It was this very aloneness they so objected to. She didn’t know why they should disapprove. It did not bother Nora. Marian and Charlotte insisted she was on her way to becoming a hermit. A terrible fate, apparently, and one they refused to allow her. What they failed to understand was that she was the happiest when she was buried in her work. It’s what she loved.
She slipped through the servants’ entrance in the back of the hall, listening for a moment, dripping in the corridor, to the sounds of the staff busy in the kitchen. They would be readying for luncheon. If her sister and the duke were not yet home, they would be soon.
It was now or never whilst the servants were so occupied and below stairs in the kitchen. She darted up the stairs and slipped inside her room undetected, setting her satchel down carefully on her work table.
She stripped off her clothes, letting the sodden garments drop heavily. Unpinning her hair, she worked a brush through the half-dry mass of snarled waves. It really was an inconvenience and such a bother. She should cut it.
She selected a fresh dress and donned it. This frock was just as plain and modest as the last one she wore. It was another one from the old days. The days before Warrington and her life at Haverston Hall. There had been no fine dresses in her life then. It made no sense to wear one of her new elegant gowns when she was working in her laboratory. In truth, she had little use for the gowns, but they were what was expected of a duke’s sister-in-law, even an unorthodox duke like Warrington who eschewed life in Town and could scarcely be prevailed upon to rub elbows with his peers.
The cotton dress fit her snugly, but the fabric was well-worn and comfortable, even if it did hug her chest too tightly and stretch at the seams in several places, namely her generous hips—they were a definite tribute to the splendid bisques and soufflés Cook was fond of preparing. One welcome perk of her sister marrying a duke; his kitchens were far superior to what she was accustomed.
Just then the door to her chamber opened and Bea entered as Nora managed to do the last button.
“Now Bea,” she began, prepared for the dressing down she was certain to receive for not ringing Bea to come and help her. “It was a simple change of wardrobe that I could do perfectly well on my own—”
“You’ve a caller,” the maid interrupted. “Ack! And look at your hair. ’Tis not fit to feed the pigs.” Bea pushed her to sit down before the dressing table.
“A caller?” Nora frowned at her reflection. “Who is it?”
Bea focused on her hair with single-minded zeal. “I do not know. Mrs. Conally told me to fetch you.”
“I am certain it’s someone from the village in need of a poultice or some such.” She attempted to rise.
Bea settled her hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down. “You’ll not be running downstairs with your hair a tumble. Such a disgrace.” She tsked her tongue. “It will be a poor reflection on me and we can’t have that.”
“Very well,” she grumbled, watching as Bea deftly arranged her hair into plaits and then pinned them atop her head in a very stylish fashion.
“There you are.” She lightly patted Nora’s head. “Splendid. Very tidy. You should let me attend you every morning.”
“Let us not go so far as that,” she said as she surged from the chair, glad to be free of Bea’s ministrations.
She was no fine lady and would never grow accustomed to all the trappings that went along with being one. She’d grown up in a modest household, with only two servants to wait on their family of six. After Mama and Papa died, after she and her siblings were truly orphaned, they had lost even that. They had to let their beloved staff go.
They had lost so much really and had been left on their own to endure considerable hardships. Nora was accustomed to doing for herself and that would never change.
No matter her shift in fortune, she was an independent woman.
She hastened down the steps, ignoring her growling stomach. That combined with the delicious smells of their impending luncheon drifting from the kitchen reminded her that she’d had no more than a few bites of toast hours ago. The fault was hers. She’d been in such haste, late as usual to breakfast because she’d lost track of time studying a new botanical text that arrived from London. She could scarcely tear herself away from its pages and was eager to return to it.
She spotted Mrs. Conally in the corridor as she came down.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Langley. Your guest awaits you in the drawing room. I’ve sent in Cate with some tea.”
Hopefully scones, too.
“Thank you, Mrs. Conally.”
The double doors were parted, awaiting her entrance. She imagined the guest must be of some import if Mrs. Conally secured him (or her) in the drawing room with tea.
She entered the room, noting the gentleman standing at the window. Nora did not recognize him from her vantage. He stood with his back to her, a straight and stalwart figure looking out the mullioned glass at the expansive green lawn. The sunlight struck his hair and it glinted blue-black in the brightness.
His hands were clasped very correctly behind him. That, combined with his erect bearing, gave an impression of severity. It was hard to fathom he might be here due to some sort of ailment. Even without seeing his face he struck her as hale.
She cleared her throat. “Hello, there,” she greeted, expecting to recognize him once he turned to face her. If he was here to see her, she had likely met him before. There were few people in Brambledon whom she did not know or whom she had not treated.
He turned and she was not wrong, unfortunately.
She knew him . . . in a manner.
She had seen him before. Blast it all. She suspected that when she closed her eyes, she would see him for days to come.
Chapter 4
Nora recognized him even though he was respectably clothed this time.
