She shook her head as though to shake herself free of wayward thoughts and memories. She must be scientific. Logic had never failed her. She would collate the data from this new experience as she might organise any information. Indeed, any human experience would serve to enhance her work.
Except her logical brain, for once, did not function. Her thoughts spun. Her feelings defied logic.
It was not logical to want and to need something which could well jeopardise her future and her delicate, carefully constructed present.
It was not logical to want to bed a man she did not know and who was autocratic and angry—and hurt.
It was not logical to want to become so physically close to an individual with whom she could never be emotionally close. She could never tell him about her odd double life. All dreams came with a price. She’d made a choice. She’d stepped away from the rigid confines of womanhood with all its conformity.
She had to live with this choice.
But never before had she thought that living with this choice might be hard. It seemed she had glimpsed a whole different side to herself, a part so foreign, so impulsive, so instinctual—nor could she tie this experience to any pre-existing knowledge.
Even in her training, these feelings were not mentioned. Rather it seemed that wives did their duty, hapless girls were pressured into poor choices, while only whores enjoyed physical intimacy or feigned this enjoyment.
But her feelings...there had been no pretence.
Letty stretched her fingers further along the sill, staring at the infinitesimal lightening of the sky as dawn approached.
She remembered the girls, their bellies big with children they didn’t want. She remembered the frightened maids, begging for herbs or some magic potion, eyes huge with fear and worry.
Letty had never judged. She had always acted with kindness and with empathy. And yet she had not understood. She had not comprehended how any need, any emotion, any urge could make one ignore consequence.
One girl, she remembered, had been brittle with bravado. ‘It was worth it,’ she’d said. ‘I’d do it again.’
Of course, Letty knew it wasn’t. No moment could be worth a life in ruins.
Yet... Letty lifted her hand, tracing her fingertips across the cool glass. Today in this grey dawn she felt less certain. Today, she thought, it might just be possible that someone eminently sensible, sane and intelligent could indeed be overcome by emotion.
But this very thought set her adrift. It was illogical, and logic was her anchor. It was her way of being. Indeed, that was one thing on which her parents had agreed.
It does not do to wear your heart on your sleeve, her mother had said. It gives others an advantage.
And her father—she could hear his words now. Emotions are fickle things. Logic and reason provide a stronger foundation.
Letty again leaned against the window frame. Her father was right. Reason was a more reliable guide than emotion. And reason dictated that she should be so thankful, so grateful, so relieved that nothing more untoward had occurred and she need fear no consequence.
And she was grateful and relieved.
Except underneath the thankfulness, the gratitude and the relief, she felt stirrings of other emotions, complex, confusing and contradictory.
And a longing that seemed stronger than reason or logic which, indeed, defied both.
* * *
He had been attracted to her.
Tony stared at the ceiling above his bed until he felt the pale cream paint was burned into his eye. Sleep eluded him. The candle flickered.
Tony had not known he could still experience such emotion. Since his injuries, he’d felt this numbness that was both physical and emotional, precluding lust.
All his feelings had felt restrained, inhibited. Even his love for Elsie had seemed more driven by duty than that combination of affection and irritation he’d felt in earlier years.
In many ways, he liked that feeling of calm, of distance. Since arriving at Beauchamp, he’d drunk less and had settled into a routine, a carefully muted half-life. It was predictable and controllable.
He did not want feelings. Such emotion belonged to a younger man, a healthy man, a whole man. Certainly, he had no wish to be attracted to this odd, annoying, impulsive, eccentric, intriguing woman. The only thing he sought in his life right now was calm, peace, control and not this riot of emotion, this urgent need.
It felt... He frowned. He wasn’t certain how it felt. It felt wonderful but wrong. It was wrong. It was wrong that he should feel so alive. It was wrong that he should enjoy sunsets, or horse rides, or music or art.
It was wrong that he should be able to feel her touch against his skin, the whisper of her breath or the way the candlelight made her hair glint like burnished gold.
Edgar and George would never enjoy anything again. George would not meet his child. He would not hear the infant’s first words or feel a small hand placed within his own. Nor would Edgar serve and enjoy the estate he had loved. He would not advise his tenants nor survey the emerald-green multitude of his fields.
And all the other young men—all the other corpses abandoned in the muck—they could not feel warm sun or breeze or food or wine—never mind a woman’s touch.
He ran his fingers across the scar on his cheek. Oddly, it reassured him to feel the puckered skin so that, finally, he slept.
* * *
This time he did not wake screaming. Indeed, he could not remember his dreams, but when he woke he was conscious of a deep aching sadness.
He touched his cheek again. It was wet as though he had been crying.
Pulling himself upright, he stared about the brightness of his bedchamber and at the morning sunshine flickered through the curtaining, the cloth moving lazily with the breeze.
Memories from the night flooded back—a mix of joy and guilt, layers of emotion he could not discern.
He stood with sudden and unusual energy, ignoring the pain snaking through his side as he rang for Mason. He must shave and dress.
