was a chance it might work internally as well. She called at the woman’s retreating back. ‘And bring me a jar of honey, Mrs Giles!’
A few minutes later, she helped the boy to sit and carefully spooned the warm, hastily mixed willow bark and honey concoction into his mouth. He really didn’t want to swallow, so she tilted his head back to allow the liquid to trickle over those inflamed tonsils and into his stomach.
Mrs Giles moved the other boys to another room at Bella’s insistence and all the windows in the sunny infirmary were thrown open and the blankets stripped from the bed to allow the linen parcels of ice she had made to rest against his limbs, torso and head. Despite her best efforts, the boy’s temperature remained dangerously high. The willow bark alone was not going to be enough. What else could she use? Feverfew—wasn’t that known to have a calming effect on inflammation? And she had recently read a very enlightening paper on the benefits of echinacea flower...
‘Mrs Giles, send somebody immediately to Dr Warriner’s surgery and ask his housekeeper to send us the following things.’ Bella listed all the herbs she could think of which might be of use: yarrow root, black elder berries, chamomile, ginger, more white willow, much more honey. In the absence of a proper physician, Bella was all little Tom had.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Joe finally made it to the infirmary. The twins he had just delivered had been most uncooperative. The first had been breech and the second baby had the cord wrapped around his neck. It had been a difficult and dangerous birth and he was supremely grateful he had been called early enough to be able to save the mother and both of her babies. Now he was practically dead on his feet and had already called for a large pot of coffee to sharpen his wits ready for his next emergency. He only hoped the child’s fever was manageable and that the hours of delay had not been catastrophic. Dealing mostly with the many poor of the parish, Joe was often spread too thin and, because of his innate need to rescue, felt personally responsible for every failure—especially the children. Today, three of them had needed him and he prayed he was not too late for the third.
The ward was dim as he walked in. A single candle burned in one corner of the room and he could just about make out the outline of a napping nurse resting in the chair beside the sleeping boy’s bed, her head buried in the scrunched-up pillow which had been propped behind her and her legs tucked under her skirts. He crept to the opposite side of the bed and rested his palm on the boy’s forehead. He was warm, but not burning. A good sign. Fortunately, this nurse had not closed up the room or had a roaring fire burning in the grate. No matter how many times he told Mrs Giles heat was the worst thing to use to treat a fever, the old matron was set in her ways and always reverted to it in an emergency. It was all she knew.
This nurse was obviously more intelligent. Tom was covered in only a thin cotton sheet, the fireplace was stone-cold and the lace curtains billowed in the gentle summer breeze coming through the wide-open windows. Joe placed his bag on the edge of the bed and the movement woke up the sleeping woman with a start. Her terrified eyes were round in the darkness.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Dr Warriner!’
He knew that voice. ‘Lady Isabella?’ To find her still here, at a sick child’s bedside so late at night, was a huge surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to stay with Tom...just in case his fever returned.’ She had hastily stood and was in the process of lighting a lamp close to the bed. ‘His temperature was so high earlier I was worried about him.’ As usual, she was already backing away towards the open doorway, her posture stiff. He could see her chest rising and falling rapidly almost as if she was in the midst of a panic, but her features were composed, if slightly strained.
‘Is he having any difficulty breathing?’
She took a step forward and gazed down at the sleeping child and shook her head. ‘Not so far—thank goodness.’ In the lamplight, he could see her hairstyle had collapsed on one side. One slippery coil of dark hair hung down against her cheek almost to her waist. The rest of that side of her head charmingly resembled a bird’s nest. Rumpled and groggy with sleep, she appeared younger and much softer than usual. Instead of their usual wariness, those soulful dark eyes were now filled only with concern for the little boy. ‘The fever came on so suddenly.’
‘His temperature is not unduly high now.’
Almost as if she didn’t believe him, her own palm brushed against the boy’s brow and she exhaled in relief. ‘I mixed willow bark with feverfew, echinacea and chamomile in a tea to fight the fever and have been feeding him it every two hours since midday. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Joe took in the scene, the open windows, the ice, the cool cloths draped over the boy’s arms and head. The child’s distinct lack of a nightgown. ‘I think you did everything I would have done. You have managed the symptoms perfectly.’
