Rock Hard Daddy: A Single Dad & A Virgin Romance

by Rye Hart

  “Yes, dearest,” said Lady Constance, putting down her embroidery. “But she does have pluck. You can see that she will not be intimidated by Richard’s ill humor.”

  “She’s likely to yell back at him,” the Earl said. “He will not fancy having a martinet, you know.”

  “He will not fancy having anyone at all, but what else is there to do?” She placed her hand upon her husband’s wrist. “What you have done, in employing Miss Lockwood, could give our son his life back. If he is angry at us now, will he not be grateful in the future?”

  “She did not guarantee her results,” the Earl reminded, wondering now if he had acted in haste. He was so eager to find a solution that perhaps he had been rash.

  “I find her honesty commendable,” Lady Constance defended. “Would you have been more satisfied if she had promised that Richard will ride to hounds again?”

  “No, no, that is true. Thank you, my dear. As always, you restore me to my sense. We shall welcome her into our home as Richard’s nursemaid, and we shall obey her instructions as she requires. I think we cannot place her in the servants’ quarters- “ He paused, the dilemma of how to treat an addition to the household who was neither below nor above the salt proving to be a quandary that he had not considered.

  “No,” Lady Constance said decisively. “She will breakfast in her room, and she will take her supper with Nanny in the nursery.” The nursery was of course empty of children, but Nanny had an honored place among the staff, waiting for the time when there would be a new generation of Penningtons for her to care for.

  “Capital! My dear, you are a treasure. There will be no additional inconvenience to the staff and she will not rise above her station.”

  “I shall see that Hobard befriends her.”

  “Hobard is a bit aloof,” the Earl said, although in truth he thought his wife’s lady made a proper dragon.

  “What other option do we have? They can sit together at church. It will be the ideal solution. You will see. They may become fast friends. I feel so much better, dearest, now that we have settled upon this solution for Richard. Will you tell him?”

  “I?” The Earl was taken aback at the thought of incurring his son’s reckless temper. “No, I shall introduce her to him and then she can take matters from there.”

  “You had better warn her about the ….. pistol.”

  “Yes, of course. I shall do so. Not that there is the slightest likelihood that Richard would ever do anything with it. As a former military officer, he naturally feels that his current incapacity renders him vulnerable and he wishes to be able to protect himself. That is all.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Constance agreed, busying herself again with her embroidery. “All the same, I shall be much relieved when she removes the pistol from his room.”

  No one had actually informed Miss Lockwood that it was to be her responsibility to divest her patient of his weapon, but the redoubtable young nurse was accustomed to undertaking those tasks which families found too emotionally troubling. The Pennington carriage fetched her from the inn where she had taken lodgings, and she arrived at Pennington Manor with two valises in her hands and a butterfly net under her arm.

  She was shown to her room by the footman who showed a lively interest in the net. “It’s late autumn, miss. You won’t be seeing many butterflies.”

  Miss Lockwood gave him a forthright smile. “It is not for me,” she explained in a whisper, as if she were sharing a confidence. “It is for Lord Richard.”

  “His Lordship isn’t up to catching butterflies, Miss,” the footman said, uncertain whether to pity the girl for her ignorance or scoff at her for her error.

  “Is he not?” Miss Lockwood asked, removing her gloves. “Perhaps not yet. Thank you for bringing up my belongings. What is your name?”

  “Louis, Miss.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to thank me, Miss. It’s not necessary.”

  “It is very necessary, Louis,” she replied. “Now, will you take me to meet with Lord Richard’s manservant?”

  “Miss? What you want to be meeting with him for?”

  “I must find out Lord Richard’s daily schedule. His manservant will know.”

  Louis was on the verge of telling Miss Lockwood that Lord Richard’s schedule consisted of being bathed and shaved by Rheims, dressed by Rheims, carried by Rheims into another room when his Lordship had a fancy to be elsewhere, which wasn’t very often, placed on the chamber pot by Rheims, and throughout the day, cursing and yelling at Rheims with never a word said in response. But something in Miss Lockwood’s eyes told him that his disclosures would not be welcome.

  Over tea at the servant’s table, he shared his thoughts with the staff. “Don’t know as I’ve ever seen anyone like her. Doesn’t look like she backs off of much.”

  “Is she pretty?” asked Nancy, the parlormaid.

  Louis considered. “She ain’t what you’d call fetching,” he said after some thought. “She’s got pretty eyes, though. Blue they are. And what I could see of her hair underneath her bonnet looked to be somewhere between red and brown.”

  “Russet,” suggested Mr. Lincoln, the butler, who normally would not have encouraged speculation about a new member of the household staff, but in this case, was curious himself.

  ‘I dunno, she’s dressed plainly, I can tell you that. No frills about her.”

  Mr. Lincoln was relieved at this. A servant who did not answer to him was likely to put on airs and he liked his domestic domain to run smoothly, with proper deference paid to him. Hobard was enough of a trial with her lady’s maid status exempting her from his authority. At least this new person knew to attire herself as befitted her station and not display any foolish aspirations to grandeur.

