Now it was time to work. She wasn’t running for home with her tail tucked in her skirts until she had exhausted all options on the duchess’s behalf.
Forget about propriety and the rules that applied to the proper ladies of Society. Nora had no such aspirations. She never had.
In another life, perhaps if Nora had been a son, she would have gone on to be a doctor like Papa. There would have been no barriers to stop her, no dour-faced men at the helm of medical institutions to say she was not allowed.
Ironically, Phillip, her brother who was soon to finish at Eton, was not in the least interested in such a pursuit. It was maddening. He would have been allowed to train to be a doctor whilst she could not.
“Enough of this,” she murmured under her breath and brought her knuckles against the door, rapping on the wood.
The dinner hour was over. Not that anyone had eaten downstairs in the lavish dining room. Not tonight. As the duchess was ill, the servants had delivered trays to everyone at their various locations.
Bea had eaten in her room with her. They paused amid packing. The servants had delivered their trays with clear disapproval writ all over their faces.
She was careful not to knock too loudly. The dinner hour was over, but she knew the staff was still up and about.
No sense alerting the household of her presence at Sinclair’s door. They might leap to the conclusion that she was looking for an assignation with the duke’s heir. She could well imagine that gossip. They would think she was set on becoming his mistress. Of course that would be their salacious conclusion. In no way could they imagine the likes of her in Sinclair’s life in a conventionally romantic way. He was one breath from the altar with the very admired Lady Elise.
Con opened the door to her knock. “Nora?” He blinked those inky lashes over his dark eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been contemplating the duchess’s condition, and . . .” Her voice faded away at what she was about to impart. She could still hear Marian’s voice in her head . . . both her sisters’ voices actually, pleading with her not to do it. Not to say it.
“And?” he prompted.
She took a deep, fortifying breath. “And I think I have something that could help her.”
Chapter 18
“Why did you not mention this tonic of yours sooner?” Constantine asked, peering down at her with suspicion.
Upon finding her outside his door, he had pulled her inside his chamber lest someone stumble upon them and draw the wrong conclusions.
Now they were alone. Together, in his room.
He swallowed thickly and very deliberately looked away from her face.
“It’s still very . . . experimental,” she replied.
Something in her voice made him glance again at her face. Was it his imagination or was she blushing? That was decidedly new. He would never have considered her the blushing type. In fact, he had never seen her look as nervous or agitated as she was now.
At the hospital, she’d watched from the gallery without blinking or looking away or turning the slightest shade of green as a very nearly naked body was cut open.
But now she appeared discomfited. Something about this tonic discomfited her.
“Experimental in what way?”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and then let it pop back out. “My sister tried it. Charlotte. It had the most . . . unusual effect on her.”
“Your sister Charlotte? That is not Warrington’s wife?”
“No, it is not. Charlotte married Warrington’s stepbrother. She lives nearby. In Brambledon.”
“Is she ill?”
“Oh, no. She is hale and hearty.” Nora nodded assuredly. “She was just suffering from some aches and took this tonic the one time.” She opened her palm to reveal a little bronze vial in her hand.
He peered down at it thoughtfully. “And did it relieve her pain?”
“Um, in a manner.”
“Cease speaking in riddles, Nora. Can this help or not?” he snapped, determined to get to the heart of the matter so that she could soon leave his room.
Her presence here was much too disconcerting . . . in the same way he had felt with her in the carriage. It was as though close quarters with her addled his thoughts and had him doing things like studying her lips and her very fine eyes and the tempting shape of her. It was very wrong of him. It should be Lady Elise’s lips that fascinated him.
She bristled at his brusque tone, and he knew he’d hit a nerve with it. “The potion has side effects. Or rather, one particular side effect.”
He frowned. “But you said your sister is well. These side effects mustn’t be too terrible.”
“Um. I suppose that depends.”
He fought down his exasperation. It was not like her to prevaricate. If anything she was too bold and direct. “Please elaborate.”
“You won’t believe me.” Her chin went up a fraction. “No one does at first. My sister Marian did not.”
Presumably, she did now. “Try me.”
She assessed him as though evaluating him for his sincerity. At last, she spoke. “The tonic afflicts one . . .”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“It acts as a trigger for one’s desires.”
He digested that.
Making certain he understood her correctly, he asked, “You’re saying that this tonic of yours fills one with lust?”
She nodded. “It overtakes them, yes. The most acute lust. Terrible and—”
“Well, right there you are confused because lust is not terrible. That is not the nature of it at all.”
Her lips parted as she looked up at him, and the air crackled, popping over the surface of his skin as he stared at that mouth of hers, such a deep rose color that it looked perpetually swollen. As though those lips had been thoroughly ravished . . . and begged to be ravished again.
Only a few inches separated them. A few inches of space between him and that pillowy mouth.
Bloody hell.
He should not be discussing lust, of all topics, with this female.
