A Passionate Endeavor (4 page)

She had yet to have a man agree to discuss
any ailment with her. Mr. Gordon had refused even to tell her what
his complaint concerned.

“Only a gen’lrnan doctor will do for the
bikes o’ me,” he had said with a big grin as he chucked her
cheek.

All this she must endure along with the
recalcitrant new patient, Lord Huntington, who refused to trust her
and took delight in goading her. It was a disheartening
business.

She promised herself an hour working with her
clay sculptures or bird-watching when she was through with this
afternoon’s shift with the duke or his heir. At least Lord
Huntington’s fever had broken, and the infection was clearing and
less inflamed after a week. But in some ways it was easier to care
for a delirious patient than a stubborn man who was weak and too
determined to deviate from the lengthy path to recovery.

Charlotte greeted the busy servants and young
Charley as she made her way to Lord Huntington’s chambers.

“He is asleep, Miss Kittridge. He must be
making up for all the tossin’ and turnin’ he done last week,” said
the ever-faithful youth, who sat slumped in a chair outside the
chamber’s door. He was always within earshot of his master.

“Charley, you are a most loyal batman. But
everyone must take a lie down from time to time. I promise to care
for your master. But you must be at your best when he needs you.
Please go and rest.”

It was the first time he had agreed to her
suggestion. Either he was exhausted or he trusted her, at last. One
battle won, on to the next.

She entered the room and stood over the form
of Lord Huntington. The small pile of books on history, farming,
and law stood untouched. She had brought them to him two days ago,
when the fever had broken. He allowed her to read to him and
discuss the worldly topics for many hours each day, but refused to
read alone in his solitary hours.

His breath came evenly in slumber, and his
forehead looked dry. She gently felt his pulse and resisted the
urge to touch his face to check for any remnants of a fever. He
needed sleep more than anything now.

Lord, he was so very handsome. The classic
lines of his face reminded her of the engravings in her book on the
sculpture of Michelangelo. Even in sleep, he looked like a
mythological warrior in stone—although somewhat more gaunt in the
cheeks, if she was truthful. His jaw was square and strong, with
just a hint of a cleft in the chin, his lips full. With a sigh, she
realized he was like a Greek god no less, perfection—the antithesis
of her childish female form. It was a thoroughly depressing
thought.

Charlotte jumped back in surprise when his
lips opened and his breath quickened before he groaned. His
shoulders twitched, and she could see he was dreaming.

“No, no, NO—please don’t… don’t take her—” he
whispered. Charlotte woke him immediately. He sat up and grasped
her arms in a painful grip, gasping for great lungfuls of air.

“Oh, dear God…” he said in a rough voice.

She put her arms around his shoulders
awkwardly when he did not release her. Lord Huntington rested the
side of his head against her breast while he regained his senses
and regulated his breathing. “Thank you for waking me.”

“I am glad I could be of service.” His head
on her breast made her insides feel strange and wobbly. “I have
known the fear of many a bad dream or three.”

He released her, and she was sorry to lose
the contact of his warm arms.

“Have you been plagued, thusly? What could
possibly invade the sweet dreams of a sage innocent such as
yourself?” He was still groggy and struggled to reposition his
pillows to allow himself to sit up.

In a trice she arranged them to his liking,
and looked down at him. “Mostly the revolution, my lord,” she
hesitated. “Sometimes, my mother, the crowds—” she stopped,
unwilling to say more, and wondered why she had dared to reveal
even that much.

“I am sorry. Your family was in France during
the revolution? Were you exposed to any of the… ugliness?” he
asked, but then put up his hand. “No, I can see by the look on your
face that you would rather not speak of it. Just as I choose not to
dwell on scenes from the battlefield.” He smiled. “We are two
veterans, I see.”

“You are right.” She was grateful he had not
asked more. “War leaves such deep scars on the mind. I’ve seen it
on the countless numbers of men my father treated in London after
they returned.”

“Ah, it is strange, but I rarely dream of the
war. It is more often about here—the abbey.”

