Considering Martin’s cock had hardened to steel, the moment Monique placed the warmth of her hand on his arm, it promised to be a long and excruciating dinner for him.
Chapter 4
Monique felt even more uncomfortable in the handsome doctor’s company once she was seated beside him at the long and formal dinner table.
If Angelique Sinclair knew the truth about her, then Monique had no doubt the other woman would immediately ask her to leave and never darken her doorstep again.
As for the duke’s reaction…
A brief glance down the table showed the Duke of Stonewell’s glance was fixed on her in brooding contemplation, before his attention was diverted by something his wife said to him.
Monique breathed a little easier once released from that icy-blue stare.
“Are you taking medication for the pain? You should not drink the wine if you are,” Martin Easton explained as a footmen hovered behind them waiting to pour wine into their glasses.
“I am no longer in enough pain to necessitate I take medication for it.” Monique turned to smile at the footman, waiting until he had poured the wine into their glasses before resuming the conversation. “I appreciate the duchess’s concern, but I assure you, I am well on the mend and not in need of your medical attention. I shall very soon return to my life in London, in any case.”
“Which is?”
She blinked. “I do not see the point in answering that question when you and I shall never meet again after this evening.”
“I am merely endeavoring to make polite conversation.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” he echoed tightly. “For instance, is there a Mr. Dupre?”
“I should hardly be spending Christmas here if that were the case.”
“Surely that would depend upon whether or not it was a happy or unhappy marriage?”
“I am unmarried,” she snapped testily at his persistence. “As such, there is no Mr. Dupre. Nor has there ever been one, either in regard to my mother or myself,” she added with a bluntness she hoped would leave Martin Easton in no doubt that her mother had not been married to the man who had fathered her child.
The doctor’s mouth tilted upwards in a derisive smile. “Are you hoping that such information might shock me?”
“Does it?”
He showed even white teeth as his smile widened. “Not in the least.” He picked up his glass and took a sip of the white wine before adding. “My own mother was not married to my father. So, you see, we are both of us bastards,” he dismissed in a hard voice.
Monique’s challenging attitude was instantly deflated by that admission. She was also instantly filled with a curiosity to know more of that situation.
“Ralph is so excited about Christmas this year, I do believe he might expire from it,” Heather Smythe, Countess of Carlton, remarked indulgently to her husband in regard to their six-year-old son.
“We should make the most of that excitement while we can, love.” Maxim smiled ruefully. “All too soon, he will grow out of such a myth, and I do believe Christmas will lose some of its luster because of it.”
“Not if he were to soon have a brother or a sister as reason to continue that belief,” Heather spoke huskily.
Maxim gave her a sharp and searching glance. “Are you telling me…?”
“That we shall have another child come next summer?” Her own excitement was barely contained. “Yes, that is exactly what I am telling you, Maxim.”
“My God…” He breathed raggedly. “Are you well? Is the baby?” He lightly grasped her arms as he looked at her searchingly. “Do you need to—”
“We are both well, and I need nothing more than what I already have. You. Our son. Our future child and children. And good friends with whom to share our happiness.” She looked about the crowded and noisy table at the six married couples who had become her closest friends as well as Maxim’s.
“I… You…” Maxim was completely overwhelmed by the news for several seconds before releasing her to lift his fork to tap it on his wineglass in order to gain the attention of those friends. He rose to his feet. “Please raise your glasses and drink a toast to my beautiful wife, who has just told me we are to become parents again next summer.” Heather was flushed with happiness when he looked down at her. “I love you, Heather. You have been, are, and always will be the love of my life, and I am so very proud to be your husband and the father of our children.”
Monique felt the prick of tears in her eyes at the earl’s open declaration of feelings for his wife, raising her wineglass to join in the toast to the happy couple. The deep love they felt for each other shone clear and bright in their eyes as they accepted the congratulations of their friends. Several of the ladies had risen to give Heather Smythe an affectionate hug before resuming their seats.
The countess’s pregnancy had, unfortunately, diverted the attention from Monique’s curiosity regarding Martin Easton’s admission of illegitimacy, and it seemed crass in the extreme to return to it after the Earl of Carlton’s announcement of his wife’s legitimate pregnancy.
“Ask,” the doctor instructed harshly.
Monique gazed at him searchingly for several seconds, noting the hard glitter of those dark eyes and the tension of his jaw below thinned lips.
Indication that he would rather she did not ask?
Besides, questioning him regarding his parentage allowed for reciprocal questions as to her own. Questions Monique did not wish to answer either.
She glanced down at the plate of half-eaten food in front of him. “Are you enjoying the rabbit?”
The doctor stared at her for several seconds before his mouth tilted in a smile of appreciation for her obvious attempt at a diversion. “It is as superb as all the meals I have been served here.”
Monique picked up her utensils and resumed eating her own food, the noisy conversation having now resumed about the table. “You dine at Stonewell Park often?”
