Doctor...to Duchess?

by Annie O'Neil

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Max.” Oliver smiled, hoping it would cover the all too familiar fish-out-of-water feeling he was experiencing. “And, please, it’s Oliver.” He hated being called Lord Oliver. Served him right to get a big dose of it. He’d not recognized Max, someone he’d seen nearly every day throughout his childhood. It didn’t sit well, being so out of the loop.

  The one thing he’d always been able to count on at Bryar Hall was nothing changing. His title, the unwritten aristocratic code, the unnecessary kowtowing of locals who, like it or not, had livelihoods that depended upon what he did when he inherited the estate. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding the confines of the role he’d be handed one day. And here he was, stepping right into the mold history had cast for him—an aloof aristocrat.

  Kaboom! There goes ten years of plain old Dr. Ollie.

  “Dr. MacKenzie sure knows how to throw one heck of a bash.”

  “Ah, the new GP?”

  He received a nod and grin. Little wonder. Anyone could see the woman was a knockout, even covered in mud.

  “So this was her brainchild, was it?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Like a whirlwind, she’s been. Changing this, changing that. Sometimes you hardly recognize the place for all of her ‘spring cleaning.’” Max held his fingers up in the air quotation-style but, instead of the frown of displeasure that usually accompanied change in St. Bryar, his lips held a broad smile.

  “She seems to have bewitched the lot of you.” Oliver wasn’t sure if he was giving a compliment or castigating the locals for falling under the new GP’s spell.

  “Oh, that she has, Lord Oliver. That she has. High time someone with a bit of drive and commitment came round and gave the old carpets a fresh beating!”

  “Indeed.”

  Call a spade a spade, why don’t you?

  “Not meaning you, Lord Oliver,” Max quickly covered. “I know the Red Cross couldn’t get by without you and all the help you must be giving all those poor people in war zones and whatnot.”

  “Not to worry. No offence taken.”

  Oliver smiled and gave Max a light clap on the shoulder to settle the matter but the remark niggled.

  No. It had cut right through to the heart of the matter. The locals didn’t see him as a stayer. And they were right. The last place he saw himself putting down roots—if he were to do such a thing at all—was here at Bryar Hall, the estate that time forgot.

  A place bursting with life was the last thing he’d expected to see when his taxi pulled up in front of the house less than an hour ago. The kid in him had barely stopped to think before pulling on a pair of shorts and a scrubby T-shirt so he could join in—be the Oliver he was anywhere but here.

  As a child, he’d always dreamed of an escapade in the moat, and here it was handed to him on a...not a silver platter, exactly...complete with a beautiful woman willing to risk her manicure for a charity combat exercise. Brilliant! Holding her against him had felt as natural as breathing.

  Then he’d gone and stomped on it. With combat boots. Talk about a literary analogy! Crushing the very thing you’d been hoping for your entire life.

  Just peachy.

  If—or when—someone from the parish newsletter got ahold of the fact he’d just stepped on and possibly broken the new GP’s fingers... The scandal!

  He laughed and just as quickly felt his lips settle into a grimace. Had she really being fit enough to carry on? He should have insisted upon helping her off the climbing wall.

  His mud-slicked introduction to the new doctor had perfectly foreshadowed what this whole palaver was turning into: messy and emotional, full of unexpected entanglements. All the top rankers on his “things to avoid” list.

  This trip was about fulfilling a promise to his father who had said long ago he would hang up his managerial hat when he turned seventy in exchange for seeing a bit more of the world. It was fair enough, but Oliver had been absolutely dreading it.

  “Keep the estate, sell the estate, turn her into a National Trust property if you wish, son. Of course, I’d love it if you decided to keep the old family ship afloat, but the choice is yours.”

  His father’s birthday was just a few months away, and Oliver could no longer put off the inevitable. Just buying the ticket home had made him feel as if millstones had been tied to his feet.

  And what had he received instead? A good old-fashioned shock to the system.

  What he had always pictured as a beleaguered old relic was now bursting with life. Life the place had been crying out for since—

  “Oliver! Over here, please.”