‘Not all of them. He’s wheezing and his tonsils are badly infected and he is in a great deal of pain. I mixed a generous dollop of honey in with the tea because I recalled you said it had healing properties against infection. I have no idea if it has actually made a difference, but it seemed to help.’
She really had thought of everything. ‘The warmth of the tea will have soothed them and the honey will help to fight the infection. As for the pain, I think you have alleviated a great deal with your quick thinking—he is sleeping very soundly. I doubt he would be so deep in the arms of Morpheus if he were still in the grip of pain. I was expecting to walk into a crisis, but thanks to you, it was deftly avoided... Well done.’
She smiled at him shyly but then brushed the compliment away. ‘I can assure you, it was merely borne out of necessity. When we learned you might not return for hours, I sent for Dr Bentley and the fool refused to come.’ The flash of annoyance had her scowling. ‘And the man has the cheek to call himself a physician!’
‘Dr Bentley is quite particular about who he treats.’ People with no money to pay him for his services up front, for example, were callously ignored. Joe hated that, yet at the same time he was strangely grateful for the fellow’s ambivalence. Had Bentley been a good doctor who treated first and sought payment after, then nobody in his Retford practice would have given Joe a chance. His willingness to treat all comers and to accept whatever payment in kind the families could afford had granted him a level of acceptance he would never have enjoyed otherwise. Of course, it also meant he was given all manner of things he had no use for—like the ornate lady’s hair comb which had been sent to his surgery only yesterday by an elderly patient who was as fit as a fiddle but imagined she suffered from everything. Nothing he could use to pay the wages of an assistant to help him with his growing workload.
‘Doctors have no place being selective in their choice of patients. Ignoring a sick child is nothing short of cruelty. In fact, it is criminal!’
‘I keep trying to appeal to his better nature.’ Joe refrained from saying what he truly thought. Dr Bentley was motivated by money rather than the need to heal. Meanwhile the poverty-stricken people suffered unnecessarily from his neglect. However, knowing what he did about Dr Bentley’s archaic and draconian practices, he supposed it was just as well he was not more charitable. His antiquated methods rarely worked and often made things worse. If Joe ever found himself bleeding to death in the middle of the road, the very last person he would call was Dr Bentley, as he’d probably end up dead.
‘I am not sure that man has a better nature. I didn’t take to him when I first met him and respect him less now. It is a wonder that he is still condoned by the locals when his attitude towards the sick is so appalling.’
‘Dr Bentley has been practising medicine here for as long as I can remember. People are unwaveringly loyal to him after so many years of service.’ And, of course, it helped he did not have the unfortunate surname of Warriner.
‘Service?’ She was so outraged she forgot to whisper. ‘Leaving a sick child to potentially die is hardly service!’ Her fierceness amused him and reminded Joe of the way he had seen Dr Bentley glare at her as he left her the other day. Lady Isabella clearly hid a bit of a temper beneath her usually silent, suspicious exterior. It made her forget to be silent and it was nice not to be on the receiving end of her disdain for once. The noise roused their patient and he whimpered slightly. The change in her was instantaneous. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Tom.’ Her hand brushed his hair affectionately. ‘Dr Warriner is here. He is delighted to see you getting better. Would you like something to drink?’
The boy nodded and she began to fuss over him, so different from the uptight and dour woman he had always assumed her to be. To be still here because a foundling was sick and to be treating him as if she genuinely cared about him was...well, frankly nothing short of admirable and not at all what he would have expected of her. She stepped aside while Joe did his own examination of the boy, watching with barely disguised interest from her preferred spot nearest the door as he took his stethoscope out of his bag and used it to listen to Tom’s chest. ‘His lungs are clear. The wheezing is in his throat, not his chest.’
‘You can tell such things just from listening?’
‘Yes, indeed. With this wonderful instrument I can hear all manner of things I couldn’t before.’
‘Is that Laennec’s stethoscope?’ She took two steps forward. At her apparent fascination with the instrument he passed it to her to examine. She took another step forward, took it eagerly and scrutinised both ends of the wooden tube whilst holding it as if it were as precious as the Holy Grail. ‘I read his paper last year but have never seen one used before.’
She kept surprising him. ‘You read his Treatise on the Diagnosis of the Diseases of the Lungs and Heart?’
