Doctor...to Duchess?

by Annie O'Neil

  “Well, go on, then.” His voice was low. Teasing. Tempting her to move into that irresistible space where they weren’t quite touching but might as well have been. “What are you waiting for?” His lips parted. Julia felt an electric response surge through her body. She felt ridiculously alive. He moved in closer. Ooh...

  She barely stopped herself from blurting, “Open wide,” throwing the chocolate in his mouth and scarpering.

  Instead, the sensualist in her, a Julia she’d hardly known existed, slipped the chocolate between his lips, allowing her fingers to linger so that very, very briefly—and deliberately—she was able to feel his lips close upon them.

  If someone had told her waves were crashing inside of her she wouldn’t have disagreed. As she drew her fingers away she felt the space between them close. The connection was there again like a thick, humming band of energy. One look at his face was proof positive he felt it, too. As her hand dropped to her side, she felt his fingers slip through hers as he nonchalantly turned to scan the room. How could he do that? Probably wise. Snogging Oliver Wyatt in the middle of a village food fair probably wouldn’t be the most discreet thing to do.

  Nerves suddenly got the better of her. Who knew secret hand-holding could feel so sexy? Lucky chocolate. Swirling round behind those lips of his. She couldn’t do this. Play it cool.

  She would go find something she hated: beetroot. Someone had to have a beetroot something-or-other to help her get her feet back on planet Earth. Heaven did not and could not come in the form of Oliver Wyatt.

  * * *

  Oliver grinned broadly as the savory sweetness of the homemade chocolate trickled down his throat. It was delicious. But not as pleasant as the connection he’d just shared with Julia. She’d been visibly flustered and something told him, despite her feisty reactions to him, that she didn’t see him as all bite. The idea that her feelings might blossom and grow as his had was appealing. About time something nice happened here. Then again, a fling with the GP whose future was in his hands was hardly a stellar move. Not to mention the fact that every moment he spent with her was a moment that would make it harder to leave. Who knew best-laid plans could suddenly grow flimsy? Pliable? He’d never even considered staying before now. Maybe...

  He looked across the room as Julia spooned some bright purple chutney onto a cracker, laughing with the woman who had made it. If he didn’t know she’d only been here some seven months, he would’ve sworn she was a local.

  It had taken her half an hour to get past the front door when they’d arrived as person after person had greeted her. She certainly had the spirited tenacity of a GP committed to the long haul. He looked around the room, scanning the faces, trying to see things from her point of view.

  Look at them all. Each and every one of these people was more than just a chart for her. She most likely imagined knowing them throughout their lives, the same as Dr. Carney had. She would see them through pregnancies, sickness, trifling matters, life-changers.

  Totally different to the professional world he’d chosen. Of course, the odd patient stood out here or there, but mostly you only had time to do the best you could and move on to the next person the best you could. That was what everyone had told him he’d done when Alexander had fallen ill, but he’d never believed them. Had never let himself get close enough to anyone to explain how gut-wrenchingly sad he was that he’d not told someone about his brother’s rash earlier. If only he’d known meningitis didn’t take prisoners.

  He was no different to anyone in this room yet he knew why he wasn’t surrounded by the same chatting crowds Julia was. He came across as standoffish, wary—different. Absolutely rich, considering it was all of his own construct. Normalcy. He suddenly felt a craving for it.

  Julia saw that in him. The regular guy. The Oliver behind the title. Or was it that he was a better man with her? A warmth spread through his chest. No guessing who inspired that, then.

  Without Julia, he would’ve come and gone from the event in a matter of minutes. Or, more realistically, not come at all. As it was, he was enjoying being here with her, watching her, a fly on the wall.

  “Lord Oliver, so good of you to come along!” Pamela Pryce, Reg’s wife, made a beeline toward him through the ever-thickening crowd.

  Perhaps not so much of a fly on the wall, then.