  Oliver smiled in acknowledgement as his father beckoned him over to a bunting-decked table. Cane, silver goatee, a casual-smart outfit perfectly suited to an outdoor gentleman’s catalogue. His father was pure class, elegant, charming, socially adroit. Everything becoming a landed gentleman. Everything he lacked.

  As Oliver wove through the crowd, it struck him how much his father had aged in the ten months since his mother had died. A stab of remorse that he hadn’t spent more time with his father over the past year tightened his stomach. He’d been on the end of the phone for their weekly update but it wasn’t the same, was it? Being there—being here—made all the difference.

  How would he ever fill his father’s shoes when the time came? Just the thought of being the Duke of Breckonshire actively stoked Oliver’s adrenaline stores. Adrenaline he preferred to put to use in his work in conflict zones.

  He loved being a doctor. Just a nameless doctor with a red cross on his back. Where he wasn’t “m’lord.” In the South Sudan or Syria—any outpost he found himself in—he was one of countless others in a sea of millions. He was jeans-wearing, red-dust-covered, on-call-round-the-clock Dr. Ollie.

  “Oliver! There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” His father waved him over to a small group hovering over a table filled with ribbons and a trophy shaped like Bryar Hall. Before she’d even turned, he knew exactly who it was. He hadn’t held her for long, but something told him he’d remember the sensation of his hands sliding along that particular pair of hips for some time.

  “Dr. Julia MacKenzie—I’d like you to meet my son, Oliver. He’s also a doctor, you know.”

  “We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting.” He extended a hand, eyes locked with hers, unsure if there were sparks of pleasure or irritation flying between them. Did she recognize him without the mud?

  “I would shake your hand,” she replied with a slight lift to her brow, “but...”

  He winced as Julia used her right hand to lift her freshly washed left hand to show him two obviously swollen fingers.

  That answered that, then.

  “Apologies. This generally isn’t how I put my best foot forward.” He pulled a hand through his wet hair and cringed, grateful she couldn’t read his thoughts. How cheesy was that? Fix it, you fool.

  “Is there anything I can tempt you with to ease the pain? A scone, perhaps?” Blimey. Being suave had never been his forte. He ran a panicked eye over the other baked goods. “Some chocolate cake?”

  “No, thank you.” Her lips twitched into the hint of a grin. “I’ve already had some of Margaret’s ginger cake when I was setting up the event, Dr. Wyatt. Or do you prefer Lord Oliver?”

  “Oliver will do.” He felt his own lips thin as hers curved into a broad smile. So they were playing the rank game? Time-worn territory. One turn of phrase and all the old familiar feelings thundered back into place. She’d judged him before she knew him and it irked him, more than he wanted to admit.

  “So, you’re the brains behind this little shindig? It’s cute. The Big Day Out at Bryar Hall, was it?”

  “I’m so pleased you think it’s charming.”

  Julia’s smile tightened as her blue eyes flitted from him to a large glass flagon on the prize table stuffed with bills and coins. A sign taped to the flagon read: Coins for the Clinic!

  Terrific. A charity run—and he’d just belittled it. Come on
, Oliver. You’re bigger than this. Don’t spar with someone who’s obviously been able to do what you deemed impossible.

  “It’s better, in fact. Refreshing to see everyone having so much fun here.”

  He could see the tight smile on her lips soften. That was better. He might hate it here but there was no need to take the wind out of her sails. Getting this event together must’ve been like pulling teeth.

  “Your father, of course, has been amazing in his support of the event,” she continued.

  Oliver couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “Oh, yes, it’s been just wonderful, Oliver!” His father chimed in, clearly delighted with the day’s event. “You know, more than anyone, the most we’ve ever done with the moat is feed the herons with some of your, ahem, less active goldfish. Dr. MacKenzie here seems to have an endless stream of ideas to breathe life back into the old place.”

  Julia flashed him a dimpled smile. “Perhaps you’d like to give a donation to the estate’s valued clinic? Without it, of course, I’d have to drive all the way to Manchester to get an X-ray.”