‘I didn’t understand all of it,’ she said, holding his stethoscope like a telescope and peering through the hole, ‘but his claims that different diseases caused the chest cavity to sound different was intriguing.’ Lady Isabella was the first person he had ever met who had read the great Dr Laennec’s work, a surprising choice of reading matter for a young lady, yet one which proved she had more than a working knowledge of all things scientific if she had read that weighty academic essay.
‘I had one made to Laennec’s exact design as soon as he began to publish his successes. He has used it to great effect when diagnosing the treatment of consumption. I have heard of a few other physicians who have started to use a stethoscope rather than rely on just their own ears—but it is still a relatively new invention. Everyone who tries it, swears by it. It’s amazing how clearly one can hear congestion in the lungs, or an irregular heartbeat—which in turn makes diagnosis and treatment of such dangerous conditions faster. When an illness affects the lungs, without swift intervention a patient can quickly develop pleurisy or pneumonia. That stethoscope you are holding has saved a few lives here in Retford in the two years I have been using it.’ In fact, it was Joe’s most essential piece of equipment aside from his spectacles. Without those, he couldn’t read a damn thing or see anything close up. ‘I have been experimenting with it with expectant mothers. During the first stage of confinement it is also possible to hear the heartbeats of a foetus.’ Was it appropriate to discuss such things with a gently bred young woman? Probably not, yet her eyes lit up and he reminded himself she had read Laennec.
‘How can you be sure you are simply not hearing the mother’s heart?’
‘Because I can clearly hear both, beating in tandem. The mother’s is louder, as one would expect with an adult, fully grown heart, and the babe’s is softer and beats much more rapidly. I was staggered at how fast it was at first, but it is a wonderful thing to hear.’
‘Rapid heartbeats? How fascinating. To hear life at such an early stage of development. Is the instrument easy to use?’
‘I’m sure young Tom here won’t mind you listening to his chest. Why don’t you give it a go and see for yourself?’
There was no hesitation this time. No wariness. Lady Isabella placed the end on the boy’s sternum, ever so slightly left without having to be told the human heart did not sit dead central, and rested her ear against the other end. Within seconds she was smiling again. ‘My goodness! Why, I can hear it as clear as a bell.’ Then she giggled, a delicious, warm sound which did odd things to his own heartbeat and made him feel uncharacteristically vain. Joe found himself unhooking his spectacles from his ears and stuffing them into his pocket and quashed the urge to neaten his unruly hair. ‘I can also hear your tummy gurgling, young man. There are so many noises going on inside your body it is like an orchestra is playing a symphony with your organs.’
A symphony of organs. What an apt description. ‘Listen again while Tom takes a deep breath. Can you hear any wheezing in his lungs?’
She bent her head again and listened intently for almost half a minute before standing up. ‘You are right. There is no congestion in his lungs. The only sounds of laboured breathing I hear clearly come from the swelling in his throat.’ Anticipating his next move, she handed him the tongue depressor on the nightstand so he could get a better look inside the boy’s mouth at the source of the trouble, then went to fetch the candle to shine light on the right spot. Just as she had said, the offending tonsils were quite nasty, but he had seen far worse. ‘Will you have to remove his tonsils, Doctor?’
Little Tom’s eyes widened and Joe winked at him and shook his head. ‘Only if they keep causing problems. In my experience, this is a stage many children go through and grow out of. I am of the belief, if one is born with an organ, then it serves a greater purpose remaining in the body unless it proves to be absolutely necessary to remove it. For the time being, Tom’s tonsils can stay put.’
The boy yawned and she was all concern again. ‘It’s time for your medicine and then it’s back to sleep for you, I think.’
‘Indeed. A good night’s sleep works wonders, young Master Tom. That and more of Lady Isabella’s tonsil-taming tea.’
She stood and began to limp towards the door to fetch it and Joe remembered she had been injured. ‘I can see to that. You should be at home, resting your ankle. Is your carriage waiting for you or would you like me to send for it?’ He didn’t dare offer to drive her home after the last time.
‘No, thank you, Dr Warriner. I shall stay till morning. I have already sent word to my family not to expect me home until then. The carriage is returning for me at six when Mrs Giles arrives.’ A servant chose that exact moment to return with his pot of coffee, which she glared at with blatant disapproval. ‘Coffee at midnight? Is that wise? If anyone needs rest, it is probably you, not I. You have a great many other patients to attend to tomorrow, including Tom, whilst I can sleep all day if I wish to. I believe your bed will do you more good than coffee will tonight. I can hold the fort here—as you have already plainly seen—and if the danger is passed, you might as well get some well-earned rest. A good night’s sleep works wonders, after all.’