Charlotte possessed a keen sense of when a
patient wanted to talk and when they did not. She looked at him and
said nothing, willing him to continue. He looked past her shoulder
toward the window.

“It is a cold, awful, damp place, Wyndhurst,”
he said, passing his hand over his forehead. “And many a night my
sister and I were convinced it was haunted by the long-dead
religious, who, we guessed, frowned upon our escapades.”

He looked at her with a slight smile and
continued, “I would hear my sister’s little bare feet padding down
the hall at a dead run a full half-minute before she would fling
open the door and jump into my bed,” he said, laughing. “She hated
to be separated from Edwin and me at night—left all alone in the
dark in a room down the hall and one floor above. Our nurse, who
was quite hard of hearing, slept in a small chamber off the room
Edwin and I shared.”

He paused, and a shadow crossed his features.
His eyes became unfocused.

“And then the day arrived when we were
caught. Her Grace arrived much later than usual one evening to say
her goodnights. She was very fond of… of children. Well, of her son
at least, and she made a habit of coming in every night to coddle
and kiss him goodnight, then sing a lullaby to him.”

Charlotte was confused but remained silent.
She watched him swallow before continuing.

“And of course, she noticed the large shape
in my bed, as Rosamunde had hidden, pressed against me, when Her
Grace had entered. There was quite the fracas. Rosamunde was
banished from being near me—a harsh punishment we managed to
circumvent often, but equally often received hefty punishments for.
My stepmother said it was—unnatural—our attachment.” He almost
stopped altogether, then added, “Perhaps she was correct.”

Many moments passed before Charlotte knew he
was finished. “Her Grace is not your mother?” “Yes, well, she
tries to insist that we call her that, but no, she is not.”

“When did you lose your mother?”

“When I was six, and Rosamunde, three.”

He had been almost the same age she had been
when her mother died in France. “I am sorry.”

“So am I, Miss Kittridge, so am I,” he said,
looking down at her hand that had grasped his during the awful
story. He covered her fingers with his other powerful hand and
squeezed.

“And your stepmother did not feel compelled
to show you and your sister the same affection she gave her son
each night?” Charlotte’s composure shriveled with anger.

“No. But I could hardly expect it. I was not
her flesh and blood.”

“You consider it normal to kiss and cuddle
one child while leaving the other half-orphaned child in a darkened
corner of a room with nary a word of affection?” Now fury was upon
her. “Your stepmother was wrong, you know. There is nothing
unnatural about two motherless children seeking comfort from each
other—especially in the pitch darkness of night, when fears run
amok in a child’s mind.” Charlotte stopped for a moment to collect
herself. “I’m sorry for my outburst.”

“I am honored to have a defender.” He
appeared pleased by her spirited words. “I would have liked to have
you in my darkened corner, I think,” he said, his eyes crinkling in
the corners.

She could not stop. “I myself spent many a
night in my father or brother’s arms when night fears took hold. I
was more fortunate than you. They never turned me away. Many would
say I was spoilt beyond redemption.”

“I would not say you were poorly reared by
any means, my dear Miss Kittridge. Except when you are intent on
disobeying my every command,” he said, smiling.

She opened her mouth to disagree.

“Now you are not going to play the
contrarian, are you?” he interrupted. “I thought we made strong
headway today, against our poor start. Don’t you agree?”

“Well… yes. In fact, since I am agreeing with
you in this case, I will be much obliged if you allow me to encase
your leg in this linen, stiffened with egg whites. I could not
obtain plaster of Paris, which is a new technique being used in
some parts of Europe now, so this will have to do.” She knew she
was rambling. She did it in an effort to avoid his certain censure.
“It will help keep the limb immobile and hasten recovery.”

“I am well aware of the necessary annoyance
of immobility, Miss Kittridge, as I have had you to remind me of
this every day during the last eight days. All right, I shall
acquiesce, but only because, well… well, because you are right!” He
laughed.

His humor was contagious. Charlotte
smiled.

“Why, Miss Kittridge, I didn’t know you had
dimples. How charming,” he said, grasping her arm and pulling her
close.