  Ah. He knew which camp she stood in now: a fact finder.

  That Oliver and Bryar Estate were not a match made in heaven was common knowledge. His looming take-over kept all the locals’ minds spinning. In a small place like this, news of the estate’s future—or lack thereof—was like gold dust. Or kryptonite. He felt himself being openly scrutinized by Julia’s clear blue eyes. Kryptonite it was, then.

  “I could do you better than that,” he parried. “How about a free examination? On the house.”

  “That’s very generous, but I think I’m fairly capable of diagnosing the injury myself.” She pursed her lips as if daring him to contest her.

  Or kiss her.

  No, it definitely wasn’t to kiss her, although it was not such an unappealing idea. He squared his feet again, aware his father was actively tuned into their conversation.

  So she wanted to spar? Fine by him.

  “You won’t be able to X-ray yourself. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you let me make up for my lead feet.”

  “The clinic won’t be able to afford to take the X-ray if you don’t put anything in the bottle.” She returned his smile with a healthy dose of Cheshire cat.

  Touché. She was good. Very good.

  And distractingly attractive. Not your typical primped and preened heiress his mother had enjoyed trotting out in from of him—better. Natural. Not a speck of makeup needed on her milk-and-honey complexion. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve pegged her as a Scandinavian, but her accent was pure, unaffected English. An English rose with a particularly fiery spirit, from the looks of things. If circumstances had been different he’d...

  No point in going there. Circumstances weren’t different.

  “Put it on my account. I’ll see you at the clinic at, shall we say, three o’clock?” His words brought the conversation to an end but Oliver couldn’t resist one last tip-to-toe scan. No doubt about it. Mud-slicked outdoor wear suited Julia MacKenzie. It’d be interesting to see how she scrubbed up.

  Bubble bath? Shower? Oliver! Stop it.

  He followed her eyes as she glanced up at the clock built into the stable’s spire. It was just past two.

  “Fine.”

  She didn’t look happy. He didn’t feel happy. A match made in heaven.

  “Well, then. It’s a date.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  IF JULIA’S HAND hadn’t been throbbing so much she would have had a proper go at washing that very annoying man right out of her hair. If only she could scrub the soap bubbles into her brain. As it was, she could just about handle a quick rinse and a slapdash effort to clean herself up before Dr. Oliver Wyatt—or was it just plain old Oliver?—met her in the clinic’s exam room. She pulled on a sapphire-blue blouse she knew flattered her neckline and brought out the color of her eyes. Not that she was dressing up for him.

  Maybe just a little.

  Who knew Oliver Wyatt would be so good-looking? From the tangle of Chinese whispers she’d heard, the mental picture she’d formed of him would’ve matched the gargoyles leering over the roof of the gatehouse.

  Now she was going all googly-eyed on herself, which was really irritating. Particularly considering that Oliver’s presence here at St. Bryar could very well pull the very nice rug out from under her feet.

  Then again, had the rug been all that permanent? No one had been able to tell her what would happen long-term with the country hospital. The Duke of Breckonshire had been very clear about the fact that when his son returned home the reins would be handed over.

  The duke had stipulated she was free to fund-raise her heart out if she thought it would help the clinic. Help? The clinic was definitely...erm...retro would be putting it nicely. But it had spoken to her and she loved every worn linoleum inch of it. She had thought if she could somehow get the place free of needing funding from the estate before Lord Oliver—Oliver—returned from his posting in South Sudan, she could look toward a future here. Turned out seven months wasn’t quite long enough to jack the place into the twenty-first century.

  Her eyes moved to the lead-plated windows of her bedroom overlooking the tiny hospital’s garden. If she was really going to go for accuracy, St. Bryar Hospital was little more than a patch-em-up service. Even so, thanks to a few beds and a twenty-four-hour rota of volunteers, it served as the only round-the-clock resource for the small village cut off from big city hospitals. There was a mid-sized NHS clinic about forty-odd minutes away if you didn’t get stuck behind a tractor. Helicopter was the only quick way to get to a proper hospital in an emergency and, with the government cutting funds left, right and center, she worried about the day they wouldn’t even have those. She’d searched on the internet for grants and extra funding and had already printed out an imposing stack of application forms waiting to be filled out. Soon. She’d get to them. Tonight.