“Not often, no. But I attended the duchess several times this past year during her pregnancy with the Marquis of Langford. The duke and duchess were kind enough to invite me to dinner after each visit.”
Monique had met the duke and duchess’s almost-five-month-old son several times since arriving in Kent. He was an adorable and contented baby.
He was also a reminder of what Monique would never have. Her father might have been of the aristocracy but her illegitimacy precluded Monique being able to marry into that same elevated society. Marrying a man of the lower classes, a dockworker or factory worker, and producing a dozen children before dying in childbirth held little appeal for her either.
Neither fish nor fowl…
“The duchess tells me that you suffer with headaches.”
An irritated frown creased Monique’s brow. Martin Easton had a habit of asking unrelated questions and throwing her completely off balance in the process. Deliberately so? It was difficult to tell from the blandness of his expression.
“Occasionally, yes,” she answered noncommittally.
“To a degree they often debilitate you for several days.”
Monique bristled. “Megrims are not unusual in women.”
Martin Easton snorted. “But unlike many in my profession, I believe that there is invariably an underlying reason for them, other than female hysteria.” His top lip turned back with obvious contempt for that diagnosis.
“Such as?”
“It might be something as simple as an aversion to bright light, or as serious as a tumor in the brain.”
Monique carefully placed her knife and fork on her plate, having suddenly lost her appetite. “You do not attempt to pretty up your words, do you?”
Dark brows rose. “I see no point in doing so. The truth is the truth and therefore unchangeable. This is especially so in the medical profession.”
“And no doubt your reason for choosing it.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed tersely.
Monique did not believe
there was any “perhaps” about it. Even on so short an acquaintance, she knew Martin Easton to be a precise and truthful gentleman. Even if that truth might hurt on occasion.
“But I would need to examine you in order to determine the exact reason for your own migraines,” he added crisply.
She eyed him mockingly. “So we are once again back to the necessity for you to examine me.”
“From a purely professional point of view, of course.”
Her eyes widened. “I do not believe I said or implied it was for any other reason.”
Much as Martin would like to believe his interest was only on a professional level, he knew that where this young woman was concerned, it would not be an accurate claim. Having now met and spoken with Monique, he found her to be not only beautiful, but also strong and determined. Inwardly, he could not deny the attraction he felt toward her. An attraction that, if she was to become his patient, could never become anything more than that.
He straightened. “Would you prefer to come to my surgery tomorrow or for me to call upon you here?”
“I would prefer we do neither of those things,” she snapped. “But as the duchess, and you, seem so determined… I would enjoy a walk into town in the morning,” she added briskly. “Would eleven o’clock suit?”
He nodded. “There is snow on the ground. I could send my carriage for you?”
“As I said, I would enjoy the walk.”
“Very well,” he agreed tightly. “I do not have a nurse, but my housekeeper will be happy to act as chaperone during the examination.”
Monique eyed him mockingly. “I doubt that will be necessary. You do not appear to be the type of gentleman to suddenly become so overcome with lust for a woman, you would seduce her in your own surgery,” she dismissed as he raised questioning brows.
Ordinarily, Martin would agree with her, but for some reason, the longer he spent in Monique’s company, the more he was attracted to her. If not for the fall of the tablecloth across his thighs, the arousal tenting the front of his breeches would be clearly evident. “Oh? Then what type of gentleman do I seem to you?”
She laughed softly. “I am not sure I should answer that.”
He eyed her quizzically. “I am unsure how to interpret that remark.”
“As you should be,” she drawled enigmatically.
“Perhaps we might discuss it in greater detail tomorrow?”
Her lashes lowered over those expressive eyes. “Perhaps.”
Martin was aware he had been stepping over the doctor-patient line for some time by his personal remarks to Monique.
Yet somehow, he could not bring himself to care.
Chapter 5
As predicted, the air was both crisp and cold when Monique walked to the town the following morning. It was also invigorating after days of being confined to the house. Her choice, of course, because Angelique Sinclair had invited her to go outside with her yesterday to collect the greenery that now decorated the inside of Stonewell Park. An invitation Monique had refused.
Despite the duke’s initial assistance in removing her from the prison and the warmth the duke and duchess had both shown to her since, Monique believed it best not to become too immersed in their lives. She would be returning to London soon, and in all likelihood would never see either of them again.
Dr. Easton’s house was larger than she had expected it to be, comprising three substantial floors surrounded by a sizeable garden and causing Monique to hesitate in opening the gate leading to the front door. Despite Martin Easton’s admission of being as illegitimate as she was, his house indicated he possessed wealth to go along with that arrogance in his manner and bearing.
Her heart gave a flutter at the thought of seeing and being with the doctor again. Indeed, she had found herself thinking of Martin Easton far too much for comfort since the two of them parted after dinner the previous evening, when Monique made her excuses and went to her bedchamber. There was something compelling about the darkness of the doctor’s eyes, and thoughts of his tall and muscular body caused fluttering sensations in parts of her own body, namely her breasts and between her thighs.