  “I’ve not had a chance to thank you for all of your heroics down in Shaw Field, pulling off that tractor and all. Mike told me it was you who raised it and I refused to believe him until I heard it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Anyone would’ve done the same.” He waved away the compliment, well aware it didn’t sit right.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Lord Oliver! You’ve come home for a nice rest and jumped right into the fray.”

  “Yes, but you know it was Dr. MacKenzie who did the real hard graft?”

  “Oh?” Pamela’s eyes widened.

  “Without her quick thinking—calling the helicopter—I dare say things would’ve been a lot worse.”

  “But if you hadn’t pulled the tractor off...” She smiled up at him, her voice trailing off as Oliver stiffened. This was precisely the type of thing that gnawed at him. Undue credit just because of his title.

  Be gracious.

  His mother’s words echoed through him. And maybe the poor woman just wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t that strange a thing, after all. Talking to a neighbor who’d just helped your husband. Get a grip, man. Don’t read so much into things—and, yes, be gracious.

  “It wasn’t any trouble, Mrs. Pryce. I assure you. But it really is Dr. MacKenzie you should be thanking.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. Of course, the village is ever so happy to have her here.” Mrs. Pryce carried on talking as Oliver looked over her shoulder toward Julia, now deep in discussion with a flat-capped gentleman giving out samples of hard cheese. She looked up at Oliver, lifted an eyebrow and smiled. Something in him tightened. In a good way. Over here was too far away. He was hardly the hovering type, but...

  “So, anyway, the hospital says it should be another week and he can come home—so long as Dr. MacKenzie can do his checkups, of course. Or you? I hear you’re taking appointments while Dr. MacKenzie’s hand is all trussed up.”

  Oliver looked at Mrs. Pryce blankly for a moment then shook his head. He’d been away with the fairies—the blond-haired, blue-eyed variety.

  “Absolutely. Yes. Do bring him in. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s some cheese over there I need to get a taste of.”

  * * *

  “What a good night!” Julia enthused. She risked a glance over at Oliver, who had turned from amiable to visibly brooding halfway through the event. “Did you find anything you liked?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” She guffawed but kept her eyes trained on the wooded path they were following back to the Hall. “What kind of response it that?”

  “It means there were a lot of nice things, but nothing that really spoke to me.”

  Julia stopped, astonished he hadn’t found one thing to his taste. “Are you kidding me? I could give you a shopping list as long as my arm! I can’t wait to get back into my little cottage and fill up the larder. I had some amazing crisps made with heritage potatoes and just a hint of paprika. Delicious!”

  “Is Clara’s cooking not to your taste, then?”

  Touchy.

  “She’s a wonderful cook. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just surprised you’re so lackluster about it all. Some of these kitchen table projects could turn into a real boon for St. Bryar. The villagers could certainly do with the income.”

  “There’s no point in getting attached to things you can’t have.”

  Julia stopped, feeling physically struck by his words. She was pretty sure they weren’t on the topic of paprika crisps anymore.

  “What exactly are we talking about here?”

  “Nothing.” Oliver shook his head and picked up the pace. He was hardly going to tell her virtually every thought o
f his managed to touch on her in some way or other.

  “Hang on a second.” Julia jogged a few steps to catch up with him and caught ahold of his sleeve. “What are you talking about, Oliver? Is there something I need to know?”

  It would be so easy to take her in his arms. Hold her, take in that soft scent of hers, grab ahold of her hand and run through the woods like a couple of young lovers. But it would hardly be fair.

  How could he explain that tonight—and every other St. Bryar-centric thing she’d gotten him involved in since he’d returned—was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid when he’d come home? Being attached, caring for people, loving people then losing them was precisely what he’d spent his entire adult life avoiding. Each and every moment he spent with her made the place feel more like—home.

  “Oliver, are you sure you’re all right?” Julia’s blue eyes appealed to him to open up.