  She tugged on a skirt and ran her good hand along the soft fabric of the peasant-style blouse she’d chosen. A peasant blouse to meet the aristocrat? She snorted. Hilarious. Her stomach did a nervous flip, and she gave herself a get-a-grip shake.

  What did she have to be nervous about? Being born into a great family didn’t make you great. Actions made you great. Like finishing a fun run with a throbbing hand. She let herself give a smug little sniff before grabbing her keys and heading to the clinic. Hopefully, the brisk walk would focus her.

  Julia was only seven months into her new job and it had already woven itself into her heart. Fat chance she was going to let Mr. Enigmatic Green Eyes with an unrelenting case of wanderlust take it all away. Never mind the minor fact he would one day be the rightful owner of it all—he clearly didn’t have any staying power! South Sudan? Republic of Congo? Libya? Where else had he been over the previous year? Sure, he’d been helping people—but what about the people here in St. Bryar? What about his father? It was one heck of a big place to be knocking around in on your own.

  She stopped short of harrumphing as she pulled open the clinic door, knowing full well she couldn’t really point that particular finger. Her whole life had been a catalogue of packed bags, long-haul flights, change-of-address cards and now, finally, in this beautiful untouched village, she thought she’d found her place in the world.

  “Anybody home?”

  Julia felt a tremble of excitement play at her fingertips at the sound of Oliver’s voice.

  Don’t let him rattle you! Put your best foot forward. Kill him with kindness.

  “Just coming!” Julia called down the corridor as she flicked on the power switches in the small X-ray room. If she could just exhale all the mean thoughts she’d been thinking, she just might manage to greet Oliver with a winning smile.

  One foot round the corner and her ambition flew out the window. The inscrutable look on Oliver’s face as he took in the time-worn reception area made her heart sink. Scruffy or not, she loved it here—avocado-colored carpet and all.


  “Looks like the old place is still in need of a facelift, eh? I don’t think it’s changed since I was a kid.”

  Julia met Oliver’s sardonic smile with what she hoped was a steely gaze. In reality, she was sure he could see the question marks pinging across her face. Good thing he couldn’t feel her pulse rate rising in exactly the way it shouldn’t be. Thanks a lot, blushing cheeks! You are relegated to the Turncoat Department!

  Oliver had the rugged, outdoorsy looks she’d always had a penchant for. Matt had been blond, buff and as “SAS poster boy” as they came. Of course, her husband had been attractive, but there was something almost primitive in the way she found herself responding to Oliver. No doubt about it, he was a top ranker on the masculinity scale. If anyone could make wire-rimmed glasses sexy, here was the guy. They leaned a studied air to his face, framed by that untamable black hair curling ever so slightly over his collar. His tweed jacket, complete with elbow patches, hung perfectly from his shoulders—the starting point of a lean physique. His long-fingered hands were obviously accustomed to hard graft. In short, he was not your typical la-de-dah heir apparent.

  Pity.

  It’d be easier to dislike him if he was a pale-faced, smarmy-eyed, snooty aristocrat. She turned on her heel and headed toward the X-ray room. Ogling him was going to get her nowhere.

  “Funny you mention it.” Be brave, Julia. “The clinic gets so much use from all of the villagers, it really would be a treat for them to have a cheerier reception center.”

  “Did you earn enough from your event today to cover the costs?”

  Ah. She knew that tone. The “expressing idle curiosity with an agenda” thing. Apparently, those Indiana Jones looks were masking an inner reptilian nature. No problem. She could do cold-blooded as well as the next person.

  “Probably.” She opted for a bright and cheery tone. “Although I expect the money we raised would be better put to use on medical supplies.” Snap!