Improper or not, she would go to his room tomorrow night. Not only to allow him to continue his narrative, but for his overwhelming kisses. Cristyn yearned to explore his hard, muscled body. To see that fiery look in his eyes once again.
The following day, a steady stream of patients filed in to the medical clinic. When Tessie entered the office around noon, Cristyn stepped forward and escorted her behind the curtain. Peeling back the dressing, Cristyn tried not to frown at the condition of the wound, nor would she admonish the young woman. There was swollen skin around the stitches, showing a slight infection. With quick efficiency, Cristyn bathed the wound in antiseptic, snipped away the threads, then redressed it with a smaller plaster.
“I share an acquaintance with Mr. Black,” Cristyn murmured. “He tells me you went to his room for a specific purpose.”
Tessie sighed. “Aye.”
“You can trust me, Tessie, and, more importantly, you can trust Mr. Black. Why did you go to his room?”
“Not what you think,” she replied, her voice low. “He wants to know about the mill. Hell’s bells, he told me to say ’aught.”
“I will keep your secret.” Cristyn now trusted Aidan fully, but she was silently relieved to hear confirmation of the truth. “Tell him everything, Tessie. He will protect you.”
Tessie bit her lower lip and nodded. “Aye, miss.”
In a louder voice, Cristyn said, “Keep this clean. There is a bit of infection, but if you wash the scar twice a day, and brew this tea”—Cristyn thrust a packet of willow bark tea leaves into Tessie’s hand—“it should heal properly.”
“Thank you, Miss Bevan.”
Cristyn gave her a smile of support. Once Tessie departed, Paris pulled aside the curtain.
“We have a brief reprieve. Mrs. Wilson, one of my patients, delivered a plate of raisin scones. Come, have one, along with a cup of tea. It’s already brewing.”
She followed Paris into the outer office and sat before his desk. Once he served the tea and scones, they ate and sipped quietly.
“I am not quite sure how to broach this subject; Mrs. Trubshaw claims there was a man in your room last night.” He held up his hand to stop her retort. “I know this is none of my business. If anyone knows of surreptitious rendezvous, it is I. But Mrs. Trubshaw has a legitimate concern. It’s her house.” He peered at her over the rim of his mug. “Was it Aidan Black?”
Cristyn nodded. “Yes. He stood outside my window in the pouring rain. He wouldn’t leave; he would have caught a chill, or worse.” Paris’s mouth quirked. “And yes, I wanted to speak to him. Be in his presence. Kiss him. That is all that happened. He also started to tell me what I have wanted to know since I first met him in January.”
“What is that?”
“The story of his past, his family. What brought him to my father’s clinic. Why he’s in Earl Shilton. Unfortunately, Mrs. Trubshaw interrupted our conversation. He asked me to come to his room tonight.”
Paris shifted in his chair. “You are attracted to each other. It was obvious at McRae’s dinner party. If I noticed the intense yearning, I’m sure others did as well. Let me impart a little sage advice: No matter how careful you are, how well you plan your tryst, there is always a chance of discovery.”
“I grant you we’re playing a dangerous game. But I’m not a young lady of society. I don’t have to protect my reputation as if it were a life-or-death prospect.”
“Perhaps not. All I am saying is it should not be given up easily, for any young woman, regardless of standing.” Paris broke off a small piece of raisin scone, chewed, and swallowed. “It is hardly fair, is it? Young men are expected to indulge in affairs, but young ladies are not. If you don’t mind me asking, what is Aidan’s name?”
She considered Paris a friend, but how deep did the trust go? Aidan hadn’t sworn her to secrecy as such. Perhaps Paris had heard of the name. “I cannot reveal why he is using a different name, the few details I’m aware of have convinced me it is best not to say anything until I learn more.” She paused. Curiosity had got the better of her. Paris was the son of a viscount. He would know of most wealthy families in England. “I must have your word, Paris; you will repeat this to no one.”
“Absolutely.”
