Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

“Well, in the world in which I live, respect is earned by a man’s contributions. I choose to respect men whose work has the potential to change the lives of thousands of people for the better. That is the sort of man I would be.”

  She tossed her head in disbelief, though an unforeseen part of her stirred in admiration. What would it be like to so passionately express an opinion about something other than a stern dislike of the color pink? But she was seized by the moment now, and there was no slowing her tongue. “You flit from town house to town house, carrying a leather bag, Daniel,” she pointed out. “How is that changing the lives of thousands?”

  He stilled, and to Clare’s mind it was a dangerous sort of stillness, an unsheathing of claws before the spring of a predator. “There is more to me than you know. And I promise you, there are more rewarding and scintillating aspects to my life than wrapping the ankles of spoiled, fashionable young ladies.”

  She gasped at the insult, even as she threw herself into the pleasure of a well-voiced argument, the sort she was prohibited from indulging in on a ballroom floor. Heaven knew she hadn’t felt this wild thrumming in her veins during Mr. Alban’s placid visit, and it was unnerving to realize how satisfying her reckless pulse felt.

  “Well, scintillating or no, you have no right to belittle my interest in anyone, much less someone who could secure my future the way Mr. Alban can.” She pressed her point home through the tip of a nail, tapping it against his distracting chest. “You are my doctor, Dr. Merial, not my judge and jury. How I choose to comport myself with a suitor is none of your business.”

  His hand snaked up to capture her finger in its punishing grip. “Isn’t it?” He hovered above her, something undefinable radiating off him like heat from the sun.

  And then his lips descended on hers.

  SURPRISE WAS A funny human emotion.

  It could trigger a range of reflexes, from desperate flight to violent resistance, depending on the patient in question. In Clare, it appeared to pin her frozen, helpless as a fledgling bird upon its first, unplanned exit from a nest.

  The unforeseen kiss had surprised him as well. He could own this as a mistake he should not have made. The oath he’d taken—the oath he lived by—forbade this degree of interaction with his patients, in no uncertain terms.

  But once his tenuous control had snapped, there was no going back.

  It was clear she’d never been kissed before. She had no idea what to do with lips or tongues. No doubt her mouth had opened to lodge a protest, not to invite him in, but his own roiling emotions drove him on.

  He took disgraceful advantage of her vulnerability, diving into her open mouth in a manner that should have appalled them both. He gave her no room for air, no room for thought. Dimly, he realized his kiss was too fierce, too possessive, to be inflicted on someone so inexperienced. He held her fast in his grip, her fingers twisting a mute protest beneath the strength in his hands. He’d not even examined her ankle before succumbing to madness.

  Then again, it hadn’t been planned, and he was damned if he knew how to script it better.

  She was a jarring contrast in tastes and textures: tart mouth and sweet breath, soft curves and rigid spine. He forced himself to loosen his grip on her hand, but once it was free, his palm displayed a mind of its own and wandered down the whale-bone-sculpted length of her torso, following its own compass until it reached the curve of her hip.

  If he still held any claim to the title of gentleman, he’d end this. Step back, apologize, and hand her back her dignity with a fumbled apology. He reluctantly lifted his hands from her body to cup her face, a far safer prospect than where they wanted to go.

  But as if a string had snapped in mid-pluck, she began to struggle against him. She untangled herself with a hard shove, and then she stood heaving, her eyes flashing.

  He spread his hands. “Clare—”

  The slap caught him out of nowhere. It was a powerful blow, impossible to have come from such a small, frail creature. “Don’t apologize,” she hissed, eyes flashing. She took a step away. “There is nothing you can say to make this right.”

  Daniel blinked against the sting on his cheek. Apologize? He hadn’t been about to do anything of the sort. Because while he could regret the snapping anger in her eyes, he could not bring himself to regret the lingering taste of her on his lips. An apology would be one of the very falsehoods he’d told her he wouldn’t give her.

  Instead, he gave her the truth. “I would wager Alban doesn’t kiss you like that.”

  She cringed.

