The Duke Effect EPB

by Jordan, Sophie

  The duchess giggled. “I think you can take that as assent. She would like to accompany you, my good sir.”

  Nora rose hurriedly to her feet, fairly bouncing in place. “When? Now? Today? When shall we go?”

  “Yes. I was thinking today. Mortimer Street isn’t too far a carriage ride.” He glanced at the duchess. “Unless you are needed here?”

  The duchess waved at them. “I have no need of either one of you. Go, go. Enjoy yourselves. Be young and merry whilst you can.”

  Nora glanced down at her gown. “Give me a moment to change and I will meet you right back here.” She pointed to the floor as though it were imperative he understand where they should meet.

  “Very well—”

  His words faded as he watched her whirl around and flee the room.

  The duchess giggled again. “Well, you have made her the happiest of women.”

  He suppressed a smile. “It’s only a small thing. No hardship.”

  “You are a good and generous man, Sinclair, to go out of your way and do such a thing for our Miss Langley,” she praised. “I’m certain you can’t be interested in touring a hospital. Not when you could be spending your time with lovely Elise.”

  “Of course,” he said tightly.

  Spending an afternoon with Nora was no chore at all, but he had no wish to argue the point with the duchess for fear that she might suspect the truth—that spending time with Nora was something he actually longed to do, that he had orchestrated this outing because he wanted to. For himself.

  Indeed it was no hardship at all—not in the way the duchess made it sound, but he could not rightly protest to that. Not without making it appear he did not want to spend time with Lady Elise. Lady Elise, the very woman with whom he ought to be spending time. After his conversation with the duke, that much was abundantly understood. At least he’d agreed to that.

  The notion for this outing with Nora had come to him rather suddenly when he spotted her strolling the gardens with the Duchess of Birchwood. He had been seized with the spontaneous impulse to invite her on an excursion to Middlesex Hospital, of all places. He knew she would want to go as it was the site of a medical school, and they offered tours to the public.

  Some ladies longed for a trip to Bond Street, but Nora Langley was not like most ladies. She was not like anyone he had ever met. He knew she would rather see an infirmary or visit a maternity floor or observe the surgical theater at Middlesex. He surmised that for her such a thing would be equitable to Christmas morning, and strangely, he felt compelled to give her that. He wanted to see her smile.

  Chapter 14

  Nora emerged from the surgical theater alongside Mr. Sinclair, feeling a little dazed and lightheaded and breathless—but only in the best respect.

  She fanned herself with her reticule. It was quite the most extraordinary spectacle she had ever seen. She and Sinclair had been allowed to sit in the theater and observe the removal of an appendix! It was quite the most marvelous day.

  They’d sat on one of the top rows, above several medical students. There were more students on the ground floor observing, too. Nora assumed they were further along in their studies as they were granted such close access. All were men, of course. Other than a few sidelong glances, no one had paid her presence much attention, too riveted upon the surgery being performed.

  “That was extraordinary. Can you imagine cutting into someone and holding his life in your hands?” She cupped her hands before her and flexed her fingers as though she were holding an actual human organ, as though she herself possessed the talent and skill to save a life.

  “No, I cannot imagine doing that myself.” He smiled mildly as he strolled alongside her.

  She took several deep breaths to regain her composure and temper her excitement. He must think her overly stimulated and provincial.

  Nora had cut into flesh before, but nothing like what she had witnessed today. Even as her father’s assistant, she had never seen him perform anything like that. “It was all terribly exciting.”

  Mr. Sinclair lifted one shoulder. “I have seen enough blood to last a lifetime.”

  “Yes, I can understand that, but this day’s bloodshed did not signify loss of life. That surgery saved a life and perhaps more than one life through the gaining of experience by all those who watched.”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed.

  A rueful smile curled her lips as she stared at him. He did not fool her in the least. He had been fascinated, too.

  “Admit it, Mr. Sinclair,” she charged, arching an eyebrow in challenge. “You were as riveted as I was.”

  “I’ll allow it was not uninteresting. I’ve seen army surgeons at work before but never have I observed anything like that . . . never anything with such, such . . .”

  “Precision,” she supplied.

  “Yes,” he agreed with a nod as they continued down the gallery, side by side.

  “My father would have appreciated this today.” Likely Papa had seen such a surgery performed before when he himself attended medical school, but it would have been quite the special thing for the two of them to have observed something like this together. “He would have . . .” She paused, gathering her thoughts, feeling her composure slip as she thought of her dearest Papa. “He would have loved it. Thank you.” She stopped and he stopped in kind. She turned to face him. “Thank you for thinking to bring me here,” she said haltingly, feeling a little awkward with her surge of emotion.

  He looked equally uncomfortable, as though he didn’t know what to do with her gratitude.

  “You have no business here!” The words cracked like a whip over the air.

  Tensing, she stopped and turned, searching for the source of the angry voice.

  Her gaze swept the length of the gallery. A man with a shiny-knobbed cane approached with very sharp steps, a sneer twisting his lips. His eyes flashed back and forth between Nora and Sinclair in a fiery display of ire for which she could not account.

