Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
My Favorite Countess (17 page)
“It's all right,” Bathsheba said. “You've been very kind, when I don't deserve it at all. Believe me when I tell you that I would take it all back, if I could.”
The other woman's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “Why did you try to ruin Sophie's reputation?”
Bathsheba took a deep breath, reluctant to disturb the painful memories that never failed to flood her with shame.
“Desperation,” she finally admitted.
Meredith nodded, as if something had been confirmed.
“I won't pry any further,” she said, “but if you ever wish to tell me, I promise I will listen without making judgments.”
Bathsheba felt her mouth curl into a wry smile. “Perhaps someday I will.”
“Iâ” Meredith broke off at the sound of a firm tread out in the hallway. Her face lit up with a joyous smile. “That would be my husband. I'm so glad you're still here to see him.”
I'm not
, thought Bathsheba.
, thought Bathsheba.
A moment later the door swung open and the Marquess of Silverton, dressed in riding clothes, strode into the room. Like his cousin, Major Stanton, he was a tall, gorgeous man, with piercing blue eyes. And, like his cousin, those eyes looked at her with suspicion and disapproval.
“Silverton.” Meredith's affectionate voice held a hint of warning.
The marquess immediately switched his attention to his wife. The hard angles of his handsome face softened as he crossed the room to stand by Meredith's chair.
“I'm very cross with you,” he said in a husky voice that would melt any sane woman into a pool of butter. “I understand you went to Green Park this morning.”
Obviously not immune to his charm, his wife took his hand and held it briefly to her cheek. Still, she managed to look guilty.
“Whatever am I to do with you, Meredith,” he said, clearly exasperated. “I leave the house and you're out the door like a shot.”
“I'm fine,” she said emphatically. “I simply became overheated. Fortunately, Lady Randolph was also taking the air, and she and her footman helped me back to the carriage. She insisted on coming home with me, just to make sure I suffered no ill effects.”
She offered Bathsheba an appreciative smile, then shot her husband a surprisingly stern look. “I'm very grateful to her, Silverton. I was in no danger, but I did feel quite uncomfortable.”
The marquess stared down at his wife for a moment, then turned and bowed to Bathsheba.
“Then I am also in your debt, Lady Randolph. Please accept my heartfelt thanks.” He sounded like he actually meant it, although his expression was still guarded and wary.
“I was happy to be of assistance,” Bathsheba replied.
“And you, my love,” he said, refocusing on his wife, “are to rest for the remainder of the day. I'll send a note around to Dr. Steele, asking him to call.”
Meredith's gaze shifted to Bathsheba for a few seconds before returning to her husband. “That won't be necessary.”
“I insist, Meredith.” His voice remained soft, but no one would mistake the note of command.
Meredith's jaw set mutinously as her eyes narrowed on her husband. Propping his hands on his lean hips, he glared right back at her.
Time to go.
Bathsheba rose to her feet. “Lady Silverton, I must be off. No, don't get up,” she said, waving at her to remain seated.
The marchioness made a wry face. “You'd be long gone before I actually managed it. Please accept my heartfelt thanks, once again. I look forward to hearing from you very soon.”
The women exchanged a knowing look. Silverton's gaze filled with suspicion as he studied their faces.
“I won't forget,” Bathsheba promised.
Meredith smiled, her relief evident. “You are always welcome at Silverton House, my dear lady. And remember, please call me Meredith.”
Eyes opening wide as he stared at his wife, Silverton now looked like a man who had just been punched in the gut.
Repressing an evil grin, Bathsheba gave him a perfect curtsy and let herself out of the room.
Chapter 12
Bathsheba groped in her reticule and extracted a woefully inadequate lace handkerchief, slapping it over her mouth and nose as she tried not gag. The smell of hundreds of trapped animals permeated her carriage as it inched through the Smithfield Market toward the hospital entrance. The noise was deafening, the bellowing of the cattle drowning out every other sound, including the rattle of carriage wheels and the cries of the farm workers who drove the unhappy beasts to market.
After an eternity, her carriage finally rolled to a halt in front of the imposing North Gate of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The steps were let down and one of her dust-covered footmen handed her to the pavement.
“Best have a care, my lady,” he shouted above the din. “It's as dirty here as you can imagine.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” she replied faintly. He shook his head, obviously unable to hear over the noise.
She lifted her skirts and picked her way through the dirt, avoiding piles of manure and other debris from the market that didn't bear looking at. What in God's name had prompted her to wear a cream-colored Parisian walking dress to a hospital in the East Endâespecially one directly across from a cattle market?
A laugh tinged with hysteria escaped her lips, but she clamped her mouth shut at the foul taste of dust in the air. The answer to her question was Dr. John Blackmore. Her lovely new gown gave all the appearance of modesty, but the superb drape of the material displayed her figure to advantage, especially her breasts. Knowing she would see John againâand her stomach flip-flopped at the very thoughtâshe wanted desperately to look her best. After all, who knew how he would react to her unexpected and probably unwelcome visit?