Her last sight of him had been at the pond . . . and he had been naked. She could envision him as she had last observed him, the lines and angles and hollows of his body dappled in sunlight, speckled with droplets of water. He might be standing in an elegant drawing room, but she could strip away his garments in her mind and see him so clearly. Drat. She had thought she’d seen the last of him.
“You,” she breathed.
“You,” he returned, looking mildly jarred at the unexpected sight of her, which echoed their first encounter.
As he looked her up and down, she sensed his judgment and resisted the urge to fidget. Given her attire, he likely thought her a servant. She certainly did not appear to belong in these refined surroundings. He doubtlessly did not think her a member of Warrington’s family.
She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she might not be a highborn lady who presided over drawing rooms, but she resided in this house. She was a member of Warrington’s family and she belonged here, however unnatural it felt at times.
She belonged here, and he did not.
Chin aloft, she turned to the footman who stood nearby, tucked into a corner of the room. She’d almost forgotten his presence. The number of servants Warrington kept on staff still astounded her.
“Thank you, Archie. You may leave us.”
Ever proper, the footman inclined his head and departed the room.
Once confident he was out of earshot—it would not do for the servants to gossip about her below stairs—she charged ahead. “You’ve a great deal of cheek calling here, sirrah.”
What is he doing here? Is he here to apologize to the master of the house for availing himself of his pond?
“Have I?” he asked, bowing slightly, as though in afterthought, but his gaze remained fastened on her as he extended her the courtesy.
She did not like that stare on her one little bit.
That dark gaze of his was unnerving. His eyes were so dark it was impossible to determine where his pupils ended and began. Much too unnerving and much too unreadable. She felt exposed. As though he were peeling back all her layers to see to the core of he
r, which was as impossible as it was ridiculous.
This man, this stranger, did not know her . . . and he could not see to the truth of her.
So few people could. Her friends from girlhood had all grown up and married and started their families. They were busy with their own households and did not have time for her—unless it was for medicinal reasons. Sometimes she wondered if even her sisters truly understood her. They were happily married, and were often pointing out gentlemen in the village to her, bachelors they deemed suitable . . . as though they believed Nora should join their ranks and marry, too. As though it were that easy to fall in love. As though Nora even wanted to.
“Indeed. Have you come here to apologize for earlier today?” she repeated.
“Apologize?” He said the word slowly, as though it were a foreign thing he was testing out on his tongue. “No. No, I did not come here to apologize.”
“You did not?” She canted her head and sharpened her gaze on him. Everything about his presence here baffled her and an uneasy sensation started in her belly. “What then are you doing here, sir?”
“I’ve business here, and as for my swim in the pond . . . I merely wished to refresh after my long ride and make myself presentable.”
“Hmph.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve business with Warrington then?”
“I did not say that,” he replied rather vaguely. “It was not he with whom I’ve requested an audience.”
They had fetched Nora to attend him. That was true.
Presumably then, he had asked for Nora. She frowned. That made no sense.
“If you’re not here for Warrington . . . who then are you here to see?”
“Why, Dr. Langley.”
She flinched.
It was strange to hear her father’s name uttered in a manner that implied he still lived, that he still walked among them. It had been years since his passing and his absence had faded to a dull ache, but hearing his name spoken out loud by this man was jarring. The dull ache of his loss flared anew to a stinging pain.
“Dr. Langley,” she echoed at a whisper.
“Yes, I said as much to the housekeeper.”
She nodded, contemplating that. Of course. Mrs. Conally would have sent Nora to answer such a caller rather than make the explanations herself. It was not her place to inform a seemingly well-bred stranger that Dr. Langley was no longer of this earth. Such a task would fall to one of his family members, and Nora was the only one at home presently.
Or perhaps Mrs. Conally even thought their guest meant Nora when he asked to see Dr. Langley. Nora did attend to many of the locals, after all, serving their medical needs. No physician had replaced Papa in the community. There was no doctor in Brambledon. Only Nora. She had jokingly been called doctor on more than one occasion.
“You’ve come here to see Dr. Langley,” she murmured, seeking clarification, but also, perhaps, stalling. Her mind raced as she contemplated how best to proceed in this situation.
He was beginning to look a fraction exasperated. “Yes, is he not in residence?”
“Ah, he is not . . .”
Why was this so dreadfully awkward?
She was not one to usually stumble over her words. Rather, she often spit them out like torrents of mortar without forethought.
In this moment, however, she was discomfited and at a loss for words.
“When might I return to see him?” he pressed.
“You may not . . .” she murmured.
“Now see here.” He was fully exasperated now, a dull flush of color creeping over his cheeks. “I realize we got off to a bad start, but that is no reason to deny me audience with—”
“He is dead, sir.” At last. She’d said it. Baldly declared it to a man whose name she still did not know as there had been no proper introductions. Charlotte would be appalled at her lack of gentility. She was always telling Nora she needed to be more mannerly.
Except proper could not be applied to any moment of their interactions thus far, so why should Nora now care how bluntly she revealed the news of her father’s death?