Especially alone. At night. In his bedchamber. Doing so provoked all manner of feelings and thoughts uncustomary to him.
He’d lived a sensible life, and he had thought to continue on that path even as the future Duke of Birchwood. Becoming a duke presented new duties and responsibilities, certainly, but it did not change him. Not intrinsically. Constantine was the same man he’d been before receiving word to return home and take up the mantle as heir to the Birchwood legacy.
Even whilst in the army, he was circumspect, never engaging in the services of the many camp followers. That was not to say he lived as a monk. He simply had never been a man ruled by his cock.
But in this moment, he felt entirely subject to his baser instincts.
Nora Langley brought out his feral side. His body hummed and pulsed with the urge to crush that mouth under his.
She roused his caveman instincts and he did not care for it. Not one little bit.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and he felt that small act twisting his gut.
“It is if it goes unquenched. It can be terrible.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “At least that’s what I was told.”
“By your sister?”
She nodded.
He cleared his thick throat. “So you have no personal experience with lust then?”
Bloody. Hell. The question escaped him before he could stop himself.
He did not flirt. And he most especially did not flirt with young women with whom he was stuck in a comprising position.
The moment the words were out he wished he could snatch them back and stuff the words down his throat.
Her eyes widened, clearly startled.
He did not want to know of her experience or lack thereof. Very well. That was not entirely accurate. Truthfully, either knowledge was exciting. To know that she had experience thrilled him. To know she was an innocent thrilled him, too.
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Bloody hell.
She thrilled him. The. End.
“I can only speak of my sister’s experience with the tonic. She’s the only subject to have tested it. I’ve been uneasy subjecting it to anyone else.” She might have attempted it on herself, but she, fortunately, had been in good health with no pains or aches, and, admittedly . . . her sisters had put a bit of fear in her.
What happened if she was afflicted with raging lusts? She had no one to slake her desires upon.
What if she tested it and then assaulted a stranger? Someone she was not even remotely attracted to? It seemed a grave risk.
Ideally, if the tonic were to be tested again one of her sisters should take it for they had husbands only too happy to satisfy any raging desires that should overcome them. But neither one would agree to that even if they were here.
In fact, ever since Nora had dosed Char with the tonic, her sisters had been rather distrustful about taking any of her herbal remedies. It was rather galling. They’d always trusted her before.
“You said the tonic eased your sister’s pain?”
“Yes. Yes, it did,” she confirmed.
Charlotte had not felt the misery of her cramping belly. That much was true. She had felt nothing save the deepest arousal. At least that was what she had claimed. Whether the pain had been truly absent or replaced with arousal, who was to say? And did it matter if the pain was no longer felt?
“Then it seems clear what we must do.”
She blinked and angled her head sharply. “Is it?”
“Indeed. I will take your tonic.”
Chapter 19
Nora stared at him for several moments, her mouth working as her brain searched for the proper reply to his outrageous announcement. “You are mad.”
“Why would you say that?” he asked in all mildness, as though he had not just declared a lunatic idea.
“Y—you . . . cannot take it.”
Absolutely not. He could not take the tonic. Just the notion of him . . . the very austere Mr. Sinclair all hot eyed and titillated was unthinkable. She swallowed thickly.
Unthinkable . . . and yet exciting when she did permit herself to think of it. She envisioned him as he had been in the carriage, all deep dark eyes and gravelly voice that she felt like a caress.
Except in her imaginings she would visualize him touching her.
His hand would land on her ankle and slide up, up, up . . . slipping beneath her skirts, skimming over her stockings until he reached her garters. And there he would make haste, ripping the ribbons free, shredding them in animal speed so that he could get to her skin, get to her. Her breathing fell faster. Oh, dear.
“Miss Langley?”
She snapped free of her little fantasy and looked at him, the very controlled Mr. Sinclair. This very restrained and self-possessed gentleman would not appreciate any remedy that robbed him of his control. Who would, for that matter?
“Yes?”
“You need a test subject, and as the tonic is for a member of my family and I am the one responsible for you being here—”
“Are you the one responsible for my presence here though?” She had rather forced herself on him here. Looking back at her behavior, she felt a small dose of shame. She could still hear the duke’s voice in her head, dismissing her so coldly, so imperiously. He’d made her feel small . . . so small and unwelcome that she wanted to flee this place with what dignity she still possessed.
He ignored her interruption and continued, “I should be the one to take it.” He flattened a hand to his chest covered only by the elegant lawn of his shirt. No jacket. No vest. This was the most casual she had ever seen him. Casual and loose and she rather liked him this way—disheveled. “I should be the one,” he insisted.
She could not allow that to happen under any circumstance. At least not without Lady Elise on hand. She should be the one, of course, to help him if the tonic affected him as it did her sister. Otherwise he would be left to the agony of his unfulfilled desires.
And what if Lady Elise did not help him with that? They might be courting, but that did not mean the elegant lady would cast aside all propriety to satisfy his cravings.