Coming to a halt in front of the richly ornate North Gate, topped by its statue of Henry VIII, Bathsheba wished she could take a deep breath to steady her nerves. Only her promise to Lady Silverton yesterday had kept her from losing courage at the last moment. Now that she was here, she could finally admit she had dressed so carefully to bolster her confidence rather than to deflect John's anger.
But more than his anger, she feared his contempt. For most of last night, she had tossed and turned in her bed, convinced he must surely be grateful she had walked away.
She swallowed, unable to take those last few steps through the carved arch into the hospital despite the noise and stench of the market behind her. Casting her eyes up to the statue of the Tudor king, she tried to scold her feverish nerves into submission. Henry, one fist resting on his marbled hip, glowered down at her as if issuing some kind of challenge.
As she stared back at the dead monarch, irritation finally overcame anxiety. The hell with John Blackmore, anyway. What did it matter if he didn't want to see her? Bathsheba had given her word to a woman who should have treated her as an enemy and had, instead, extended a hand in friendship. She'd be damned if John's contempt, her nerves, or anything else would make her break that promise to Lady Silverton.
Hitching her shoulders, she marched under the gateway, through the passage and on past the small parish church dwarfed by the hospital's extensive grounds. Just ahead, she saw a large, four-story building with tall windows and an arched door set under a marble porch. She went inside and found herself in a spacious entrance hall. A clerk sat behind a desk, out of the flow of traffic coming through the door.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I wonder if you could tell me where I might find Dr. Blackmore.”
The man's balding head jerked up. Watery blue eyes grew round as his gaze traveled from the crown of her feathered, high-poke bonnet all the way to her absurdly dainty and no longer white kid slippers.
“Argh . . .” he gurgled, obviously flummoxed by the sight of a fashionable lady in the hallowed halls of Bart's.
“Dr. Blackmore?” she prompted, giving him an imperious lift of an eyebrow.
He scrambled to his feet. “Yes, my . . . who should I say is calling?”
“The Countess of Randolph.”
“One moment, your ladyship.” He waved frantically to a young man passing through the hallway. “Mr. Simmons is Dr. Blackmore's medical student, Lady Randolph. I'm sure he'll be able to hunt him down.”
The burly young man, who looked more like a prizefighter than a doctor, changed course and hurried to the desk. As the clerk whispered in his ear, a startled expression flashed across his blunt features. He cast Bathsheba a quick, knowing glance and then nodded to the clerk.
“Lady Randolph.” He gave a respectful bow, but studied her with open curiosity. “Dr. Blackmore is in the admissions room. If you will be so good as to wait here, I'll fetch him immediately.”
He strode away and the clerk sank down behind his desk, warily observing her as if he expected her to cause some kind of commotion. She had a wayward impulse to allay his fears. After all, she'd already done the most insane thing possible just by coming here.
In an effort to distract herself from the sensation that her stomach was climbing into her throat, she wandered over to the beautiful oak staircase in one corner of the hall. Set high up above the wainscoting were two massive pictures, each painted in a lush, highly allegorical style. She moved to the base of the steps to study them.
A depiction of Christ healing the sick loomed over her, the giant figures too vivid for comfort. One especially caught her eyeâa young girl, looking frail and emaciated, and disturbingly like her sister Rachel during her illness last month.
Bathsheba's mouth went dry as frightening memories of her own battle against the deadly infection came flooding into her mind. She shuddered, repelled by the sense of desperation bleeding out from the figures on the rococo-framed canvas, and yet she couldn't look away. The images were too compellingâtoo real. It was almost as if the artist had walked the halls of this very hospital, stamping in his memory all the images of sickness and despair to be later transferred to his painting.
Feeling light-headed, she forced herself to turn away and focus on the other picture. Slowly, her pounding heart began to settle, and she was able to examine the elaborate painting.
It also appeared to be a biblical allegory. A vague recollection stirred, but she couldn't quite place the story. One man, dressed only in a winding cloth, lay on the ground. Hurt or sick, she couldn't tell which. Another man, having just dismounted from his horse, was helping him.
“It's the parable of the Good Samaritan,” rumbled a deep voice behind her.
She gasped and lurched around, bumping her elbow into the unforgiving wooden balustrade of the staircase. John stood a few feet away, his eyes flat discs of gray that revealed nothing.
“I'm sorry I startled you,” he said. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She gaped at him. “What?”
As he glanced down, she realized she was rubbing her elbow.
“Oh. No, I was just looking at the pictures. They're quite . . . large,” she finished lamely. God, she sounded like a complete idiot.
John's mouth, stretched into a hard line, actually twitched, and the tension in her stomach eased a notch. She had forgotten how beautiful his mouth was.