With the clarity of daylight, one thing was clear. A single concept stood out against all the confused mush of convoluted emotion.
Odd or not, Letty Barton was an innocent.
Therefore, broken or not, he must do the honourable thing.
* * *
Letty found her own dress neatly sponged clean and hanging on the hook behind the door. Thankfully, she got up, pulling off the linen nightgown with its disconcerting memories. Hastily, she put on the familiar dress, as though its unfashionable shape and colour would protect her from other further flights of aberrant behaviour.
Across the room, she caught sight of the fairy-tale dress from the night previous. Its gold threads glinted within the sunlight. She stepped to it, touching its soft silk and tentatively running her fingers along the cloth.
It was beautiful. And she had felt beautiful. For the first time ever, she had felt beautiful. It was a fantasy dress and had perhaps helped her step briefly into a fantasy life.
But fantasy was not reality.
And last night was some odd, wonderful, illusory experience.
Turning away from the dress, she sat at the writing desk, sandwiched into the far corner of the room. She’d write to Elsie. She would politely thank her for everything and then leave with all possible dispatch. And she would return to the routine of her own life, which did not include fairy-tale dresses or night-time encounters.
With this in mind, she rang for the maid and requested that the horse and carriage be brought around as soon as was possible.
‘What about breakfast, miss? It is ready and laid out in the breakfast room.’
At the mention of food, her stomach gurgled and she realised that she was hungry. She hesitated. She did not want to see Lord Anthony. However, it was entirely unlikely that he would be up alr
eady. He did not seem an early riser. In fact, his sister had specifically stated that he slept late.
Besides, the thought of travelling for more than an hour on an empty stomach was not appealing and she supposed she should ensure that Mr Cummings was still recovering. Infection was always possible.
‘Very well,’ she agreed. ‘If you could direct me to the breakfast room that would be helpful. And how is Mr Cummings today?’
‘He’s left already, miss. Apparently, he has gone home and has sent a message to Dr Jeffers in London, demanding his prompt return.’
‘Then that would suggest that rational thought has returned,’ she said tartly.
The maid led her through a warren of convoluted hallways and into the breakfast room, a small chamber pleasantly lit by bright beams of yellow sunlight.
Her body felt his presence even before she had become fully cognitively aware that he sat at the table. It was like a jolt, a cold, prickling chill, oddly combining with a flush of heat and quickened breath.
‘Good morning, Miss Barton,’ he said, his tone as bland as tapioca. He glanced towards the footman standing at the buffet.
‘We have tea or coffee and help yourself to kippers, if you would like.’
Kippers? She definitely would not like. Her stomach somersaulted at the thought, any feelings of hunger vanquished.
‘No, thank you. I will just have tea and toast.’ She sat with attempted composure. ‘And if possible, could you also ring for the carriage so I might return home as promptly as is convenient?’
Tony nodded abstractedly, as though the kippers were of far greater consequence than her travel arrangements. Then he nodded towards the footman, who brought in her tea and left.
The door closed behind him.
They were alone.
That was worse. Her stomach knotted. Goosebumps prickled. Letty chewed nervously on her lower lip.
Had she imagined the night before? Lord Anthony seemed so entirely composed. Or were both nightmares and kisses entirely a matter of course to him and of no consequence? No, she had not imagined it. She was not of a personality prone to imagination.
Besides, what did she expect? They would hardly chat about kissing over kippers. Anyway, as a member of the aristocracy it was likely hardly worthy of comment.
‘I will go to speak to your brother immediately,’ he said.
Her butter knife dropped against her plate with a sharp clank. ‘Ramsey? You will? Why?’
‘To get his permission to marry you.’
‘Marry?’ Her voice squeaked unpleasantly. ‘No. I mean, there is no need.’
He frowned. ‘Miss Barton, I acted with dishonour last night. Asking your brother’s permission to marry you might seem hypocritical now, but it is the right thing to do. Besides, he will have questions regarding my finances and my ability to look after you. I want to start things off well with your family. Even if this—if I—’
‘No, please,’ she interrupted. ‘I mean, Ramsey would greatly enjoy the chat and would be much relieved, even if he pretended not to be. But—I will not marry you.’
Chapter Seven
Letty spoke quite calmly. The very calmness of her rejection angered him. His jaw tightened. He felt throbbing pain from the scar on his cheek and from his ribcage.
‘But—Miss Barton—Letty—I must make things right.’
‘As I said, there is no need. I certainly behaved with a lack of self-discipline myself, which is quite contrary to my natural disposition.’ She paused, dropping her gaze and studying her plate as though contemplating something of great complexity. ‘Indeed, I have always been somewhat judgemental of others. I felt that individuals who engaged in such intimate relations lacked judgement and self-discipline. Perhaps I didn’t understand. I hadn’t realised how powerful physical attraction could be. This has—enhanced my knowledge.’
She fell silent, continuing to stare intently at her plate and toast, and he found this studious, almost scientific analysis extremely disconcerting.