“His last name is Wollstonecraft.” Cristyn watched Paris closely for any sort of reaction. His eyes widened briefly, but then his features settled into complete neutrality. “Do you know of the family?”
“Beyond the author of Frankenstein, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, and her mother, Mary, the advocate of women’s rights? Not really. Are they landed gentry? Tradesmen?”
“I’m not sure.” Cristyn sipped her tea. Paris had reacted to the name. Why? Was it because of the author? Or was there more? “You said you knew all about secret assignations. How? The man you spoke of?”
Paris’s eyes reflected a deep sadness. “Not only was our affair against the law, but it was doomed from the start. You see, heirs to the aristocracy are strange creatures. They are born, weaned, and raised on a steady diet of ‘honor and duty.’ When it comes down to it, no matter the utterances and assurances of love and devotion, they will ultimately choose duty and family.”
Paris sighed. “His father found us embracing in the library. There was no dramatic scene, no screaming or cursing. The earl merely said he understood his son’s sexual curiosity, but the choice must be made. My lover said, ‘Well, of course I choose duty. Always.’ I was hastily escorted from the premises, told not to contact the heir again. He wouldn’t even look at me as I was all but dragged from the room. Foolish me, I pleaded, ‘Do not reject our love,’ but he did. Without blinking an eye.”
“No wonder your heart was broken,” Cristyn whispered.
“Smashed, really. But enough about me. Why not meet Aidan Wollstonecraft here, at the clinic, after hours? If discovered, you have a ready excuse with discussing the children at the mill. Meeting in each other’s rooms is too risky. Besides, I will be right upstairs if you need me.”
Paris had a point, especially in light of Mrs. Trubshaw almost catching them. “How would I get word to him?”
“Leave it to me. He’s at the inn, correct? I will arrange a meeting for you tomorrow night. For I imagine you both need to discuss many subjects. That is, if you wish. It is only a suggestion.”
Caution would be prudent. “Yes, tell him we will meet here, tomorrow night.”
* * * *
Aidan couldn’t wait for the day to end; his body thrummed with the anticipation of seeing Cristyn again. He couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms. Kiss her. Touch her. Have her touch him. God, it still felt as if she were gripping his cock. His bold and beautiful angel.
During his meeting with McRae, he’d found it hard to focus on what the loathsome man was saying. He’d laid out a plan to keep Aidan on permanently, and had offered a perfectly adequate salary, one any man of modest means would covet, along with promises of bonuses if Aidan improved production while making cuts to advance profits. In other words, make life miserable for the workers. Aidan acted interested, only half listening, and when McRae began to ask probing questions about Aidan’s family and background, he brought the meeting to an end. He promised to consider the offer.
Meanwhile, Aidan was making plans for his exit. He mailed a short note to Samuel in Hinckley to stand at the ready with the carriage. Aidan was missing his home and his family, and wanted to be there for Riordan.
After consuming a bowl of mutton stew in the tavern room, Aidan paced the floor, awaiting Cristyn’s arrival. Hell, no woman had ever had him in knots like this. Not even during his most intense affair. If only the interfering widow had not interrupted them. He’d barely had enough time to explain. For all his supposed confidence and arrogance, the thought that Cristyn might look at him with repugnance after he revealed everything tore at his insides. His recovery stood on shaky ground. Because of hi
s frail emotions, any rejection would send him reeling, and it concerned him. Briefly, he thought he should keep from revealing his feelings for Cristyn—but he couldn’t. They were overwhelming, frightening, and utterly glorious.
A rap at the door brought him out of his troubled thoughts.
His anticipation plummeted when he opened the door to find Dr. Middlemiss. “Good evening, Mr. Black. A moment of your time?”
Standing aside, he motioned for the doctor to enter. “Come in.”
Once he closed the door, the doctor turned to face him. “I know you’re expecting Cristyn. She will not be coming.”
Aidan could not contain his fury. Grabbing a fistful of the doctor’s cravat, he growled, “You are interfering in a situation that does not concern you. I saw the way you hovered over her at the dinner. Cristyn. Is. Mine.”