As there was no arguing with his own good advice, he did exactly as she suggested.
Chapter Five (#u7f78d6c2-ea0f-5371-8a32-3ec3ae393a61)
The assembly room in Retford was small by London standards, but no less the crush. In the hour since their arrival, Bella had found a group of married ladies she felt comfortable conversing with and had deftly avoided being asked to dance by anyone by looking straight through any man who was fool enough to come close. Like sentries, her parents hovered close by, standing guard, which reassured her immensely. Clarissa, as usual, was stood some distance away surrounded by a positive battalion of men all fawning over her every word, enjoying being the adored centre of attention. As yet the handsome doctor was not one of them, but as he was still to make an appearance, his absence in Clarissa’s entourage did not make her feel any better about it.
She hadn’t seen him since the night he had come to call on Tom and Bella wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about that either. His visits to the infirmary had not coincided with hers, despite the fact she had taken to volunteering every day since the little boy had fallen ill. She had felt somehow responsible for the child, seeing that his treatment regimen had begun with her and the doctor had not altered it. The sense of achievement she had at being instrumental in his recovery was phenomenal. Tom was clearly on the mend now and Bella couldn’t help patting herself on the back for being the cause. Having the brilliant Dr Warriner say ‘well done’, and without being the least bit condescending about it, had been the icing on the cake. And they had conversed about medicine! It had been so enlightening to be able to discuss the things she had only read about. Since being allowed to use his stethoscope, she now had a hundred questions about both lung and heart conditions, which the real her, deep inside, was determined to make her ask. Perhaps she would find her courage and her voice enough to ask one tonight? If he ever turned up, of course, and if he could tear himself away from her sister.
His brothers were all here. All so like him in appearance, yet none quite as handsome despite their near-identical features and physiques. It was probably the scholarly demeanour which made the good doctor stand out as the single most attractive Warriner of the bunch.
And the spectacles.
Not that he wore them often, but when he did they made her mouth strangely dry. They magnified the cobalt irises of his eyes just a little bit, rendering them bluer still and more striking, and when he peered through them they served to magnify the power of his intelligence, too. Which was probably what Bella was drawn to. It couldn’t be anything else. It was only his scientific mind which drew her. His considered and reasoned logic. Even though she couldn’t stop staring at his lovely blue eyes. And perhaps the way his broad shoulders filled out his dark and sensible coat...
She was in the midst of pondering her odd thoughts concerning the good doctor when he strode in, looking quite splendid. In deference to the occasion, his normally plain black waistcoat had been replaced by one of blue silk, which did wonders for his eyes and made her gaze at the wide expanse of his chest for a second because the real her wanted to look and she couldn’t muster up the strength to argue.
He paused in the doorway, scanned the crowd, and Bella watched his eyes settle on her sister before he set his jaw. He watched Clarissa flirting with her harem of vying men for a few seconds, then he seemed to exhale—in defeat, disappointment, perhaps even irritation? Bella couldn’t tell but experienced the sting of it none the less, before he turned away and walked towards his family.
* * *
For over an hour she watched him surreptitiously. He had an easy way about him which she envied, clearly comfortable in his scholarly skin and enjoying the company of his boisterous family. When Bella accompanied her mother to the retiring room, she returned to see him dancing with one of his brothers’ wives. Bella had briefly been introduced to Mrs Cassie Warriner and had liked her immediately. She had not been introduced to her husband but had noticed his pronounced limp the first time she had seen him, so it stood to reason that particular Warriner did not dance, so his brother was standing in for him. Justifying why the doctor was dancing with a pretty woman—a pretty and obviously pregnant woman—made the fact he was dancing with one more palatable, not that Bella wanted to dance with him, of course. Dancing would mean touching and the very thought of that sent her into a panic. She never wanted to be touched again.
At the end of the dance she lost sight of him and was scanning the crowd for his dark head when he came up alongside. ‘I see your ankle is better.’
Instinctively, she jumped and took a step back even though he was not that close. ‘Yes, it is...although it’s not up to dancing.’ Why had she felt compelled to say that when he hadn’t asked her to?
Idiot. He dances so well, too. I miss dancing.
The voice inside was sighing. It was most disconcerting.