He touched her cheek with his other hand, and
she held her breath. She watched his intense green gaze move from
her cheek to her mouth and wondered if there was another man on
earth whose appearance could leave her so unsettled.

She was sure he could see her heart’s erratic
pounding. He dropped his hand from her face and lightly pulled her
to meet him as he raised himself off the pillows.

Please, oh, please God, let this happen.

His warm lips covered her own, and she felt
like she would explode by the awareness of his body touching hers.
Her mind raced with the knowledge that he was actually kissing her!
She pulled back for the smallest instant and looked at him, sure he
had made some sort of mistake. Something in his hungered expression
reassured her, and she quickly lowered her lips to his again,
mimicking his gentle exploration.

His lips parted and the intoxicating heat of
his breath flowed onto her cheek. His tongue traced the edges of
her lips and she shivered. Was there a more divine feeling?

His hand stroked down her arm and back up her
waist, coming to rest against her breast. The pressure was wicked
and heavenly all at the same time.

He broke away with a sigh and whispered into
her ear, “Miss Kittridge, I must apologize. But dimples drive me to
unconscionable actions. Do forgive me. Best keep them hidden from
now on, or you shall be in danger again.”

In her flustered state, Charlotte could not
think of a single thing to say. To occupy her shaking hands, she
began unwrapping the bandage that was to go on his lordship’s
leg.

“Perhaps it would be better for your father
to wrap my leg, Miss Kittridge.”

Her eyes flew to his thigh, still covered by
the linen sheets, and the shape above it. Her embarrassment
increased tenfold.

“I daresay not even a saint could be trusted
in this condition. I am sorry, Miss Kittridge.” She flew from the
room, leaving behind the stiffened bandages, her pride, and the
scene of her first kiss. Oh, it had been heady. Quite, quite
divine. Why hadn’t that novel mentioned anything about kisses?

“
Even the smooth surface of family union
seems

worth preserving, though there may be
nothing

durable beneath
.”

—Persuasion

OH, no, my dear brother, I must relinquish
the head of the table in deference to you, now that you are on the
mend,” said Lord Edwin, drawing out the aforementioned seat and
motioning Nicholas to it. “This is your first appearance, after
all, after three weeks.”

Nicholas glanced at his father’s wife out of
the corner of his eye. Her Grace paled, her lips thinning in
suppressed anger.

“I prefer to leave it vacant in deference to
Father,” he replied.

“Always the proper one,” Edwin replied.
“Always thinking of others. How I admire you and wish to be more
like you,” he continued with an easy smile.

Not wanting his brother to feel
uncomfortable, Nicholas offered another solution as he turned to
one of their dinner guests, the elderly parish vicar. “His Grace
would be most comfortable knowing a man of your high morals was
warming his seat, Mr. Llewellyn.”

The duchess appeared infuriated by his
decision. The tall, white-haired gentleman bowed. “I would be most
delighted to accede to your wishes, Lord Huntington.” Nicholas
hobbled on his new crutch to a seat offered by the butler.

“I am most pleased you were able to join us
for dinner, Dr. Kittridge,” said the Duchess of Cavendish as she
took her seat along with the other ladies. She nodded to the
doctor’s two offspring, “and of course your family as well,” she
added with stiff, condescending hauteur. A smile skirted her tight
lips as she surveyed with distaste the unbalanced group of seven
ladies and five gentlemen at table.

“It is an honor, Your Grace,” replied Dr.
Kittridge.

“We are indebted to your tireless care,”
added Edwin, as he served himself a sizable portion of the boiled
loin of veal and braised asparagus.

Nicholas glanced at Miss Kittridge, who had
been placed opposite him. She looked up to meet his gaze, then
returned her attention to the plate in front of her with haste.
What was she thinking’ He had not seen her in the last fortnight,
although his faithful batman had told him Miss Kittridge often
watched over him while he slept. Charley and Rosamunde had been his
only source of companionship since that morning. Had his boldness
shocked her so much that she dared not converse with him again lest
he ravage her?