  He knew it wasn’t fair. He didn’t specifically dislike Alban—he didn’t know him well enough to inform an opinion. Outwardly, there was nothing at all objectionable about him, except that Daniel saw no spark of chemistry at all between Clare and her wealthy beau. He’d observed mild, superficial banter. A passionless exchange.

  And he foresaw a predictable, unhappy marriage.

  “My association with Mr. Alban is none of your business.” She pressed two fingers against her kiss-swollen lips, and then turned and sat down heavily on the sofa, refusing to look at him. There was no hope of a ladylike blush in the aftermath of such a kiss: her face was close to crimson, nearly the color of her dress. “I think you’d better take your leave now, Dr. Merial.”

  He regarded her a long, silent moment. “He doesn’t make you happy, Clare. That, more than anything else, should tell you why he’s a poor match for you.”

  She lifted her chin, though her red cheeks still screamed an inner embarrassment. “He is a duke’s heir. I could certainly find myself less happy.”

  Daniel’s gaze landed on the delicate hollow at the base of her throat where he imagined a pulse beat steadily. Possibly frantically, if his own was used as a reasonable comparison. He felt off-balance, as though his vertebrae had come unhinged. It wasn’t only the thought that Clare might warm the bed and home of another man, that she would belong to someone else, body and soul.

  It was that she wouldn’t belong to him.

  He had no right to think of her this way. She was supposed to be nothing more than a patient, a source of potential income, though he’d struggled from the first to separate his emotions from his professional actions where this woman was concerned. He should have turned her over to the inept care of Dr. Bashings from the start and saved them both the trouble of this conversation, which he could see now had been practically preordained.

  He’d thought, in the early days of their acquaintance, his inexplicable attraction to her was mere biology, but it wasn’t only his reproductive urges telling him to gather her in his arms again and do whatever it took to convince her of his regard. His bloody heart wanted this woman, and that was an organ he couldn’t dismiss so easily.

  “Clare. You must know that titles and fortunes do not define happiness,” he said gruffly, knowing it was the truth.

  But she only lifted her chin higher. “Neither do unwelcome kisses.”

  Daniel picked up his bag. “Don’t you realize what you’d be giving up by marrying Mr. Alban?” he asked quietly, a last parting shot. “What about love? Affection?”

  “What do you know of love?” she scoffed, though he imagined he heard a tremor in her words. “You steal kisses from practical strangers. That isn’t affection, it’s theft. Love is something that grows between two people with time.”

  Daniel shook his head, thinking back on his own parents’ example. He knew something of love, what it could give, what it could cost. “I am afraid your potential for happiness will be sorely tried with those expectations. Think of your parents, Clare. If your mother was happy in her own marriage, would she arrange liaisons with strangers in darkened libraries?”

  She choked on a protest, and he knew then he’d crossed an irrevocable line—possibly one more far-reaching than the kiss.

  “Go.” Her hazel eyes were now wide with fury, and something that might have been fear. “I neither require your guidance nor welcome your opinion on any matter related to my fut
ure or my family.” She gestured fiercely to the door. “Good day, Dr. Merial. We won’t be needing your services again.”

  May 16, 1848

  Dear Diary,

  I cannot believe I ever thought Daniel Dr. Merial a gentleman.

  Geoffrey and Lucy were sorely put out to have missed him, although I confess, I could not find the courage to tell them why he left so quickly, or that he would not be returning. But what else was I to have done? I have entrusted my brother’s moral character to the care of a scoundrel, and heaven only knows how much damage has been done. The gall of the man is endless, lecturing me on what makes a proper marriage and then kissing me in so barbaric a fashion. It was an unconscionable breach of trust.

  And worse, it is a scene I cannot stop replaying in my mind.

  Try as I might, I cannot imagine suffering such a disturbing kiss from Mr. Alban.

  Which, of course, only proves why he is the right choice.

  Chapter 13

  You’ve scarcely touched your plate tonight, Clare. Is anything amiss?”

  Clare stared down at her rosemary lamb, perfectly rare and delicately seasoned. Her stomach growled at the sight, but she refused to reach for her fork.