  In her room, Miss Lockwood would not have been surprised to learn that she was the subject of discussion among the servants. She was used to being an object of curiosity and not only among the household staff. Even her clients pondered her station. She was one of the few nurses at St. Anselm’s Hospital to have obtained formal training, but that was because her father, a physician, expected his daughter to answer to the highest medical standards if she intended to follow a career in healing. It had been useless for him to tell her that as an unmarried woman, she had no business taking care of male patients. She had told him that if he would not accept her at St. Anselm’s, she would go elsewhere where her work would be accepted. Her father had discovered that his daughter had medical abilities which deserved respect; if she were a man, he told her after he’d watched one of her patients respond to a treatment she had suggested, she would be an eminent physician.

  Although, as a nurse, she attended to whatever patients were assigned to her, she began to apply special efforts to those who suffered from the loss of sensation and movement. She researched the subject, begging her father to contact specialists in the area so that, through him, she could learn more. She had then begun to take on private patients. Her reputation had grown and doctors in England had begun to contact her regarding patients of their own. Her father, torn between fierce pride in her skill and anxiety that she was conducting herself in a manner destined to bring social isolation and criticism, had finally decided that he could only allow her to do what she would do anyway, with or without his support and blessing.

  Cressida Lockwood, at age twenty-four, had no marriage prospects, no social circle and none of the traditional feminine accomplishments, but what she did have was an indomitable will and a bewitching smile. She was very much like her late mother and Dr. Lockwood suspected that, had his wife lived, she would have wholeheartedly encouraged her daughter in her bold ambition, however unladylike it might have been regarded by others. The good doctor was surprised to learn that his daughter earned a good income from her treatments with private patients. He’d been aghast when he learned what she charged, until she explained to him that clients did not value what was easy to afford. Her rates affirmed her professional attributes.

  Cressida l
acked a husband to support her, but she had a respectable income of her own. She was in the process of purchasing a cottage of her own to live in, where she would be near to the hospital and yet independent. The conceit would be that her father was providing her with the residence, a fabrication which Cressida accepted with impatience. But her father insisted. Young women did not make their own way in the world, he cautioned her, and if her reputation suffered, so would her practice.

  Chapter Three

  Cressida accepted a tray in her room. Before she met with Rheims the valet and then her patient, she needed to be composed. Eating was an important part of emotional health, she believed and a warm meal on a cool day was imperative. She suspected that her patient’s eating habits were likely to be as out of sorts as his physical state. Patients who suffered from melancholy, seldom chose to realize that food was part of their healing.

  Before leaving her room, she consulted the journal that she used to record her notes on her various cases. She reviewed other patients who had suffered a similar injury to Lord Richard so that she could be sure she was fully versed in the circumstances.

  She met Rheims in the library. The valet, a middle-aged man who looked as if he could have used a good night’s rest, was plainly exhausted by his charge. His description of Lord Richard’s schedule was much as Louis had described it.

  “Does His Lordship engage in any sort of physical exercise?” she inquired. “Anything at all?”

  Rheims stared at her, less impudently than Louis had done, but with incredulity plain on his face.

  “No, ma’am, but he can’t walk.”

  “He has arms, has he not? They were not afflicted by the fall,” Cressida responded. “Does he have any interests? Painting, billiards, reading, anything at all?”

  “No, ma’am. Sometimes he’ll sit at the window and watch the horse that threw him.”

  “Does he?” Cressida’s smile made Rheims feel as if he had been rewarded for having accomplished some great achievement. “Very good,” she said, writing a note in her book. “What of his food? Does he eat?”

  “He won’t touch puddings, though Cook tries to tempt him with her best desserts. He used to quite enjoy them, before the accident that is.”

  So His Lordship feared gaining weight. That was excellent. She made note of this.

  “Does he eat at regular mealtimes?”

  “No, ma’am. When he’s hungry, whether it’s two o’ clock in the morning or one o’ clock in the afternoon, that’s when he eats.”

  “And you are the one charged with procuring his meals?”

  “Cook generally leaves out something for him, but it isn’t always what he wants and sometimes he throws it back at me,” Rheims confessed.

  “Yes, well that must cease.”

  Rheims’ jaw dropped. “Ma’am,” he warned, “Lord Richard isn’t the sort to take kindly to being given orders from a, from anyone,” he amended whatever he was going to say.

  “I have no intention of giving Lord Richard orders,” Cressida assured him. “His Lordship was a military officer and no doubt is used to being the one who issued the orders.” She went on to ask him a few more questions although Rheims could not detect any real purpose for the information that she sought.

  “Shall I take you to Lord Richard?” Rheims offered.

  “There’s no need,” Cressida said, putting her book away. “If you tell me where he is, I shall find him.”

  She didn’t want Rheims to have any further difficulties in dealing with his pig-headed charge; it was important to be, as she had said, the lightning rod so that Lord Richard could find solace in his family as he focused his hostility against her. He would need them as a source of encouragement for what was to come. She had dealt with this scenario before and knew the pattern. It did not make it any easier, though, to create an enemy so that she could heal him.

  Before she went to find Lord Richard, Cressida took out her prayer book. She had found the Book of Psalms to be unfailingly comforting when she needed insights into human emotions at their most despairing, hostile, and threatening. She had told her father that she believed no physical ailment could be cured without due attendance paid to the mind and spirit.