  He ached to let her in. Anywhere else in the world, he knew he would’ve pulled her into his arms and savored the sensation of holding her and being held. Here? Where everything turned to poison?

  Not a chance.

  “Right as rain.” He flashed a practiced aristocratic smile and turned her toward Bryar Hall, just visible through the trees. “Shall we get you back before dark, then?”

  * * *

  Julia scrunched up her pillow. Nope. No good. Maybe fluffing it would do the trick. There. Perhaps now that she’d rearranged it about fifty thousand times she could get to sleep.

  She tossed. Then turned. Then flung herself into a snow angel position and stared at the ceiling, willing her mind to slow down.

  If only she could hoover the thoughts away, stick a tube to her ear and suck every single thought about Oliver Wyatt right out of her brain.

  Oliver Wyatt.

  It seemed every dark-haired, green-eyed morsel of the man was threatening to eat her brain alive. And her body. Her hands slipped onto her belly as yet another wash of warmth set her body alight. For heaven’s sake! She was responding to him like a giddy teen and he wasn’t even in the room! Yet again her body was playing traitor to her pragmatism.

  Hadn’t she made a deal with herself? Play it cool while Oliver went through the books. Which, she noted with a wry grin, he hadn’t really seemed to do much of. She frowned. Get on with it!

  On the other hand, with him helping out at the clinic so much, there was every chance his love for Bryar Estate and the village would be reignited. It was the perfect match. Medicine and making a difference. Those seemed to be the things that made him tick.

  Her heart sank a bit.

  Just not here. His dark mood on their walk home from the village hall was proof positive he had little to no time for the place.

  What was it that he hated so much? Being a duke didn’t have to be all that horrible if decorum wasn’t his thing. His father hardly looked taxed by his position. Look at the King of Spain! He was always roaring around Madrid on a motorcycle. Hardly restrained behavior. Then again, they were English. Firm-jawed in the face of adversity and all that.

  She had to get to the heart of it. Find out what really made him hate it here so much. Then she would—what, exactly? Solve all his problems with a winning smile and a bit of emotional elbow grease? Unlikely.

  Her hands slipped to her hips and ran along her thighs as she rolled onto her side. For the fifty-thousandth time.

  Her thoughts flitted about before landing back at the moment when she slipped the chocolate in Oliver’s mouth. If she hadn’t run away, would they have carried on holding hands as if it had been a perfectly natural thing to do?

  Would she have gone up on tiptoe to taste the salted caramel a second time? Pressed into him to feel if his appetite, like hers, wasn’t for food but for the other’s touch?

  Aargh! She turned flat on her belly and pulled a pillow over her head. Enough!

  He didn’t want the same things—and the sooner she got that through her head the better.

  CHAPTER SIX

  OLIVER DREW A finger down the list of the day’s remaining patients. Between the two of them, they’d make quick work of it. He could’ve sworn the clinic of days gone by had been one of well-intentioned but hapless disorder.

  Hats off to Julia. Yet another tick in “the woman is a star” book. The clinic was a world away from how he remembered it. She was efficient, professional and obviously very dedicated. Oh—and beautiful. Did he mention beautiful? And funny? And had the softest skin. He’d barely had a moment to trace the soft outline of her cheek—but by God he wouldn’t mind doing that again. Not that he’d had a moment alone with her since the Bite of St. Bryar.

  She was always at the clinic before him, beavering away at some paperwork or cleaning, and she’d never left until well after he’d hung up his stethoscope. She wouldn’t be avoiding him, would she? Had she seen through his veneer of charm and realized he was a man who couldn’t commit? Or maybe it was simpler: she loved her work here at the clinic. And who could blame her? He’d enjoyed the past few days immensely.

  Word had quickly spread that there was an extra pair of hands in St. Bryar Hospital—and not just any old hands. After an initial surge of patients, who all seemed to be suffering from hypochondria more than anything else, the appointments list had settled back to a steady trickle. He grinned as he pictured Julia re-enacting the disappointed faces of patients who’d drawn the short straw and been seen by her.

