Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (13 page)

And it wasn't revolting at all. It was . . .
Her mind failed to provide a single appropriate word for the molten sweet intoxication of being in Rowan's arms.

“There you are, Miss Renshaw! I brought you up some lavender water to refresh you after such a long night.” Florence's interruption was a welcome breeze of distraction, her petite frame moving about the room with the busy energy of a bee in a garden. “I'll set it here, and then I'm to ask if you'd like more pillows.”

“Thank you, Florence. I'm sure I have enough.”

Florence shook her head, undaunted. “Bed pillows, perhaps, but there's not a frill of lace or embroidery to be seen. Cook said ladies suffer without a bit of embellishment, and while Mrs. Evans was sputtering a bit about dust covers—I just thought I'd come up and ask.”

Gayle laughed. “You're a champion of embellishment, are you?”

“Even my room has a touch of tatting, Miss Renshaw, and I'm no lady!”

“You're very much a lady, dear Florence, and I'll leave all the embellishments to you.” She finished pinning up her hair and pushed a carved tortoiseshell comb into place in her curls. “Truthfully, I never noticed since I never seem to be in this room, unless I'm stumbling to bed. Please don't trouble Mrs. Evans.”

“You have to trouble her a little, or she'll fret herself and make Mrs. Wilson nervous, and there goes the menu!” Florence explained patiently as she moved to remake Gayle's already made bedding. “Dr. West won't thank you for all this ‘lack of trouble,' and that is a bit of good advice, miss.”

At the mention of the doctor, Gayle lost some of her carefree humor but tried not to show it. “Very well. I'd love another pillow. This chair for the desk could benefit, don't you think?”

“Yes!” Florence turned back to survey the room, tapping her foot. “You've even swept! You have to leave me a few things to do, miss. Mrs. Evans will think I've skipped off the way I come back downstairs so quickly after being sent to look after you.”

“You've enough to do without tidying up my room. Besides, I know all the extra trouble I cause for dinner trays and such. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

“You are sweet! I like to bring you trays, and we worry downstairs—you being up here all the time by yourself.”

“I'm in heaven learning as I am, Florence. Please reassure them all that I am very happy in my work. And Mrs. Evans most of all! I know she doesn't approve of me.”

Florence smiled. “She likes you in her fashion. She's just slower to show it and feels terribly responsible for the house. Barnaby says, when she isn't too near to catch him, that she's all hiss and no scratch!”

“Yes, but does she ever purr?” Gayle spoke without thinking, and then they were both laughing at the idea of a contented Mrs. Evans with nothing to do but rearrange her own fur.

Rowan cleared his throat and marveled at the way the beautiful girl laughing and talking to the house maid instantly transformed into the haughty and enigmatic Miss Renshaw. The ice had returned to her eyes and he was almost grateful for it.

Florence scurried past him with a shy smile, and Rowan stepped inside the room to see what lay ahead for him and his apprentice. He noted that her bags were definitely not sitting by the doorway, so his first guess was that the only tangible result of all his Machiavellian wrangling was to forfeit her trust.
I kissed her and now she's looking at me as if she isn't convinced that I'm not going to lock the door and force myself on her. Damn. What a mess!

“Florence is a good girl. It seems you have an ally in the house.”

“I like her.” Gayle crossed her arms, a habit he was beginning to enjoy since it betrayed more of her thoughts than she realized. “It's good to have at least one ally.”

“Only one?” He sat at the end of the table. “This isn't exactly enemy territory, is it?”

“I'm using my personal experience and observations, Dr. West, and would like to wait awhile before answering that question.”

“Ah! Reserving judgment are we?” he asked, casually leaning over on his elbows. “Fair enough.”

“Did you want any—” She stopped midsentence and then rephrased her question. “I was going to study the texts you left on surgical techniques, but if you have something else you wanted me to do . . .”

“I've given you enough books to keep you buried for a month, haven't I?”

“I wasn't complaining.”

“Would you? Complain? Ever?” he asked, each question coming out a little more seriously than he'd intended. “You're quick to argue, Miss Renshaw, but I haven't heard a whisper of complaint about the work you've been assigned.”

She pursed her lips together. “Was that your goal? To bury me in books until I cried
enough
?”

“You are a puzzle, Miss Renshaw. To everyone else, you seem a bit more tenderhearted, but to me . . . I am gifted apparently with drawing out your worst traits.”

“No. It isn't you. I am deliberately my worst self in your presence.”

“Why?”

“Any feminine weakness, any vulnerability or display of tenderheartedness will only earn me your scorn. I wanted to make sure that I proved to you that I could be as focused and frank as any man. I would never want you to think less of me.”

“And I only reinforced that, didn't I?” He stood up to prepare to go.

“I don't wish to invite your . . . sympathy or comfort, Dr. West. I'm sure you . . . only meant to be kind with your attention last night, but I'll ask you to maintain your professional distance from now on. I cannot allow you to think of me in that way.”

He could only nod, unwilling to apologize since even at that moment, a part of him wished to kiss her until the brittle cold in her violet eyes gave way.
My own little touch of insanity, to want you, Miss Renshaw, but I'll do my best to keep my thoughts to myself.

“When Jackson Blythe died last night, I was cruel.” He put his hands on the table and dropped his head. “Well, at least I know the cause, and now if I argue on the side of praising all those delightful feminine traits of compassion you possess, I would go against my own previous wise teaching, wouldn't I?”