  Astonishment rippled through her to find herself the target of this stranger’s glare. She should not have felt such sentiment. Virulent men came as no shock. She well knew they existed in the world. In truth, they abounded.

  A couple years ago, Marian had been abducted by a man who thought his rights superseded her own. For all the good men that existed, there were always some who were content only when crushing a female beneath his boot.

  She braced herself, knowing more was to come from this particular gentleman. Indeed, the red mottling of his face warned her that he was just getting started.

  “Females,” he began, dropping the word as though it alone was something objectionable, “do not belong here.” He lifted his cane and shook the gleaming head in her direction.

  Sinclair went as rigid as a board beside her. His arm beneath her fingers bunched and tightened and he took a step forward, clearly ready to intercede on her behalf, but she tugged him back with a swift shake of her head. She did not require a protector, and she did not need a public disaster. Neither one of them needed that spectacle.

  The stranger stopped directly before them. The man was broad of frame and nearly as tall as Sinclair. She resisted the urge to shrink back. She was accustomed to judgmental stares, but no one, especially no stranger, had ever confronted her so very openly or aggressively.

  Even after Papa’s death, when her family was at their poorest, she had been accorded civility from her fellow residents of Brambledon.

  Still keeping a tight grip on Sinclair’s arm, she forced herself to square her shoulders and stand tall in the face of his glower. She had no reason to be frightened, after all. “I have just as much right to be here as you, sir.”

  His face, if possible, reddened further and she realized she had shocked him. He did not expect her to challenge him. Evidently he was not accustomed to such oppositional behavior from females. She was serving up all manner of surprises to this man today.

  His mouth opened and closed before he spit out, “Imperti
nent chit!”

  A low growl sounded from the vicinity of Sinclair beside her. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. She sensed as much as she observed passersby stopping to gawk at them and the spectacle they were creating. She needed to do her best to keep things from escalating even more.

  “Why?” she asked in an even voice. “Because I dare to improve my mind?” If he could address her so rudely, then she could resort to bluntness, too. “What are you so afraid of? That women might gain the wisdom to rise up against men like you?”

  One of the nearby gawkers pointed at them and she overheard a whispered, “Birchwood.” Apparently people were accurately identifying and connecting Sinclair to Birchwood.

  The man, still resembling an apoplectic fish, turned on Sinclair then. “Get your woman in hand, sirrah. She needs a tighter bridle.”

  Outrage flared through her, constricting her chest. She opened her mouth to unleash on him, but Sinclair beat her to it, replying in a mockingly genial voice, “She is not my woman, sir. She is her own person. And the last time I verified . . . wait, let me be certain.” He stepped back from Nora and scrutinized her. Pinching his chin, he looked her up and down leisurely. “It appears she is no horse in need of bridling. She looks quite human to me.”

  Now the stranger’s red face was more purple. Clearly he had expected some form of support from Sinclair.

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he pointed at Sinclair in a stabbing motion. “I know who you are.”

  “Do you?” Sinclair inquired, the corners of his mouth tightening, his only outward reaction to the statement. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . .”

  “Oh. Yes, I know you. I’m a member of your club. Well, I should say, Birchwood’s club. I saw you there with him not very long ago, trailing after his coattails.”

  At the mention of Birchwood, Sinclair tensed. She felt it ever so subtly as she stood beside him.

  “Indeed?” Sinclair inquired. “I did not see you . . . and Birchwood did not see fit to introduce us.” It was a subtle slight, but felt nonetheless. Birchwood does not deem you important or he would have made introductions. True or not, that was his insinuation.

  The gentleman’s gaze flicked to Nora. “Does he know you keep company with such . . . radical females?”

  Radical? She sniffed and lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. It would not be the first time someone called her that. Even her own family had been known to call her that, although never with any real heat.

  “Oh, this lady here, you mean?” He glanced at Nora. “She is a close family friend and a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Birchwood.”

  That left the man fumbling for words. “Wh—”

  Sinclair nodded cheerfully and tipped his hat at the sputtering man. “Good day, sir.”

  With a hand on her elbow, he turned them both about and together they continued down the gallery.

  She could not help herself. She giggled. “His expression was too perfect,” she said.

  She knew Sinclair would not agree with any of the vile man’s objections. He had chosen to bring her here, after all. But she had not expected him to be quite so amusing in his defense of her.

  At first, she had feared he would resort to fisticuffs to defend her honor. Violence was never the answer. It only beget more violence. Sinclair had done as she wished and refrained. Warmth fluttered in her chest because he had stayed his impulse . . . for her. When she put a hand on his arm he had held himself back.

  He was a man of reserve and restraint. Rigid control. A man who never lost his composure. He did not make jests or engage in levity. And yet he had used wit and humor to set that jackanapes in his place.

  Sinclair shrugged. “I could have been serious with him, but he was ridiculous. He deserved ridiculousness in turn.”

  “I suspect he wanted you to paddle my bum as though I were a child in need of punishment.” She was still giggling at her words when she sent him a glance.

  Her giggle died swiftly in her throat when her gaze met his.

  His dark eyes gleamed deeper and darker than they ever had before.