  “Ooh—I was just hoping Lord Oliver might have a listen with his stethoscope, you see. I’m sure you’re very good, but this condition might call for a specialist.”

  “What have you done to my practice?” she’d wailed. “Everyone’s out for their heartbeat to be listened to by the future Duke of Breckonshire.”

  How she managed to push all his buttons and make him grin instead of growl was beyond him. Perhaps because she had one heck of a gift for mimicry, he could forgive it.

  Realistically? His soft spot for the cheeky blonde was growing despite his resolve to push it into the back of a wardrobe somewhere and forget about it. That in and of itself was steadily sanding away the sheen of his well-laid plans.

  Apart from feeling like a bit of a tourist attraction, he was genuinely beginning to enjoy this whole country-living thing much more than he’d bargained for. He’d been an idiot to think springtime, when the estate was virtually exploding with new life, was the best time to wipe his hands of St. Bryar. There were lambs bouncing around the fields and gorgeous, fluffy calves gorging themselves on their mother’s milk—not to mention every shrub, hedgerow and fruit tree bursting into spectacular life. And—of course—Julia. The place was a rural idyll. Anyone would be a fool not to want to be a part of it.

  He rapped a pen on the desk. That was just the point, wasn’t it? Did he or didn’t he want to be a part of it? He’d been doing a fairly terrific job of avoiding the real reason for coming home—and he’d be hard pressed to eke out this “lending a helping hand” ruse for much longer. A couple of more weeks and Julia’s hand would be right as rain, the cottage would be fixed and he would have all the time in the world to focus on the estate’s books. He rapped the pen on the desk again. He wasn’t behind a pile of ledgers yet!

  “Let’s see,” he said aloud. “What have we got here? Post-op hernia check for Arthur ‘The Knife’ Potts. Mole removal for Elaine Duncan. Blood pressure check for Mrs. Winters.”

  A smile crept to his lips. The butcher, the baker...and the schoolgirl who’d come to ride at the stables once a week when he’d been a boy. St. Bryar had never had a candlestick maker, so far as he knew. Pity.

  The names all pinged with images of encounters he’d had with each of them over the course of growing up. Part of him was astonished all of these people from his childhood were still here.

  He hadn’t appreciated how few tabs he’d kept on everyone here and it bridled. What he’d seen as the frippery and excess of the Bryar Hall tea parties and village shoots unexpectedly made sense: they were ways for his parents to s
ee and be with the villagers on a level other than that of employer, landowner, duke and duchess. He could’ve easily held open clinics during his annual trip home and given Dr. Carney a much-needed holiday. Caught up with folk. Made a difference. He sat back in the chair and sighed. Truth be told, he could’ve done a lot of things.

  “I know it’s not what you’re used to, but it keeps us busy enough!” Julia’s soft voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Looks more than enough for a clinic running on little more than loose change!”

  Her expression told him in an instant he’d said the wrong thing. Again. He’d meant it as a compliment but his words had definitely cast a shadow across those blue eyes of hers. Blue eyes he’d grown awfully fond of seeing brighten when they rested on him.

  “I can assure you, Oliver, that the people of St. Bryar are happy to have what little we can offer. The alternative would cost them a lot more than loose change.”

  “Go on.”

  From the look on her face, she was hardly asking for his permission to continue. His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. It was almost worth annoying her just to enjoy the myriad expressions that lovely face of hers could morph into. All of them, no matter how cross, featured those lovely, deep red lips of hers. Zwerp! Focus. The woman was trying to make a point.

  “For starters, just think of the fuel it costs them to get to the nearest town. That’s a forty-mile-odd round trip. Or if they have to go all the way to the city—that’s over ninety miles’ round trip on quite a few single-track lanes. There and back for a pensioner is a lot of time and money.”