‘Tom is doing well.’ A safer topic and one Bella could manage without palpitations.
‘The inflammation is almost gone and there has been no sign of a raised temperature for a whole day now,’ she said.
‘I think we should keep him in the infirmary for at least another day. Little boys tend to pass on illnesses in the dormitories and we don’t want any more cases of quinsy if we can help it.’
We.
He kept referring to the patient as theirs, as if they shared the responsibility of his treatment, and that warmed her. He recognised her part in Tom’s recovery and her place in the infirmary. Recognised it and acknowledged it. ‘I shall check on him on Monday, and if he continues to make rapid progress, we can send him back to be with his friends.’
‘He’s very bored.’ Now that the crisis had passed, Tom wanted constant entertaining. She had read him every book on the little bookshelf. Some of them twice.
‘Excellent news. Bored is good. The very ill are rarely bored. They are too busy being ill. Only the well get bored.’
You’re bored, the voice inside her reminded her. Bored is good. He just said so. Do you remember when you were too terrified to be bored? What is that if not progress?
‘Dr Warriner!’ her mother interrupted a little too casually, with her father in tow. ‘You have not yet met my husband, have you?’
‘Your lordship.’ Joe bowed his dark head politely. ‘It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.’
‘I was curious to meet the man behind the infirmary my daughter is wedded to.’ Her father looked the doctor up and down, assessing his worthiness, and to Bella’s mind he did not approve of what he saw. ‘It seems I must thank you for coming to her rescue the other day. Bella speaks very highly of your skills as a physician.’
‘She does?’ Those fathomless blue eyes regarded her with amusement and she blushed crimson to the tips of her toes. Subtlety was never her father’s strong suit and he had rather given the impression she had been waxing lyrical, which perhaps she had once or twice when she regaled her day to her family over dinner. It was splendid to be doing something again. Especially something as useful and important as healing.
‘I’ve been telling my parents about Tom’s tonsils and...’ Perhaps it was better not to try to explain and simply brush it off, except she couldn’t muster the nonchalance to brush it off when he was still smiling at her, so she clamped her mouth shut instead.
Always so benevolent, Dr Warriner finished her sentence for her. ‘And I hope you have also told them how your swift intervention prevented him from going downhill. I was detained with another patient and your daughter single-handedly brought down the poor lad’s fever. By the time I arrived, the crisis had passed and he was already on the path to recovery.’
Both of her parents gaped at her. ‘You did?’
Once upon a time they would have expected her resourcefulness. It was a stark reminder of how far she had fallen in a year that they were both astounded and pathetically grateful to see some remnants of their old daughter return. It made Bella even more self-conscious than she was already. ‘I only brewed some willow bark tea.’
‘I fear I must contradict you there, my lady.’ Kind blue eyes were even more amused. ‘She sent to my surgery for a precise concoction of herbs to ease the child’s distressing symptoms. I was mightily impressed with her knowledge of medicine.’
Her mother was now completely beside herself with joy, reading far too much into a silly potion than the thing warranted. As if being able to remember a few herbs would somehow return her to her old self. Her father was positively scowling. How she wished they would all stop staring at her. ‘Bella has always had a very scientific mind. Had she been born male, I have no doubt she would have been the most dedicated and brilliant of scholars.’ Her father disapproved of her ‘hobby’ but had allowed it in Retford while she ‘convalesced’, even though he had decreed that daughters of earls were not supposed to get their hands dirty. He was, however, prepared to indulge her for the duration of the summer whilst she was out of sight in Retford to see if industry reaped better rewards than the water treatments and bloodletting.
‘If you’ll pardon me for saying it, sir, your daughter is a dedicated and brilliant scholar. Anyone who is familiar with the recent writings of Dr Laennec has a knowledge of medicine which exceeds that of the average layman.’ Things her father would be mortified to hear. Dr Warriner began to rifle in his coat pocket. ‘Which reminds me, I brought you this, Lady Isabella.’ He handed her a wooden stethoscope. ‘This was the original one I had made, but it is far too dainty for my enormous hands and I thought you might like it.’
Bella supposed most girls would melt if a man gave her flowers, but the exquisitely turned medical instrument was more beautiful to her than a bouquet of a thousand crimson roses. A funny little nerve jumped in her tummy and her heartbeat was so fast and so loud in her own head she doubted anyone would need a stethoscope to hear it. ‘I don’t know what to say... Thank you... I shall treasure it.’