  “I am just a bit tired, Mother.” It was not a complete untruth. She was tired, though she’d done nothing more strenuous than fume in the two days since Daniel’s departure. The tenderness of her lips had disappeared, but her mind kept reeling in new and dangerous directions.

  She’d never imagined her first kiss would be so memorable.

  Or so disturbing.

  Despite her full plate, there was also the gnawing ache of her growing hunger to contend with, although her corset was helpfully attempting to counter the discomfort by burrowing into her ribs. It was a reminder that the nearly two weeks of inactivity—as well as the lamentable marzipan “prescription”—had endangered her wardrobe’s carefully measured fit. She needed to dazzle Mr. Alban at Saturday’s musicale, and necessity was keeping her fork a safe distance from her mouth. She feared it was already too late, though, and had already suffered through one humiliating visit from the modiste’s assistant.

  “Well, do stop frowning, dear.” Her mother lifted her glass of Madeira and took a long draught. “’Tis bad for your complexion.”

  Clare shifted in her chair, as much against the persistent pinch of her corset as her mother’s admonishment. She hadn’t realized she was frowning, but given that yesterday’s unwelcome kiss was occupying an insistent place in her mind, she supposed it was inevitable.

  Her gaze snagged on her mother’s glass. A thought scraped against the distraction of the kiss. When had Mother started having her glass of Madeira during dinner, instead of after, as was her usual habit? And was the evening meal usually this uncomfortable? Or was it only that she was more aware of it tonight? Unlike their family breakfasts with Father, which were easy, informal affairs, Mother always insisted they dress for dinner. The nightly ritual was imbued with an almost painful amount of formality, requiring Clare and her siblings to sit through at least five courses. She had long wondered whom her mother insisted they dress for. Was it an attempt to persuade their father to return home?

  If so, it seemed her methods were poorly placed, because increasingly, Father took his meals at his club, claiming such ceremony worsened his dyspepsia.

  “You look a bit flushed.” Her mother inclined her head as she took another sip. “Are you feverish? Is your ankle festering? Perhaps we should ask Dr. Merial to have a more thorough look at you.”

  “No.” Clare jumped guiltily, knocking her fork from the plate to the floor. She waved away the footman who attempted to bring her another.

  Her waistline was far safer with her fork on the carpet.

  “I told Dr. Merial on Tuesday that we will no longer require his services.”

  Her pronouncement sent a ripple of silence down the long table. Cutlery ceased to clink against the gilt-edged china. The rustling of uncomfortable fabric stilled. It was the sort of silence that demanded an explanation. But Clare couldn’t give full voice to the myriad reasons why never seeing the man again was an excellent idea for all of them. Explaining the kiss to her family would be disastrous.

  Not because anyone could possibly condone such behavior in a physician, but because she’d risk revealing her own conflicted feelings on the matter.

  “Shouldn’t that have been my decision?” Her mother frowned, setting her glass down on the table.

  Clare’s fingers curled over her napkin. “My ankle is now quite healed,” she insisted. “I am wearing my own shoes again, and walking without a limp. In fact, I’d thought to attend Lady Austerley’s musicale on Saturday. There is no reason to remain under a doctor’s continued care if I am well enough to go out.”

  “You’ve sent him away for good, then?” Lucy accused, her voice ominously low. “You told us Dr. Merial had only gone on to his next appointment.”

  Geoffrey gave more volume to his displeasure. “You’ve ruined everything!”

  Clare looked between her siblings. “I don’t see how I can be accused of ruining anything,” she protested. “Dr. Merial was not hired as a playmate for either of you.”

  Though, she could grudgingly admit he had made good headway in the matter of influencing some important changes in her siblings. Geoffrey was devoting every afternoon to vigorous study, and Lucy had even ordered a bath before dinner tonight. “I understand you like Dr. Merial a good deal,” she said haltingly, “but—”

  “We all like him a good deal.” Geoffrey’s voice took on an adolescent whine. “He’s fun to talk to, and he’s doing the most admirable work at St. Bart’s. He’s got me thinking that we all should be doing more to help others who are less fortunate. He’s encouraged me to study my Latin, in the event I decide to attend university.”