She must have shocked him. He stared at her for long moments without response.
He blinked a few times and, after some moments, cleared his throat. “I—I am so very sorry to hear that. I was unaware, of course.”
She nodded stiffly. “How is it you knew . . . Dr. Langley?”
She believed she would have remembered this man if he’d ever come to Brambledon, but Papa could have met him when he attended one of his conferences in London or Edinburgh.
“I . . . We have never met, that is not in person, but we have corresponded for years.”
“I see,” she managed to get out.
Corresponded for years . . .
The words sent a chill through her. She squashed the unwelcome sensation. No one would attempt to track Papa down here. She had been writing on his behalf for years now, dispensing medical advice and then signing (er, forging) his name to those missives. It was subterfuge, true, but she did not see the harm in it. She wasn’t hurting anyone. Quite the opposite. The people who wrote to Papa wanted help and she possessed the knowledge to assist them. Papa had trained her himself, after all.
The individuals she corresponded with never lived close to Brambledon. She made certain these were not people she would bump into out and about in Society. Some of them were military men who lived on distant shores and were seeking medical advice for their fellow soldiers and those serving under them. Living abroad and, of course, fighting abroad, these soldiers fell prey to uncommon injuries and ailments, and Papa’s reputation in the field of pain mitigation was far-reaching.
He shook his head and glanced to the window, looking much troubled. He swung those dark eyes back on her. “When did the doctor . . . er, pass away?”
“Ah, it’s been five years now.”
“Five years?” He frowned. “You are certain of that?”
She huffed an indignant breath. “I am quite certain of the date of my father’s passing.”
He blinked. “You are his daughter then?”
She pulled her shoulders back. “I am.”
He hesitated, looking her over, and she felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness at her very drab frock.
“Well, daughter or no, you must be mistaken.”
She gave a snort and propped her hands on her hips. “Oh, must I be?”
“Indeed, you must be. You are mistaken.” He reached inside his waistcoat and fumbled a bit before brandishing an envelope. “As I have been writing to the good doctor for the last several years. I have here his last letter to me . . . postmarked this very year.”
She gaped at the envelope, narrowing her gaze on the neatly penned scrawl on the outside.
The letter was very familiar. Because it was her letter. She had penned it and she had sent it to him.
Squinting, she made out the name of the recipient. Instantly, her gaze shot back to his face.
No. It could not be. He could not be here. He could not be him.
He was much too . . . young. He was supposed to be a much older man. Not this young. Not this virile . . . not this this standing before her.
Clearly, she had grossly miscalculated. She had thought avoiding anyone who lived in proximity to Brambledon would keep her safe from discovery. She had not counted on anyone traveling a great distance, let alone across an ocean, to see her father.
Because that meant only one thing.
This man was here in the flesh to catch her in her deceit.
Chapter 5
Dr. Langley was dead.
The knowledge rolled through him, obliterating everything in its path, taking with it the last of his hope. It was a blow. A crushing disappointment.
What now?
Upon his return to England, he’d dutifully claimed his new role as heir to the Duke of Birchwood. He’d moved into the London Mayfair residence with the duke and duchess and for the last two months he’d begun learning his new po
sition and what was expected of him.
The duke and duchess were welcoming if not precisely warm. But then they had never been warm people. They were august members of the noblesse. Warmth was not a quality to be found among their ilk. Your ilk now.
They’d aged since he’d last seen them. Naturally. But it was not merely the accumulation of years. They wore their grief like a heavy mantle. They’d lost three sons. The toll was profound. Constantine had vowed to do everything he could to ease their grief and lighten their burdens.
The venerable duke wanted to groom him and apprise him of his myriad duties? Very well. Con would allow him that. He would not be known as the Duke of Birchwood who failed and sank the dukedom to ruin. He’d become a sponge and soak up everything the old duke could teach him and honor all those who had come before him.
The duke and duchess wanted him to pay court to his late cousin’s betrothed? Very well. He’d pay court to the fine Lady Elise. He’d even propose once a respectable amount of time had passed, assuming the lady was receptive to such an offer from him and didn’t view him as second best and inferior to her first choice duke.
He’d never imagined himself married. Hellfire. He had thought to make a lifelong career out of the army—and no. He had never planned to be one of those officers who married and took their wives with them on their posts.
The duchess’s chronic pain? He’d determined to tackle that, too. Somehow he would find a way to alleviate her considerable discomfort. The poor woman had suffered enough. If anything happened to her, it would finish the duke. The couple appeared sincerely devoted to each other—a definite anomaly among the aristocracy.
They’d lost their sons, and Constantine was duty bound to care for them now as the heir.
The heir.
It still left his stomach in knots. He’d never wanted the title. Never even thought it possible to possess it—never once had it passed through his consciousness—but it was his now. The responsibility weighed heavily on him—a yoke about his neck from which he would never be free.
The Duke Effect EPB Page 3