“They're Hogarth's,” he said. “He donated them to the hospital. Supposedly, he modeled the figures on actual patients at Bart's.”
“I can believe it.” Not that she wanted to think anymore about Hogarth or his gruesome pictures. All she wanted to do was gaze into John's handsome face, greedily absorbing everything she had missed about him these last three weeks.
She'd forgotten how tall he was, and how his height and broad shoulders made her feel so . . . ridiculously feminine. Soberly clad in a dark, high-buttoned coat and black trousers, he seemed every inch the physician, and a somber one at that.
Bathsheba frowned, disturbed that he looked so grim. His eyes held so much weariness. Deep lines scored the sides of his mouth, as if he had spent the time apart from her clenching his teeth. Her heart wrenched with guilt, even though she couldn't help rejoicing that he seemed as miserable without her as she was without him.
His gaze flicked over her breasts and then back to her face. He didn't move, but a barely contained impatience vibrated in the air between them.
“How can I help you, Lady Randolph? It must be of some import to bring you to this part of the city.”
She winced at the sarcastic tone of voice. Not that she could blame him. It was a miracle he hadn't thrown her out into the street as soon as he laid eyes on her.
“Dr. Blackmore.” Her voice quavered and she dropped her gaze to his polished boots. She blew out an exasperated breath. Having survived four years of marriage to Reggie, she could certainly survive an apology to a man who more than deserved it.
Tilting her chin up, she stared directly into his eyes. “You can help me by accepting my apology. My behavior that last day in Ripon was beyond the pale, and nothing I can do will ever make up for it. But you must believe me when I say that I didn't want to insult you. I simply couldn't . . .”
God, she had rehearsed the words most of the night, and still she couldn't spit them out.
“Yes?” His voice, gentler now, encouraged her.
“I was unsettled by what I felt,” she finished, giving a helpless shrug.
A sudden heat flared in his eyes. She shivered, like the first time he had looked at her that way. Longing transformed the hard lines of his face, and she saw once again the passionate man who had made love to her in the blazing sunlight of a summer's day.
Then the flat gray look in his eyes returned.
“You came all the way to Smithfield just to apologize to me?”
She hesitated. “No. There is something else I must ask you, if you have a few moments to spare. I promise I won't take up any more of your time then is necessary.”
She could sense his disappointed retreat, but he recovered quickly. “Of course, my lady. Why don't we go upstairs to the Great Hall? It's slightly more private than the front entrance. We can sit in one of the window alcoves.”
Taking her arm in a light grip, he guided her up the staircase. She studiously avoided looking at the Hogarth paintingsâthe gruesome one, anyway.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Have you seen a physician since you've returned to London?”
“It hasn't been necessary.”
He snorted, making his disapproval clear. Her spirits began to lift ever so slightly.
“Truly,” she said, “I feel perfectly well.”
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath, tightening his hand just a fraction around her arm. She repressed a triumphant smile. Perhaps he didn't trust her, but he obviously still worried about her.
They entered the Great Hall. Bathsheba paused, surprised by the elegant and spacious beauty of the room. She had never imagined a hospital would look like thisâall polished wood and carved oak friezes, and a fretwork ceiling that wouldn't be out of place in the mansions of the ton. But the men and women who passed through the hall were nothing like the inhabitants of Mayfair. Plainly dressed, they moved with purpose, serious people intent on serious business.
With a gentle nudge, John steered her to an out-of-the-way alcove that held a few square-backed chairs. He handed her into one before sitting down beside her.
“What can I do for you, my lady?”
“For one, you can stop referring to me as âmy lady.'”
His silver eyes grew cold as a lake frozen by the first blasts of winter. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but the last time we spoke, you instructed me to only address you by your title.”
She blushed. How could she have forgotten that?
“Oh. Perhaps that would be better,” she said, wishing she could disappear in a puff of smoke.
He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “Whatever am I to do with you?” He sounded more resigned than exasperated.
Tears prickled behind her eyelids, catching her off guard. She blinked them away, praying he wouldn't notice.
“I realize this is awkward,” she blurted out, “butâ”
He reached over and engulfed her tightly gloved fingers in the warmth of his big hand. His thumb caressed the inside of her palm, sending tingles of heat through the fabric to her skin. The words she had been about to utter died on her lips.
“Hush, Bathsheba,” he murmured. “This isn't the time or place.” He glanced around. “Hospitals are hotbeds of gossipâlike the ballrooms of Mayfair.”
Her heart thrummed in her chest. Did he mean there would be another time and place? An opportunity to discuss how everything between them had gone wrongâhow
she
had made them go wrong? She stared into his handsome face, knowing she must appear little better than an infatuated simpleton.
she
had made them go wrong? She stared into his handsome face, knowing she must appear little better than an infatuated simpleton.
He gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, then released her hand.
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