“Let us consider this,” she began. “If the tonic affects you—”
“Makes me aroused,” he clarified.
She nodded. “Er, yes. Then what?”
“Then I endure it.”
He made it sound so easy. Only she knew better. She knew what happened to Char. “What if you cannot? It might not be that simple.”
“What are you suggesting then?”
Nora did not imagine that his eyes suddenly looked darker and felt more intense, more focused on her. A subtle energy crackled off him. She swallowed again. “I am suggesting that you not do it.”
He nodded once. “I am doing it.”
She exhaled. “Then perhaps we should send for Lady Elise.”
He started a bit at that, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why would we do that?”
“Well.” She fluttered her hand. “So she can be on hand.” He stared at her blankly, prompting her to elaborate further. “In case you are overcome and find yourself in need . . .” Her voice faded and mortifying heat swept up her face.
Now he was staring at her as though she were the mad one.
“I cannot compromise Lady Elise, even were she willing, which is doubtful.”
The heat increased in her face. She felt foolish now.
Of course Lady Elise would not dally outside the bounds of matrimony. She was a lady through and through. Not to mention that dragon of an aunt probably never even let her out of her sight.
He continued, “If it does affect me as you fear, I shall simply endure it until it fades.”
Simply endure it? She eyed him skeptically, recalling her sister writhing on the bed, desperate for satisfaction, for release.
“Don’t look so skeptical, Miss Langley.”
She nodded, looking down again at the small bronze vial in her palm. A breath shuddered through her. She felt as though she toed the brink of a great precipice. She was about to go right over the edge and she didn’t know what waited at the bottom of the other side. “You are determined to do this.”
“I am.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “Very well. Let’s fetch a spoon.”
Two hours later, Nora knocked briskly, as loud as she dared, on his bedchamber door. She had not seen or heard a peep from him since he took the tonic. She had to reassure herself he was well.
Sending a quick glance left and right down the empty corridor, she bit her lip in consternation. Here she stood yet again, braving scandal to have a word with Sinclair.
She grew only more concerned as the minutes ticked past and she stood hovering before his door, shifting impatiently on her feet.
She knocked again, slightly louder, slightly more insistent. “Mr. Sinclair?”
It was strange addressing him so formally as she had just administered an aphrodisiac to him. That seemed the kind of thing that people on a first name basis would do.
“Are you . . . well?” she asked in hushed tones, unsure what to ask of him precisely. Are you overcome from arousal and wishing for death to end the torment?
Something clattered inside the room followed by a muffled groan.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she said again, more desperately this time. Not caring for propriety, she seized the latch and tried to open it. No luck. The door was locked. She rattled the latch and called out, “Mr. Sinclair. Open this door.”
His muffled voice carried through the barrier of wood. “Go ’way!”
She pulled back, blinking, glaring at the door as though it were alive. Go away? That was an impossibility. She could not abandon him to this.
She dropped her hand away from the latch. After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed her face close to the door, hoping her voice would better penetrate through the wood that way. “Mr. Sinclair, are you unwell? Let me in at once, sir. You’re frightening me.”<
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What if she had poisoned him? Dear Heavens. What if he was dead?
His voice called out again, this time much firmer, clearly conveying his agitation. “Go away. Now!”
“Oh,” she breathed in keen disapproval.
He was clearly in distress and would not open the door to her even though he obviously required assistance. Stubborn man!
She gave the door a swift kick in a display of pique. Unfortunately that did nothing save bruise her toes.
Standing back with a huff, she propped her hands on her hips and glared at the barrier. She supposed she could find the housekeeper or butler for a master key to gain entry to his chamber. They would oblige if she explained Mr. Sinclair was in some distress and in need of help. It would not be a terribly difficult feat.
But then they would become privy to whatever was happening on the other side of this door, and Sinclair clearly did not want anyone to see him in his present condition otherwise he would not be locked in his chamber. He had told her rather confidently that he would endure whatever was to come. But what if he had underestimated his endurance?
What was his present condition?
It was quiet now on the other side of that door. Too quiet.
Her stomach plummeted as the fear of the unknown beset her. What if he was truly ill? Perhaps he was retching and he thought that was something she could not bear to witness?
She was made of stern stuff, but, of course, he would not realize or understand that. He would not be aware that she had observed retching and all manner of ugly things working beside her father and then later on her own. There could be nothing uglier than lancing one of Mr. Pratt’s boils.
Or perhaps it was worse than retching. Perhaps he was dying.
Because of her.
She pressed a hand against her suddenly roiling stomach, willing the queasiness to subside. She resisted the urge to fling herself against the door and beat on it until he opened to her.
Foolish man! She forced the air in and out of her in a controlled manner. Think, Nora, think.
She had to find a way inside that room. Except how would she gain entry to his chamber through the door he had barred? She could not simply fly in through his balcony doors like some winged savior.
The Duke Effect EPB Page 14