The doctor arched an eyebrow. “How territorial of you. Release me at once. I am not your enemy, nor am I romantically interested in Cristyn.”
Reluctantly, Aidan let go. “Then, please, explain yourself.”
“Shall we sit?”
“You will not be staying long enough to become comfortable.”
Middlemiss straightened his cravat. “As you wish. Cristyn will not be coming tonight. It is far too risky. Surely you see this, Lord Wollstonecraft.”
Disappointment covered him. Had Cristyn confided in this haughty doctor?
The look on his face must have been plain, for Middlemiss said, “She told me nothing of your brief conversation but your name. Obviously, you haven’t informed her of the fact you are heir to the Earl of Carnstone.”
“I hadn’t the chance.”
“Mrs. Trubshaw was quite irritated, but also concerned that there was a man in Cristyn’s room. I assumed it was you. I am only here to suggest a more neutral meeting place to continue your discussion, for she deserves to know everything. If you care for her—”
“My feelings for Cristyn are none of your concern,” Aidan snapped.
“Yes, as she has told me. But have a care with her reputation. Meeting in your rooms is not prudent. May I suggest my office, tomorrow night? When does the shift end at the mill?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Come straightaway to the office on Church Street, two doors down from Mrs. Trubshaw’s. I have a shingle outside the door. You can meet alone, but I will be upstairs in my rooms. That way, if anyone sees you both, you can state you were meeting about mill health matters. My presence in the building will be sufficient for chaperone purposes.”
Aidan’s anger dissipated enough to take the words to heart. Hell, he didn’t want Cristyn to be whispered about—and he should have thought about that before showing up at her window in the rain, and coaxing her to his room before that. And then there was the earth-shattering kiss in the garden shed….
“I will not listen in on your private conservation. I promised Gethin I would look out for Cristyn, but not to the extent that I hamper her independence. Despite our age difference, we’ve become friends. I think of her as a dear niece. Nothing more. But I will speak out if I believe there is sufficient justification.”
Aidan clenched his teeth, holding his temper. “I will take you at your word. Seven tomorrow night.”
“Cristyn is an amazing young woman. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
“Neither do I. We are in agreement.”
“A truce, then?” Middlemiss held out his hand.
“Truce.” Aidan shook it.
Middlemiss headed for the door, bowed slightly, then departed.
Damn. Hell. Fuck. After pacing the floor for over an hour, Aidan stormed out of his room. God, he needed…something. He hesitated outside the tavern room. To hell with a drink. It wouldn’t be enough. Fuming, he walked toward the front entrance and stepped outside. A brisk walk would do it. His arms pumped, his breath coming out in short puffs. All of it was closing in on him. That heavy weight of anxiety. The stress of juggling multiple situations and emotions.
He stopped at the corner of the Keats Lane alley, leaned against the wall, and exhaled, closing his eyes.
“Guv. Care to chase the dragon?”
The gruff, raspy voice was immediately followed by the odors of cheap gin and stale tobacco. Aidan’s eyes popped open and a weasel of a man, no taller than five inches over five feet, stood next to him. He wore a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes. The foul man opened his hand, and sitting in the palm of his fingerless glove was a clothed ball.
Opium.
His heart was beating so fast it could have easily leapt from his chest. That blasted buzzing noise he’d experienced at the Crimson Club, when he was last offered opium, had returned in full force. Even when he tried to be good—to do good—it all turned to rubble. What were the odds? Fate was indeed mockingly cruel.
Here was the answer to all his problems. The cure to the restlessness of his soul. The temptation was too great to ignore, and without further thought, he nodded. His throat was too dry and his brain too foggy to form a sentence.
The man held up two fingers. Two pence. Slightly cheaper than an apothecary shop. The price of a pint of beer. He’d be better off having a pint of bitter in Mr. Atwood’s tavern room than going down this road. Disregarding the alarm bells clanging in his head, he thrust the coin into the man’s hand and took the opium.