  “Please lower your voices,” their mother broke in. “You cannot attend university, Geoffrey.” She hiccuped, and raised a hand to her lips. “You will be a viscount, dear. Your future is already decided.”

  “I don’t recall being asked my opinion on the matter of whether I wished to be viscount,” Geoffrey retorted. His face turned red, though it had been over a week now since he’d reverted to such a juvenile display of temper. “Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.”

  The stars incline us, they do not bind us.

  Clare’s fingers clenched the edge of her seat. Normally, she would have been pleased to hear proof of her brother’s improving studies. But the phrasing smacked of an outside influence, and she felt a twinge of irritation. Such axioms—while encouraging from an academic standpoint—were crossing over into seditious territory for an eldest son.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Mother said, lifting her glass once again to her lips, “but if your father deigned to grace us with his presence once in a while, he might remind you of the fact that inheriting the title is scarcely something you can choose to ignore.” She drained her glass, then motioned for the footman to refill it.

  “Geoffrey . . .” Clare soothed, her thoughts pulled in ten directions, not the least of which was her mother’s interest in Madeira. “No one is saying you shouldn’t study Latin.”

  “You’ve just proven my point!” He leaped to his feet. “It isn’t about bloody Latin! Dr. Merial listens to me. He understands what I am saying when no one else in this house does.”

  Their mother frowned. “I blame your father for this outburst. He should be here, disciplining you, and instead he’s always . . .” Her voice wobbled. “. . . with her.”

  “Her?” Clare sucked in a startled breath. “Don’t you mean his club, Mother?”

  But her mother was now staring down at her lamb, as if it might somehow come to life and walk off her plate. Clare had no idea what to believe. She could not believe her father was the sort of man to take a mistress. But something was wrong. She’d never seen her mother so detached and self-absorbed.

  Although . . . perhaps she had. A certain dull edge in her
mother’s voice reminded Clare all too well of the way she had acted the night of Lady Austerley’s ball.

  Lucy threw her napkin down over her lamb. “This is a bloody mess.”

  “Did you say something, dear?” Mother barked.

  “The lamb.” Lucy smiled tightly. “It’s a bloody mess. I can’t eat it.”

  “Oh.” Another sip. “Perhaps you can ask the cook to send out some chicken, then.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Geoffrey has legitimate reasons to resent Dr. Merial’s undiscussed departure. As do I, quite frankly. Dr. Merial promised to take me on an outing of my choice, and I do not think it is fair of you to dismiss him before he keeps that promise.”

  “He did what?” Clare asked, incredulous.

  But Lucy was already turning to face their mother. “And as for chicken, I don’t eat meat, Mother. I haven’t for at least a month. If you’d rise before noon and take breakfast once in a while with us, you’d have been part of those conversations and realize it.” She paused, filling her lungs. “And perhaps, if you didn’t make us dress like dancing bears every night, Father would stay home long enough to take an occasional dinner with us.”

  Their mother swayed in her chair. Then she set down her half-emptied glass of Madeira and leaned forward across her plate, dragging her silk bodice through the remnants of her lamb. “I think you should both leave the table immediately. Without dessert,” she added, as if her children were still five years old with a sweet tooth that could be swayed by such threats.

  Geoffrey’s hand slammed down on the table, upending his plate and the remnants of his lamb in a soggy red mess on the white tablecloth. “Stuff the dessert!”

  “Geoffrey, please sit down,” Clare hissed beneath her breath. “And don’t shout at Mother. She’s . . . she’s not well.”

  But Geoffrey was too far gone to see that their normally immaculate mother was covered in lamb. “You should be threatening Clare, not us,” he declared hotly. “She’s the one who sent Dr. Merial away, for no other reason than the fact that she’s so stubborn. She’s lying, you know. She still limps when she thinks no one is watching. I’d like to see her waltz on that ankle. I bet she can’t make it more than halfway around a dance floor.”