Her parents shared a knowing look and instantly Bella wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Her father was clearly both concerned and horrified in equal measure. They were reading things into this innocent exchange which were not there. Dr Warriner was being nice and respected her mind. Just as she respected his mind...except there was so much more she was coming to like about him.
‘There you are, Dr Warriner!’ Clarissa sailed towards them and his eyes swivelled automatically. She threaded an arm through his possessively. ‘You did promise to dance with me, did you not?’
‘I did.’ Apparently, Bella was now forgotten, which was probably just as well. She had no place having fanciful thoughts about a man when being alone with one of them terrified her and the thought of being touched by one was quite repellent. Although Dr Warriner’s touch hadn’t been exactly that. If at all.
‘I pencilled you in for the waltz, which is the next dance. Isn’t it a good job I found you in time?’ As she led him away, clamped to him like a barnacle to the hull of a ship, Clarissa briefly turned back and smiled, letting Bella know the handsome doctor had been stolen away on purpose—because she could steal him, or any other man for that matter, away. Ever since she had been lauded as the Incomparable of the previous Season, Clarissa had become preoccupied with her own attractiveness. She had to be the prettiest girl in any room and all the handsome men, even the untitled ones, had to want to fall at her graceful feet. Dr Warriner was yet another willing conquest, something Bella suddenly found irritating.
Her father seemed fit to burst. ‘I shall be having words with Clarissa. I do not approve of her dancing with that man. I’ve heard dreadful stories about that family—and we already know about his brother’s antics in London. Jacob Warriner is a shocking rake and, if the locals are to be believed, the elder two are no better. Both tricked innocent girls into marriage. The Reverend Reeves lost his daughter after one of them seduced her. Father and daughter are now quite estranged as her husband cruelly keeps them apart. He told me so himself just a few minutes ago.’ The stick-thin vicar was stood piously in the corner, clutching his tattered Bible, silently but obviously disapproving of the dancing. ‘There is also talk the eldest abducted his wife to get his hands on her fortune. How else would such a man come to marry the Tea Heiress?’
Bella glanced across the room to the group of laughing Warriners. The wives appeared very happy with their husbands. The two women and their men could not look more besotted if they tried, and after Dr Bentley’s scandalous refusal to attend to Tom, Bella was inclined to be on the family’s side rather than the humourless vicar’s. ‘There are as many people here in Retford who would tell you the Warriners are good people. Dr Warriner runs a busy practice and the Countess of Markham runs the foundling home I have been volunteering in.’
‘That is as may be, but until I see tangible proof they are not as they have been reported, I should prefer it if my daughters maintained a safe distance. And that includes any and all dealings with Dr Warriner.’
Bella felt compelled to defend him, even if she was disappointed he preferred her self-absorbed sister. ‘Dr Warriner is a brilliant physician, Papa.’
‘Hmm.’ His eyes followed his eldest daughter to the dance floor. ‘I doubt you would be so foolish, Bella, but if he asks you to dance tonight, make sure you decline.’
‘I do not wish to dance with him, or anyone, Papa.’ The real her inside was longing to dance with the doctor. To be twirled around and to gaze up into those spectacled eyes. Where did that thought come from?
‘But he is very handsome.’ This came from her mother and it earned her a sharp look from her husband which she ignored. ‘And he seemed very taken with you.’
‘Are you blind, woman? The scoundrel has clearly set his cap at Clarissa. Or perhaps, like his eldest brother, it is her dowry which appeals to him.’
‘Dr Warriner is a man of science, not a fortune-hunter.’ Bella was compelled to defend him.
‘Then already he has lured you into his web of deceit if you believe such nonsense! Are you telling me you are also tempted by Dr Warriner?’
‘The only part of Dr Warriner which interests me is his brain.’ Liar. ‘Clarissa is welcome to the rest of him.’ Lord, spare me the sight of the pair of them together. ‘When can we go home?’
* * *
Miraculously, Joe enjoyed an entire night of uninterrupted sleep at his brother’s house. Jack and Letty had insisted he come home and spend a Sunday with the family because he looked tired and needed a break. Knowing they were right, he hadn’t argued. Mrs Patterson knew exactly where to find him and would not hesitate to rouse him for the smallest emergency, yet thankfully no midnight messengers had come to spoil his slumber. Joe woke naturally to soft daylight and the delicious smell of a hot breakfast for the first time in months.