Fifteen minutes later, Aidan sat in his room, staring at the cloth ball on the table. He might as well have been staring into the abyss. As he wrestled with his demons, sweat covered his forehead. The buzzing in his head reached a crescendo. He reached for the opium, but froze when voices drifted in from through the open window.
“You’re stealin’ now for the thrill of it. It’s one thing to do it when hungry—”
“Leave off!” the second man yelled. “I know what I’m about, and I can stop anytime. But why should I? Thieving gets me what I want. What I need.”
“’Twill be your downfall. ’Twill ruin your life….”
The voices faded into the night. “I can stop anytime,” the man had said.
Aidan pulled his hand away. A reprieve. For tonight. He should throw the opium away. But he would not. Perhaps he would save it for when he truly needed the blessed oblivion—or when he needed a stark reminder that, despite his supposed recovery, this struggle would stay with him for the rest of his days. With a shaky exhale, he took the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp brow. Exercise. Standing, he tore off his clothes, hooked his feet under the footboard, and began his regimen.
Tonight, he would fight it.
Tomorrow? The next night?
Another battle to be won.
Chapter 17
With Wollstonecraft Hall constantly alive with activity, it was difficult for Julian to find a private moment to rest and reflect. The prospect of becoming a grandfather had brought his maudlin thoughts to the forefront of his mind. Which, of course, meant the curse had reared its ugly head once again. Despite the men’s talk of embracing love, Julian watched the calendar with a stark fear borne from the debilitating loss of his wife more than twenty-five years past. Would Sabrina safely deliver? Would the child be sound and healthy? He kept his troublesome thoughts to himself, for he hadn’t the slightest idea what he believed any longer with regard to the curse.
Since he and Alberta had first made love at the end of May, they’d had numerous trysts when they managed to find time alone together at her residence, usually when Jonas was at the hall.
There was no denying it: He was in love. With all the exhilarating and worrisome thoughts and emotions that came with it. Julian had been thinking of marriage. They could live at the small manor house.
Last night at dinner, his father had announced he and Mary Tuttle would be getting married in September. It would be a small affair at the hall, with only family in attendance.
Julian could wait on
his plans. Besides, he hadn’t even broached the subject with Alberta. Hell, he hadn’t even said the words “I love you.”
And neither had she.
The Wollstonecraft men were perhaps too cautious when it came to love. After suffering loss and living in grief, there were many who would not expose their hearts again. Julian never thought of himself as craven, but when it came to matters of the heart, it seemed he was.
As he strode across the well-worn path between Wollstonecraft Hall and the Eatons’ small manor house, he decided to wait until the birth of his grandchild to mention marriage. But love? It was well past time to reveal his true feelings to Alberta.
She met him at the door, looking absolutely stunning in a summer gown of pale yellow linen and cotton with a floral bodice. He couldn’t wait to peel it off her. As Julian pulled her into his arms to kiss her, she turned her head.
“No kissing,” she whispered. “We must talk. It’s important.”
Alberta sounded grave, her brows knotted in worry. Once in the parlor, he sat next to her on the settee. “What is wrong? Is it Jonas?”
She shook her head. “No, he is thriving. Jonas has completely embraced his training as a groom, and is doing well by all accounts.”
“Garrett is pleased with his progress. That leaves you. Are you ill?” Hell, now he was worried.
“I don’t know where to begin, except to blurt it out. I’m pregnant, Julian.”
What? He couldn’t have heard her correctly. The room started to spin. His whole world was caught in the vortex. Pregnant. But how? When? His lips moved, but no words came out. His throat had closed.
Alberta gave him an inquisitive look. “I’ve shocked you. I’ve shocked myself. I mean, I will be forty in three months. But Dr. Phillips confirmed my suspicions yesterday. How could it be possible? A stupid question. I mean, I am still having my menses. Obviously I’m able to conceive. But I never had with Reese. I assumed I couldn’t. And then we…we…” She buried her face in her hands.
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