  Heat crept up her face as she envisioned the scene she had just suggested: herself tossed over Sinclair’s knee with her skirts hiked up . . . with his big hand on her bare bottom, making contact, touching, stroking her . . .

  She tried to swallow, but her throat suddenly felt impossibly tight. The urge to fidget pumped though her . . . especially as his gaze continued its thorough examination of her, seeing too much. Seeing beyond the exterior. It felt like he was looking past everything, past skin and bones to the essence of her.

  Certainly this look was different.

  No man had ever taken measure of her in such a way before. No gentlemen in Brambledon, of course. Definitely not.

  While not unattractive, she was not the beauty either one of her sisters were regarded to be.

  She was the peculiar sister, the individual people called to attend their ague. No gentleman ever viewed her in a romantic fashion and she suspected that lancing festering boils might have something to do with that. And yet she had never cared enough to stop being who she was and change into someone else to be more likeable. She preferred being herself even if no gentleman liked her that way.

  She snapped her gaze forward again, wondering at the strange look in his eyes.

  Walking down the gallery with her hand on his arm, she could still feel those eyes of his trained on her—and something else. Something more. A subtle energy radiated from him, reaching her, enveloping her.

  Why did I mention him spanking my bottom?

  As the mortifying memory of that—and the vision of him actually doing so—ran over and over in her mind, the heat in her face intensified to scorching levels.

  Certainly her words had not . . . titillated him?

  The rigid former colonel was not that manner of man. He did not surrender to base desires and wickedness. She had not—did not—affect him. He was much too upright for that.

  The walk outside was a blur as her mind whirled and her face burned and her nostrils flared, full of the scent of him: soap, man and something else that was inherently him.

  Somehow they reached the carriage and Sinclair assisted her up into the Birchwood family coach. He rapped on the ceiling and the conveyance gave a small lurch as they started for home. Home? Well, not her home.

  Birchwood House was not her home.

  When she was a little girl, she had played dress up in Marian’s clothes, always wanting to be older, wanting to be like her big sister, pretending to be what she was not—a proper grown-up. The clothes had never fit, of course. They’d swallowed her, but still she had played. Still, she had pretended.

  That was what Birchwood House felt like to her. Ill-fitting clothes.

  She felt like an imposter beneath its roof. A little girl at a game of pretend. It was not natural. It would never be natural. Never be home.

  It was Sinclair’s home. Natural to him. It was where he belonged as someday it would all be his. His and Lady Elise’s. A reminder that felt necessary for some reason.

  Together, he and Lady Elise would reign over Birchwood House and all its haughty servants like rulers of a small kingdom.

  That would be his life.

  Hers would be somewhere else.

  Chapter 15

  Nora tried not to look at him as the carriage progressed. The air between them felt a little different since they left the surgical theater. Overly warm, stifling, almost . . . charged.

  She studied her hands in her lap, then the seat squabs, then the curtained windows. Everywhere and anywhere but at him. Only it was not that simple when he sat across from her in the carriage. It was beyond difficult not to look at him when he was directly in front of her. The temptation was too strong.

  Because she looked. She could not stop herself.

  Except he wasn’t looking at her anymore, which should have been a relief, but it was oddly . . . disappointing.

  Her regret was
real, lodging in her heart. She studied him freely without that devouring look trained on her. No more dark and intense and smoldering eyes that she felt right down in her belly.

  He was looking out the window, even though the curtains were mostly drawn. Only a small crack was left parted, allowing a trickle of light inside the confines.

  Her shoulders slumped as she fell back against her seat, disappointed their excursion had come to an end.

  They moved along slowly, the sounds of other carriages clattering outside their own saved them from total silence. The muffled sounds helped cover up the dead air inside the carriage.

  Somewhat.

  She was aware of the rustling of his clothes as he shifted his weight. The rasp of his breathing as he expelled air . . . as though he was beleaguered and grew weary of her company. That would be unsurprising. He probably regretted the outing and the public confrontation he had just suffered as a consequence.

  Why would he not be weary of her? He was the heir to a dukedom. He was an important man now, and would only gain in prominence when he one day claimed his position as the Duke of Birchwood. He was a busy man. For goodness’ sake, he was courting a proper lady, the daughter of an earl, and learning dukely things.

  He would not be a duke like her brother-in-law. She already knew that much. He would follow Birchwood’s lead and spend his days in Town and take his seat in the House and live his life in a proper lordly fashion.

  Obviously he did not appreciate the unfavorable attention she had brought down upon his head. She winced. His association with her would not earn him any approval among his peers. That much was clear. If the ugly scene with that vile gentleman did not prove that, then there was Birchwood’s dinner party to remind her.

  He’d been most attentive this day. Polite and cordial, but this—she—was not what he wanted. He’d been clear on that when she arrived.

  She was only here as the Birchwood’s guest in order to help him, or, specifically, to help the duchess, and so far she hadn’t helped him with anything at all. She was of no service to him. No help at all. She was an inconvenience. The duchess seemed fine. Hale and hearty, in fact. She couldn’t stay here forever on the chance the duchess became ill again.