He was also feeling pretty pleased with himself. He had danced with the delectable Clarissa twice and one of those had been the only waltz of the evening. As he had spun her around the floor, several pairs of male eyes had watched them jealously, all coveting the rare prize in his arms. Not only had the woman of his dreams danced with him, she had favoured him with her attention throughout. They had chatted over refreshments and she had practically dragged him towards her gaggle of admirers and kept hauling him back every time he wandered off. Clarissa might not be head over heels in love with him, or, if he was being brutally honest with himself, anywhere close, but she certainly now knew he existed. His poor heart swelled at the knowledge and he ignored the nagging voice which kept questioning why there had been no intriguing tingles when he had touched her hand or held her close.
Instead, Joe took his time shaving and dressing, intent on savouring the luxury of time passing, and sauntered into the breakfast room feeling more refreshed than he had in ages. His younger brother, Jake, was the only occupant and was sat with his feet crossed on another chair, reading a newspaper.
‘Good morning.’
His brother’s head popped over the newspaper and he grinned. ‘I should imagine it certainly is! I never thought I’d see the day when my scholarly big brother was wooing two ladies simultaneously.’
‘Two?’ Joe was genuinely baffled. ‘How much did you drink last night?’
‘Nowhere near enough to miss the delicious frisson in the air. But be warned, Dr Sensible, whilst I heartily approve of wooing two ladies at the same time, the fact they are sisters will cause all manner of complications. Juggling both Beaumonts is not going to be easy. Especially with their father watching you like a hawk.’
‘Very funny.’ Joe began to load his plate with the bounty on the sideboard. ‘But as usual you have got the wrong end of the stick.’ He balanced two crisp rashers of bacon on the mountain of scrambled eggs and carried a slice of toast to the table in his teeth.
‘I most certainly haven’t. I have eyes.’
‘Which clearly do not work if you believe I am juggling both Beaumonts.’ Jake had a way with the ladies and out of the four brothers they were closest in age. Joe couldn’t resist asking his opinion. ‘What do you think of Lady Clarissa?’
His brother shrugged. ‘Very pretty. Very highly thought of in London and considered quite the catch—and knows it, if you want my honest opinion. But I know the type too well to fall for her man-traps. Man-traps, I noted, she was using to great effect with you.’
‘Man-traps?’ The words came out mumbled as Joe enjoyed the first delicious mouthful of eggs. Mrs Patterson could cook, but the chef his sister-in-law Letty had brought with her from Mayfair was a culinary genius. Who knew the humble egg could taste so sublime?
‘Yes, indeed. The subtle, oh-so-casual way she kept touching your arm. The tinkling laugh. The flirtatious way she kept batting her eyelashes at you.’
‘She was?’ Joe had enjoyed the flirting immensely but had no intention of letting on. ‘I thought she had a touch of conjunctivitis.’
‘That would be why you were falling all over yourself to be so attentive. It was purely medical. My mistake.’ Jake snapped the paper back up in front of his face. ‘Yet it still doesn’t explain your fascination with the bookish Beaumont, who, by the way, I think is a much more exciting prospect.’
‘Bella!’ The very idea was preposterous. ‘I am not fascinated by Bella.’
‘Bella... Ah. My mistake.’ Joe could tell his brother was smiling behind his newspaper wall. Jake’s smugness always grated. ‘I shall assume all the lingering glances I witnessed were not lingering at all.’
‘Bella was not glancing at me in a lingering manner. The girl’s nose was constantly in her book.’
Jake threw his head back and laughed. ‘Not her, you idiot. The lingering glances were yours, else how would you know her nose was in her book? You were looking. You kept looking. Even whilst waltzing with the calculated Clarissa, your eyes kept wandering to her beautiful sister.’
A valid point, although his brother was quite mistaken as to why. His eyes had sought Bella out, but only out of concern. Seeing her sat amongst the wallflowers, doing her best to blend into the walls, bothered him. Nothing more. ‘She hurt her ankle a few days ago and I treated her. I was merely checking she was not in pain.’
‘Of course you were. I’ve often thought your concerned physician face mirrors your soppily pining face. And, I suppose, giving the lady a gift was also part of your medical service? I saw you give her that trumpet thing.’
