Doctor...to Duchess?

by Annie O'Neil

  “Good point, but what about the flipside? An estate without an obvious income supporting a cottage hospital? Where’s the return in that?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Julia stared at him incredulously.

  “Wait. That didn’t come out exactly how I meant it.”

  “Or maybe it did.”

  “No. Be reasonable, Julia. I’d hardly have donated the last ten years of my life to helping people in conflict zones if I didn’t see the value of medicine.”

  “But you don’t seem to see the value of it here.”

  “That’s not fair. What about the people overseas?”

  “What about the people here? Right here in your hometown?” She tamped a finger down on the desk.

  “I’m not saying they shouldn’t have medical care.”

  “Then what exactly are you saying? That Dr. Carney should spend his final days in a hospice too far away for his friends to visit regularly? That Elaine Duncan lose a day’s wages to get a simple mole removed when she’s got two children to care for? That Arthur close up his shop for half a day or more?”

  “I don’t know the answer. Not off the top of my head.”

  “Then why are you hiding out down here doing checkups with me when you could be going through the books with your father like you said you would?”

  Because I like it here. With you.

  The screech of the iron gate at the front of the clinic put an abrupt halt to his thoughts.

  “This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”

  “When is a more appropriate time?” Julia’s stance was solid. For a woman a good head shorter than him, she sure had presence.

  “Tonight.” He held her gaze steadily, waiting for her to waver.

  “Great.”

  No wavering.

  “Time?”

  “Seven. I’ll cook.”

  Julia’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “You don’t fancy Clara’s cooking, then?”

  “Yes, but we have this odd custom called a day off.” He tipped his chin to the side and teased a smile out of her.

  “So we’ll be eating lemon drizzle cake then?” She giggled.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Julia.”

  The front door opened and a patient walked in.

  “Go on—get out of here and let me do good.” She shooed him down the corridor as she ushered her patient into the exam room.

  Oliver felt a smile forming. She was already good.

  Very good. He slipped out the back of the clinic after a quick farewell wave to Dr. Carney. Yet another person who was lucky to have her in his life. Something told him that, no matter how many times he went over the books, he’d come up with the same conclusion: Julia was the one who added value to things here, not the paltry stipend the estate had the clinic on. She was an intelligent, fun, spirited, life-charged, passionate doctor who ticked all of his boxes—including “wrong place” and “wrong time.”

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you did all of this in an hour!” Julia ogled the plate Oliver placed in front of her, stopping just short of clapping her hands. Steamed coconut rice, a white-miso eggplant dish with a sprinkle of black sesame seeds, glossy bok-choi and thick slices of soy-glazed pork tenderloin. It looked amazing.

  “We don’t exactly have a Chinese takeaway round here and this is how I sate my desire. Chopsticks?” Oliver brandished a pair of silver-tipped bamboo chopsticks for her to inspect.

  “Easier than a fork and knife!” Julia quipped, waving her bad hand in the air, hoping it hid the fact she abruptly crossed her legs at the mention of “desire.” How could eyes be so green? Or cooking skills so sexy? Too bad her brain was in direct conflict with her body’s response to Oliver. This was, after all, meant to be a meeting of the minds in regards to the clinic. She needed to be steeling herself, not melting at his prowess with a wok. Neutral territory, please. Keep it neutral!

  “Will your father not be joining us?”

  “Sorry, no. He sends his apologies. The spiced delights of the Far East aren’t really up his alley.” Oliver sat opposite her at the large wooden kitchen table. “He had a bowl of soup and some of Clara’s bread earlier and thought he’d turn in early. He’ll join us tomorrow if you’re happy with that.”

  “Delighted.” Julia replied honestly. “Your father is fascinating. I’ve had such a great time hearing all of his stories about this place. The ‘olden days’ when the house was transformed into a hospital for soldiers in World War II...” She knew it was a leading statement but she might as well grab the bull by the horns.

  “It’s a shame the ‘olden days’ aren’t like modern times,” Oliver parried.

  “In what way?”

  “Pragmatic. Sensible. Forward-thinking.”

  “That’s interesting. Those are words I’d easily apply to the olden days. Add to that list generous, community-minded, caring...” Julia retorted sharply. She stabbed a bit of eggplant with her chopstick and popped it in her mouth. Just as quickly the piece came flying out again.

  “Hot, hot, hot, hot!”

  “What a relief,” Oliver replied drily. “I thought it might have been my cooking.”

  “Apologies,” Julia muttered into her serviette. “That wasn’t very ladylike of me.” Understatement of the year!

  “Not to worry,” Oliver said with a smile. “Plenty else is.”

  Julia felt her cheeks flush. If catching her off-guard with compliments was his method of disarming her, it was definitely working.

  Taking care to blow on her food before taking another bite, and then another, Julia began to eat with true relish. “This is really delicious. You know your stuff.”

  “I spent a bit of time in China.”

  “Cooking school?” She guffawed at the thought—Oliver in an apron. Then again...just an apron...

  “Hardly.” He gave her a “you should know better” look. “Working.”

  Of course. What else did Oliver Wyatt do but work on other people’s causes? Anywhere But Here. That seemed to be his motto.