‘Miss Barton,’ he said at last. ‘I have lost much, but I have not lost my sense of honour. Of course I will marry you and, while we have little in common, I am certain we will rub along as well as many couples. My estate, Oddsmore, is not too far from here and is a pleasant place. My income is more than adequate and I have a peerage. I am happy for you to go to London and buy trinkets and bonnets and...and things.’
She shook her head, glancing at him with that unique calmness. ‘Lord Anthony, do I look as though I enjoy trinkets or give a rap about bonnets?’
She raised one eyebrow with quirky humour which he found appealing.
‘No,’ he admitted.
‘And I know sufficient about procreation to recognise that there is no chance I am with child. Therefore, you need feel absolutely no reason or necessity to marry me. Anyway, you have done the honourable thing and offered, so think no more about it.’
His moment of humour was again overtaken by the anger which twisted through him and, underneath the anger, a painful hurt.
He had spoken of this as a matter of honour but, beneath this rationale, there was something more. This odd woman had given him something. He’d felt...
And this firm, definite, positive refusal hurt.
But then why would she want to tie herself to a broken man? He could not yet walk or run with any fluidity. His face was scarred. And she had witnessed his emotional weakness and the dreams which haunted his nights. He stood, pacing the small room.
‘It is because of my scars? All right for a temporary dalliance, but nothing long term.’
‘No.’ She stood also. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Rejecting my offer of marriage might have something to do with my supposition.’
‘You hadn’t even thought of marrying anyone and certainly not me until last night. And aren’t men always kissing women and not marrying them?’
‘Not honourable men with honourable women. True enough, I hadn’t considered marriage, but I must do my duty to the estate. So really it is not such a bad idea.’
‘How reassuring,’ she said. ‘Well, for me, it is a bad idea. Marriage is of no interest to me. It has nothing to do with your injuries. Indeed, it is not personal. I just do not wish to be married.’
She spoke with absolute certainty. He glanced at her, taking in the strong line of her jaw and straight purposeful mouth. He saw no girlish coyness or maidenly blushes. Nor did he see any wavering or indecision.
He was conscious of a heavy, leaden feeling which should have been relief. Estate or no estate, obviously, he had no wish to hurry into a marriage with this eccentric female. She was the last type of woman he needed.
With a nod, he stood. ‘Very well. I see you are determined. Obviously, neither of us would want the marriage, but I felt I should offer to ensure your good reputation and my own honour. Indeed, I am still willing to do my duty in the event that your reputation suffers as a consequence of my actions.’
She stood also, the toast untouched. ‘I do not think you need to sacrifice yourself to the altar of duty, my lord. Lady Beauchamp was in residence so my reputation will survive.’
‘Then we both have reason to be thankful. Good day.’ Turning, with a slight bow, he walked from the room as swiftly as possible, the familiar pain twisting through his ribs again reminding him of his limitations.
* * *
A week followed, made eventful only by an unfortunate tumble out of a tree by one of the Maven boys and the delivery of Mrs Ebbs’s fourth child. But despite the fine weather, Mrs Ebbs’s good health and a bottle of homemade wine provided by the grateful Mrs Maven, Letty did not sleep well. Indeed, she found herself oddly restless.
Usually, she remembered everything she read with clarity. Now, she found herself staring outside when she should be reading or reviewing an entire page and remembering nothing.
Such behaviour was highly out of character.
She, or rather, Dr Hatfield, even received a letter from Sir Humphry Davy regarding his experiment with nitrous oxide and his views on its use during surgery. Normally, she would have found his note exciting, or at least edifying. Under normal circumstances she would have likely replied immediately, but now she found her attention wandering.
Indeed, even her own research into childbirth fever did not grip her as it should.
Of even greater concern, her mind lingered not on issues of medicine as would be natural, but rather on Lord Anthony’s various features: chin, shoulders, eyes...
She kept on seeing his grey-blue eyes framed by straight brows. She remembered the dark hair, falling forward in a way which made her want to brush it back. She remembered the touch of his fingers against her skin and that slight sandpaper dryness that sent tingles and sensations throughout her body.
Of course, she could not marry Lord Anthony.
The idea was ludicrous and unnecessary. Her entire life had been spent in ensuring that she need not marry anyone. She had engaged in subterfuge and masquerade. She had sat in the back rows of cold classrooms and listened to dry lectures. She had observed surgeries and had listened to self-important physicians. She had wrapped wounds and watched illegal autopsies. She had performed illegal autopsies. She had nursed incurable patients and walked through the slums of Southwark. She had lain awake at night both excited and fearful while the inevitable ‘what ifs’ had rotated through her mind like a child’s spinning top.
At times, she had not known which she feared most—if her gender was discovered by the rough men walking the Thames’s banks or by the aristocracy in their perfect salons.
But she had reaped rewards. She had a way to make her living. She had a purpose. She was a doctor.
A Debutante in Disguise Page 12