‘It was a stethoscope. Lady Isabella has an interest in science and is volunteering at the foundling home.’
Jake gave up his pretence of reading his paper and dropped it on his lap. ‘The plot thickens. Have the pair of you been making gooey eyes over the patients?’ He sighed wistfully and clutched his heart. ‘How romantic...’
Joe had had quite enough. ‘My relationship with Bella is...well, for want of a better word, professional. A boy has been suffering from quinsy and we have been treating him. Bella has a brilliant mind...’ At his brother’s grin he scowled. ‘But if you must know, I prefer her sister.’ Not strictly true. Joe was coming to like Bella, too. She was clever and resourceful, and he was now convinced she was more shy than dour. And, of course, she had magnificent legs and then there were those tingles.
‘I see. So you find Clarissa attractive and Bella interesting.’
‘Clarissa is also interesting.’ If he was honest, her conversation last night had been a bit dull. But mundane topics like favourite colours or flowers were to be expected when an acquaintance was so new—and Lady Clarissa was not exactly the type to find discourse about stethoscopes or bone saws riveting. The fact Joe had struggled to care about the scintillating parties she attended in London was proof he was working too hard and had simply forgotten how to have fun. As they became more familiar with one another, he was convinced they would find a great deal in common. A great deal. It did not mean anything that he might have tried to escape her company once or twice, or had found his eyes wandering to her sister in the corner. He merely felt uncomfortable in the crowd of admirers he had no desire to be part of.
His foolish brother did not need to know Joe had toyed with the idea of asking Isabella to dance as well. Then remembered she couldn’t dance. She had firmly stated her ankle was still not strong enough. Although she walked with no difficulty, he noticed. Each time he saw her move, she glided effortlessly without any discernible sign of a limp and her hips undulated in a very pleasing fashion with each graceful step. Towards the end of the evening, his feet had been compelled to head in her direction again. The studious Bella might appreciate his scholarly conversation and he was tired of making small talk with those who would deign to tolerate a Warriner. He was curious to know her thoughts on Laennec’s paper, or maybe to discuss ancient Egyptian medicine some more. Even the state of Tom’s tonsils was more appealing than listening to more gossip and nonsense about ribbons. He had been a few feet away when the ethereal Clarissa had appeared out of nowhere and claimed him again for a second dance and then the opportunity was gone. The Beaumont carriage had left shortly afterwards after both girls were ushered out by their father, who had obviously had quite enough provincial society for one evening. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed Clarissa’s company.’
‘And the lovely Bella?’
‘Frankly confuses me. One minute she is as prickly as a hawthorn and the next she is...’ How to explain it? Joe frowned and pondered for a moment. ‘Bella is obviously clever and her commitment to the infirmary is surprising for a woman of her upbringing. Yet she is eminently capable, very well read...yet insular. Sometimes she is downright snippy, although I suspect she is shy. And then—bang—she is animated and engrossed in a topic.’ Like his stethoscope and Laennec’s research. ‘Half the time I don’t know what to make of her.’
Jake had leaned forward and was listening intently. ‘She’s a conundrum.’
‘Yes. I suppose she is.’
‘You’ve always liked a conundrum. They excite that enormous brain of yours.’ He grinned, looking every inch the rake he was. ‘Admit it! You find the enigmatic Bella intriguing.’
‘I find her sister intriguing—and Bella interesting.’
Jake pierced him with a glare, one which reminded Joe his flippant brother was more astute than he liked to let on. ‘You’re lying. I saw you trying to sneak off when she was surrounded by her other suitors. I saw you look at your pocket watch, the wall, her sister...you were bored stiff by Clarissa!’
‘I adore Clarissa. She is an angel. A diamond...’
‘Good grief, you’re at it again! Listen to yourself—diamonds. Angels! Why is it whenever you set your cap at a girl, she becomes this ethereal object to be revered from a distance? A woman of such dazzling perfection she is untouchable and unflawed.’
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Virginia Heath
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A shy innocentShe′s wary of all men.In this The Wild Warriners story, shy Lady Isabella Beaumont is perfectly happy to stay in the background and let her sister get all the attention from handsome suitors following a shocking incident. However working with Dr Joseph Warriner to help the sick and needy pushes her closer to a man than she’s ever been before. Is this a man worth trusting with her deepest of desires…?