  “There are a lot of isolated communities out there and when an epidemic hits—SARS, for example—they are the ones to suffer most. We fly out and bring medical supplies and extra pairs of hands in exchange for training.”

  “Training for what?”

  “Acupuncture, herbal remedies—that sort of thing. The Chinese are great with preventative medicine in the form of what they eat—the exercise they take. A lot of the communities I’ve worked in just don’t have the resources to pay for Western medicines. Any techniques we can bring to their practitioners that help keep costs down help enormously.”

  “So what would you recommend for me?”

  “You?” It was Oliver’s time to look surprised.

  “Sure. I work in a clinic with limited means and a community to serve. Anything you would recommend I could do to keep costs down?”

  Oliver put down his chopsticks and folded his serviette on the table in a definitive gesture. Whoops. Looked like she’d brought the chatty atmosphere to a close.

  Oliver looked her directly in the eye. “What you’re doing here is amazing, but there’s no chance one or a hundred muddy fun runs could raise the money to buy the building from the estate, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

  Gulp!

  “How’d you know?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Not in the strictest sense of the word.” Her stomach clenched in a tight ball.

  “I saw your grant application forms,” he explained. “And I don’t think you’ve got the right angle for what most of those groups are looking to fund.”

  He cleared his throat as if to continue, but Julia dove in. It was “now or never” time.

  “I get it, Oliver. You’ve seen the big wide world out there and want to solve all of its problems. But have you stopped—for a moment—to think about all of the people right here in St. Bryar who you’ll be letting down? People who’ve lived here and worked here for gene
rations? I can’t believe how selfish a decision you’re making!”

  “Selfish? Seriously? You think I’m selfish for wanting to help women and children caught up in a war they having nothing to do with?”

  Julia felt as though a plug had been pulled out of her. No. She shook her head; she didn’t think that at all.

  “I’m sorry, Oliver.” Tears began to form a queue in her eyes. The first few fell in an orderly fashion, then there was a sudden scramble for the front and she felt her cheeks burn with a flood of grief.

  “This is the exact same fight I had with my husband the day he was killed and I promised never to do it again.”

  “Do what?” Oliver reached across the table, gently taking hold of her hand.

  “Ask someone to give up their dream for mine.”

  Their eyes met and, in an instant, any anger Julia had felt toward Oliver disappeared. At the end of the day he was exactly the same as her—someone struggling to find their place in the world.

  He released her hand and drew a finger along the curve of her cheek. More than anything she wanted to press into his hand as she had the other day. Feel his touch.

  “Do you want to know why I don’t—can’t—stay here?”

  She nodded, hoping it would conceal the bitter taste rising in her throat. At last. At last she was getting to the heart of the matter—his heart.

  “This place, this house, these grounds—all of it—they’re stuck in a time and place that doesn’t exist anymore. It won’t take to the change you’re so eager to impose on it. No matter what anyone thinks or dreams or tries to do, this place is stuck in the past. A past I have no interest in living.”

  Julia sighed in frustration. This was hardly the truth she’d been promised. “That sounds like claptrap to me. Your father hardly seems to cling to the past. He approved the race in the moat, for one. Not to mention the fact he hired me! I can’t imagine he would’ve done that if his whole plan was to keep things as is.”

  “My father was filling a void.”

  The words cut straight through her. Was that how he saw her? As a void-filler?

  She fought the sour taste of bile rising again. His words didn’t sit right. This was a man lashing out against something much bigger than her.

  A low moan escaped his lips as he scrubbed his hands across his face. “Do you see what being here does to me? I’m not a man who says things like that! Please believe me. Things would’ve been so different for me—for you as well—if—”

  “If what?” She could hardly breathe. What could have hurt him so deeply?

  “If I had been different.”

  What? Now he was driving her round the bend.

  “Different how? When you’re not being a jerk you seem like a wonderful man to me.”

  Oliver laughed and shook his head. “What I’m trying to say—very badly—is that Bryar Estate needs someone at its helm. Someone who wants to be the Duke of Breckonshire. Or the Duchess, for that matter. You’d be great at it—but it’s never been the job for me.”

  “It’s true.” Julia nodded sagely. “You’d be a terrible duchess.”

  Oliver laughed again, the atmosphere between them softening to something more familiar, more relaxed. “You know what I mean. I’m not duke material.”

  “Says who?” Julia couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. “You’re smart, obviously passionate about medicine, which easily translates into people. Despite your very valiant efforts to appear aloof, I can tell you are genuinely interested in the people of St. Bryar and their welfare. What more does a duke need to be?”

  “Some people are born to fulfill a destiny, Julia. Mine simply isn’t here.”

  “What exactly do you think will happen to you when you inherit your title, Oliver? That you’ll turn into some sort of dimwitted fop or a miserly ogre? Look around you! Your father is a wonderfully kind man. I don’t think the apple fell too far from the tree on that front.”

  Oliver’s ramrod-straight posture softened a smidgen.

  “My father was never the problem.”

  Ah.

  “So who was?”

  “My mother.”

  “But she sent you all those cakes!”

  Oliver gave a hollow laugh and nodded.