“You were right to reproach me after Jackson's death. I was an idiot to lose my composure like that, and it didn't help Mrs. Blythe in the slightest—or Jackson.”

“I'm right. I'm wrong. It's an amazing tangle, Miss Renshaw.” He straightened his frame and took a deep breath. “Like a Gordian knot.”

“I don't understand.”

“It doesn't matter. Go on as you wish, Miss Renshaw. I won't touch you again.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Tonight, if I'm not out on call, I'll expect you to be able to tell me how to successfully amputate a man's leg.”

And he left wondering if she were the only woman on earth who could be happily diverted by the prospect of learning how to carve up a man's flesh.

Lady Pringley was his most difficult patient, but also his most wealthy and influential. She was an infamous gossip whose acid-edged comments had contributed to the destruction of more than one unlucky soul, but somehow she had a soft spot for Rowan. The woman's patronage was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing came in the prestige it gave to his practice and the increasing number of regular patients from her elevated circles that paid handsomely for his services. The curse was that the woman vacillated between treating him like a pampered pet and a personal servant—and neither one was a role he enjoyed.

“What kind of physician can't cure a headache, for God's sake?” Lady Pringley snapped at him as she readjusted one of the pillows at her elbows. She was reclining on a fainting couch in the sitting room off her bedroom, and from what her maid had told him on his way up, she'd been in a temper all morning.

“Rendering you unconscious with opiates is not a cure, Lady Pringley.”

“Well, it feels like one!”

“To your detriment, your ladyship, but let's see if we cannot find a better solution to your discomfort this morning that will keep you from drooling into your tea later this afternoon, shall we?”

“Dr. West!” She gasped in shock, only to smile the next instant like a schoolgirl. “You are too abrupt!”

Rowan knew his patient all too well. For a woman complaining of a terrible headache, she was rather prim and pert, and at the prospect of torturing her “personal physician,” she appeared very bright-eyed and alert. Lady Pringley enjoyed a variety of mild complaints to employ him regularly, and he was too wise a man to point out that only a woman as healthy as she was could find the energy to complain and cajole him as she did and frighten every debutante to the point of hysterics from London to Bristol.

Lady Pringley leaned forward like a bird of prey eyeing a pigeon. “So now I can be abrupt. Why are you not married, Dr. West?”

“That
is
abrupt.” He took out his stethoscope in a blatant ploy to ignore the question. “I'll have to ask you to cease speaking for a moment while I listen, your ladyship.”

She complied, but not without giving him a blistering look that would have frightened a lesser man. He took his time, moving the drum about and pretending to evaluate her heartbeat and breathing, silently praying for patience. At last, he had to lean back and pronounce her healthy. “You have a strong and elegant constitution, Lady Pringley.”

“I have a headache, nonetheless, Dr. West,” she insisted archly. “Well?”

“Are we still talking about your headache?” he asked innocently.

“Don't be daft. You are too handsome not to be married, Dr. West. How is it that you are not?” Lady Pringley gave him an openly evaluating look. “Have you some secret vice or terrible flaw that would prevent you from marriage?”

“Come, your ladyship! You know better than to ask a bachelor such a thing! A man cannot admit to regret, and if I aspire to a wife, I would have to neglect my patients and my practice. There are not enough hours in the day for a proper courtship or social pursuits, not for a doctor. She would have to drop into my lap, and I never sit still long enough, Lady Pringley.”

“Shall I find a wife for you, then?” Lady Pringley reclined back, anticipating her favorite treatment. “I have an excellent eye and I know exactly the sort of woman that would suit.”

“Do you?”

“I do, indeed.” She closed her eyes. “A vicar's daughter, perhaps or the offspring of one of your own professional peers. You'll need an obedient and devoted little thing, completely content to occupy herself with embroidery or a hobby of economy while you are out on calls. I imagine her as bright enough to anticipate your needs but not too chatty! You are a personable man, Dr. West, but I know what's best, and a man should never look to his wife to provide too much conversation!”

He took out the peppermint liniment and rubbed it onto his fingertips and began gently massaging her temples and scalp. She practically purred as his hands worked small circles against her skin to relax her and banish her “headache.” “You're very astute, but I must decline the offer, your ladyship. Truthfully, Lady Pringley, I am a wretched thing and not very lively or entertaining. I think a wife deserves some levity and cheerful company, does she not?”

He was overplaying it, and he knew it, but it had the result he'd hoped for. Lady Pringley was amused by her melancholy physician and distracted by the debate itself and not its subject.

“True! A man can be too serious and be punished with too serious a wife, in my opinion. It is a dreary profession you have, sir.” She sighed with sympathy for his plight. “Not as depressing as an undertaker, but close enough!”

“This is exactly the moment when I'm supposed to argue about the nobility of medicine and protest a bit so that you can trick me into admitting that I'm not so dreary after all.”

“You're such a clever man. Be dreary if you must, but young girls these days are often drawn to men with somber dispositions. They'll see you as a delightful challenge, thanks to all the poetry they consume!”

“I'll be on my guard, your ladyship.”

“I do wish you'd let an older woman enjoy the innocent pastime of matchmaking.” She pouted, opening her eyes to give him a piercing look.

“I don't need a wife, Lady Pringley, I need a—” His breath caught in his throat in surprise at what he'd almost blurted out.
Here's a twist....