“Do you eventually intend to come inside or to continue to stand out here in the cold all day?”
He was also one of the most infuriatingly blunt gentlemen she had ever met, Monique acknowledged crossly as she glared down the pathway to where Martin Easton stood in the open doorway of his house, one arrogant eyebrow raised in mocking query.
She drew in a deep breath before unfastening and pushing open the garden gate and stepping forward.
“I’m not sure building a snowman is a good idea in your condition, Pru,” Titus Covington, Viscount Romney, admonished his heavily pregnant wife.
“Nonsense,” she dismissed briskly as she continued to roll the huge snowball that would comprise the snowman’s head. “Just think, if the exertion does bring my labor pains, then perhaps we shall have Christmas Day twins!”
“Do not joke about such things.” Titus had initially been worried enough at the thought of Pru giving birth to one baby, let alone the two the doctor had now confirmed Pru carried in her belly. The thought of ever losing his beautiful and opinionated wife, for any reason, was unacceptable. “I said we should not have traveled so close to your due time.” The babies were predicted to be born in four weeks’ time.
“And I assured you,” Pru landed a kiss on the coolness of his scarred cheek, “that giving birth is a perfectly natural function for women.” She kissed him on the lips. “That they are doing so every minute of every day.” She lingered over the third kiss.
Titus’s arms no longer met about his wife’s expanded width, but he pulled her as close against him as he was able. “Some of those women do not survive the experience,” he reminded worriedly. “I would not know how to go on living without you, Pru.”
“I am perfectly well, and so filled with an excess of energy, I believe I could clean Stonewell Park from top to bottom and still have energy enough to ravish you in our bed. Not that Stonewell Park needs cleaning,” she added hastily. “I merely used that as an illustration of how well I am feeling.”
Titus smiled at her indulgently. “There is no doubting pregnancy suits you, my love.”
Her eyes glowed as she looked up at him. “You are only saying that because my current sexual appetite means we are now making love even more than we did before the pregnancy, which I truly did not believe to be possible,” she added with a laugh.
He grinned. “That is one of the benefits, I must admit.” He sobered. “But that still does not alter the fact that it is bitterly cold out here and you are heavy with our children.”
“I am informed that in some cultures, the women give birth in the fields and then carry on working.”
“Well, we are not of that culture, and my wife will give birth in a bed, attended by a doctor and midwife, after which she will remain there for as long as the doctor says she must!”
Pru cuddled closer against him. “Perhaps we should go to our bedchamber? We could rest for a while and finish the snowman later…”
“An excellent idea.” Titus lifted her into his arms before striding back toward the house. “I will massage your back for you in the way that you like me to.”
Pru looked up at him from beneath silky lashes. “I would far rather you massaged my front.”
“Oh, I shall do that too,” he assured gruffly.
“Good.” Pru’s arms moved up about his shoulders, and she snuggled close to his chest to begin kissing the sensitive column of her husband’s throat.
She was exactly where she wished to be.
“Thank you.” Monique smiled at Martin Easton’s housekeeper once she had taken her borrowed cloak and bonnet.
Not wishing to return to her lodgings, knowing the duchess would more than likely insist on going with her, Monique had not brought any of her own clothes to Kent with her. She had necessarily fallen back on the continued kindness of the Duchess of Stonewel
l to provide her with suitable clothing from her own considerable wardrobe.
Today, she was wearing a gown of dark blue velvet. It was long-sleeved and figure hugging, Monique having adjusted the fit to her more slender figure.
“Come through to the surgery,” the doctor invited briskly. “Mrs. Hodges—”
“Need not trouble herself on my behalf when I shall not be staying long.” Monique smiled at the middle-aged woman.
Martin held his own counsel as to how long Monique Dupre would be here, which, in his opinion, would be of the duration he chose for it to be. “I am sure Mrs. Hodges is grateful for your consideration. She is currently packing to spend Christmas with her daughter in Hampshire.”
Monique’s brows rose. “You are spending Christmas here alone?”
“I am always alone. Through choice,” he added harshly as Monique frowned.
“Of course,” she acknowledged dryly.
He pointedly held the door open to his surgery, an invitation Monique took advantage of as she swept past him.
It was a room he was rather proud of. Having once been the formal sitting room of Rochester House, the walls were now painted white, with a formal desk and chair against one wall, another for a patient to sit in opposite. There was also a chaise upon which he might examine his patient, along with a metal table in the center of the room that might be wiped down if an injury should be a particularly bloody one. A huge dresser comprising of two cupboards and a dozen or so drawers contained all the instruments necessary for those examinations, along with dressings of all sizes and shapes. Martin never knew what injury he might be faced with in this small-town practice that included the surrounding countryside.
It was a slower pace of life he welcomed after his years as a surgeon in Wellington’s army.
He caught a hint of Monique’s perfume as she swished past him, a heady combination of the tang of citrus, mint, and spring flowers.
Wicked Christmas (Regency Sinners 8) Page 3