  “Yes. She sent me cake.” Oliver looked her in the eye and for the first time she saw a hollowness in them, as if he’d frozen any feeling for his mother straight out of his heart.

  “You two didn’t see eye to eye?”

  Oliver’s sharp laugh reverberated off the stone walls of the kitchen. “That’s one way to put it. Suffice it to say, once Alexander was gone I was never going to be able to put a foot right.”

  “Who was Alexander?”

  “My older brother.”

  “You have an older brother?”

  “Had.”

  “Oh, Oliver. I didn’t know.” Julia felt a flash of understanding snap through her. Had his mother been so consumed by grief at the loss of one son, she’d lost sight of the one she still had? A son who was also grieving for his older brother? It was heartbreaking. She knew as well as anyone, no matter how old you were, you always wanted to please your parents. And Oliver was no different.

  She could have protested. Could have told him dukes and earls and even kings came in all shapes and sizes. It was about leadership. And a vision. Both things he obviously had in spades.

  She twiddled her chopsticks through the remains of her supper, trying to think of the right thing to say.

  One look at the storm clouds in his eyes told her she should back off. Oliver was obviously wrestling with his past. But it seemed at odds with the story he’d told her. His mother had hardly tethered him here, so she couldn’t have been that intent on pinning him to a lifestyle he didn’t want.

  After Matt had died she’d wanted her children close—so very close. When they had come to her and said they’d like to go to music school, she’d realized she was the only thing standing in the way of their dreams. Stifling her children so she could immerse herself in grief? It just wasn’t an option. Had Oliver’s mother come to the same conclusion?

  She watched Oliver play with the few grains of rice remaining on his plate and suddenly saw her own situation a bit more clearly. Maybe she hadn’t been as “freewheeling” as she’d given herself credit for. By choosing an isolated village, perhaps she had shut herself off from fully healing—from participating in the wider world, as her children were. Was this whole discussion they were having just a case of the pot and the kettle calling each other out?

  Where she was proactively hiding from her grief, he was running away at high speed. Each of them misguidedly hoping for some sort of peace.

  “I’m sorry, Oliver.”

  “For what?” He looked up, as if surprised to see her there at all.

  “For your loss. I am truly sorry.”

  “Not to worry.” He answered shortly. “It was a long time ago.”

  “I know—but time doesn’t always change things, does it? Look.” She pushed herself away from the table. “I am going to go to bed. Thank you very much for the lovely dinner—I’m sorry if I spoiled it by probing too much. I always was too nosy.”

  “Not to worry,” Oliver repeated, suddenly fighting the urge to share everything. To share how lonely being at Bryar Estate made him feel. How the weight of expectation suffocated him. How it seemed, no matter how much good he’d done in the world, he would never achieve what his mother wanted. How could he? He could never bring Alexander back and that was the only thing that would have made her happy.

  “Whatever you decide to do here—with the estate—I’m sure it will be for the best.”

  “I doubt reverse psychology is going to work on me, Dr. MacKenzie.”

  Her lips pulled back into a brilliant smile and she laughed. “You give me too much credit. I was just trying to see things from your perspective and, the truth is, no one likes change. Few people are brave enough to see it through. Maybe this is one of those
scenarios where you are the only one who can see the wood for the trees.”

  Had kismet put her here to have it out with his demons? Was he wrong to want to shut the door on the past instead of taking a fresh look at things? He shook away the thought. Mumbo-jumbo. Facts were facts. He didn’t want to live here. That was what it boiled down to.

  “You’re right, Julia.”

  “About change?”

  “About bedtime.” He nodded toward the flagstone stairwell. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Oliver felt as if all the life was being sucked out of the room as she left.

  He’d just summarily dismissed the one person he had ever come close to opening his heart to. The one person who saw nothing but hope and possibility in a place he saw nothing but dead ends. A dull ache thumped through his veins. Would his mother have been proud? At long last, he was beginning to behave like an aristocrat.

  “Julia!” He called after her receding figure as he took the steps two at a time.

  “Yes?” She turned to him, cheeks flushed with emotion, eyes alight with curiosity. Expectation?

  A rush of desire washed through him. Every pore in his body wanted her. Before he could stop himself, he slid his fingers along her jawline and into her hair. His lips met hers in a heated, fiery explosion of desire. By the way she responded to him, to his touch, he could tell she wanted him, too. He moved a hand to the base of her neck as the other slid down her spine to the small of her back. A small moan of pleasure left her lips as he rained kisses along her neck. He physically ached to be closer, more intimate.

  “Stop. Please.” He felt Julia push at his chest, her words completely at odds with the sensations he was experiencing.

  He pulled back, still holding her, not wanting to let go. “Why?”

  “I can’t. Not with things so— Not until you decide what you want to do.”

  “Don’t you want to be together? Tell me you don’t want me.”

  Her hands slid down his chest and she shook her head sadly.

  “I can’t.” She looked up into his eyes. “Not unless you’re going to stay.”

  Oliver let his hands drop from her hips. He couldn’t promise that. Not now. Not yet. She must’ve seen the answer in his eyes as, before he could protest further, she turned and ran the rest of the way up the stairs to her room and very solidly closed the door.