  Dr. Lockwood had responded by giving her a sturdily bound volume of the Psalms. “Read it every day,” he told her. “ The time will come when you don’t to read them because you will know them by heart. You will find one for every patient; the words will help you to maintain your poise, but it will also help your patient.”

  The house was quiet at this time of day; Lady Constance was still out making calls and the Earl was at his club. The servants were at their posts. She followed the directions that Rheims had given her, walking down the corridor from the library until she came to the room now occupied by Lord Richard. She took a deep breath to calm herself, waiting a few moments until she was at ease, then knocked on the door.

  “What the devil do you want?” shouted a response. “I did not ring for you.”

  Cressida turned the doorknob and opened the door.

  Lord Richard was sitting in front of his window. His room was crowded with furniture; a magnificent desk, an armoire, numerous tables, and an enormous four-poster bed with elaborate brocade bed curtains concealing the mattress within. The room was an untidy mess of discarded clothing, a tray with a half-eaten meal pushed to the side, and shoes and boots strewn without mates in corners. She suspected that the clutter revealed Lord Richard’s lack of patience as his valet attempted to tidy the bedchamber. Before she could possibly effect changes in the Viscount’s health, his surroundings needed a brisk cleaning.

  “Who the hell are you?” Lord Richard demanded. “Put that down. Those are my belongings.”

  “They should be either put away or laundered,” she replied evenly as she continued to pick up the garments.

  “What are you doing in my bedchamber?” Lord Richard demanded.

  “Just now, I am apparently your maid. Once the room is restored to order, I will be your nursemaid. My name is Cressida Lockwood.”

  “Get out!” he ordered. He had a very handsome face, she noted dispassionately. A fine, noble forehead framed by thick dark hair showed a face that displayed what in better times would have been a man of refinement and charm. Now, lines of temper marred his lips and his eyes were narrowed in anger.

  Cressida went on with her task. “We have much to accomplish if you are going to walk again, but we can do nothing as long as your bedchamber is in such disarray. How do you expect to move from one spot to the other if you are tripping over cravats and Hessian boots?”

  “You are much ill-informed,” he told her. “I don’t expect to trip at all because I cannot walk.”

  “Do you accept that?”

  “My acceptance is irrelevant. Are you a fool?”

  “I am not, fortunately for you.”

  “Have the lunatic asylums emptied out? That is the only explanation for your presence in my room.”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” she said, stepping over the heap of shoes in the middle of the room, “the asylums remain occupied. Let me introduce myself a second time, since you perhaps did not hear me the first. I am Cressida Lockwood, Lord Richard. I am to be your nursemaid.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid, Miss Lockwood.”

  He was sitting down and she was standing. Clearly he felt himself at a disadvantage, having to look up to her. She sat down in the chair next to him.

  “Do you not? Do you propose to heal yourself? You do not appear to be having much success. What have you been doing to restore your mobility?”

  He stared at her. For a brief instant, she could see the heartbreaking despair visible in his dark, liquid brown eyes. Then his expression returned to its former indignation. “I pray daily, Miss Lockwood, for a miracle,” he said flippantly. “But God is not hearing my prayers.”

  “Perhaps you should speak to the vicar. I cannot offer advice on that score. Is that the horse that threw you?”
/>
  “The vicar---what? Yes, that’s El Diablo.”

  “Why do you watch him?”

  “Because he’s a damned magnificent animal, of course; the finest horse I ever rode.”

  “Do you suppose he remembers you?”

  “I suppose that he chuckles into his oats every time he recalls the moment,” Lord Richard replied. “He’s an arrogant brute, but one must forgive him.”

  “Why? I should think you would detest the sight of him.”

  “You know very little about it. You are clearly not a rider.”

  “Nothing to match you,” she agreed cheerfully. “But if you don’t hate him for the accident, I wonder that you do not go to him.”

  “I beg his pardon for neglecting my social obligations to the equine class, but as you can see, I am bound to my room and I cannot go where I will.”

  “Do you have a chair? If you had a chair with wheels, as many in your circumstances do, you could move more freely.”

  “I could not make my way, even with a wheelchair, out of the house, down the stairs, and across the grounds.”

  “In stages, you could do just that. You should consider it,” she said, surveying his face with a critical eye. “You are beginning to look pasty-skinned. If you continue to be inactive, you will become quite portly. You will commence to look older than your years.”

  Clearly taken aback by her matter-of-fact recital of the physical flaws which awaited him, Lord Richard’s eyebrows raised. “The lunatic asylums have indeed emptied,” he said resignedly. “The chief lunatic has invaded my home. Tell me, are you Joan of Arc or Cleopatra?”

  “If I were inclined to be delusional, I believe I might as well aspire to be Sekhmet.”

  “Who?”

  “The Egyptian goddess of healing,” she supplied.

  He gave her a derisive look. “Oh, certainly; one might as well aim for deification.”

  “Certainly. Joan of Arc and Cleopatra did not end well. Burned at the stake, a snake bite, no, I think that if I’m to be a lunatic, I should like to be a goddess.”