My Favorite Countess (18 page)
Read My Favorite Countess Online
Authors: Vanessa Kelly
“Why don't you tell me the other reason you came here,” he said. “Before I forget myself and do something we both might regret.”
She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. If she wasn't careful she would forget, tooâforget why she couldn't have him. Bathsheba had told herself that her visit was not about her, or about John, for that matter. Lady Silverton needed help. That was the reason she had come to Bart's. Not to engage in an impossible love affair, no matter how much she desired it, but to secure assistance for her newly found friend.
“I need your help as a physician,” she said.
He frowned, looking worried again.
She shook her head. “Not for me. For a friend.”
As she explained her request, the sexual heat in his eyes died away. He frowned and his expression grew distant, as if he contemplated some thorny problem. Bathsheba talked on, explaining in a low voice her encounter with Lady Silverton, and relating the marchioness's concerns about Dr. Steele.
When she finished, John rested his forearms on his powerful thighs and stared absently at the floor. A faint pulse of unease stirred in her chest. If he refused to help, she had the feeling Lady Silverton would be devastated.
“Lady Silverton tried not to show it, but I could tell she was frightened. She doesn't trust Dr. Steele. Frankly, neither do I,” she ended on a challenging note.
He shot her a startled glance and sat up straight.
“How does the marquess feel about this situation?”
“He didn't reveal his thoughts to me,” Bathsheba responded dryly. “But he seems to share the general opinion that Dr. Steele is one of the best accoucheurs in London.”
“He does indeed have that reputation.”
She heard a doubt in his tone that belied his words.
“You don't agree?” she asked.
His mouth pulled into a disapproving line. “No, but it would hardly be politic for me to say so, especially around here. Steele is very popular amongst the aristocracy. That makes him powerful in the medical establishment. But he is old-fashioned and arrogant, and he allows his patients to suffer needlessly.”
“He told the marchioness that pain and suffering was the lot of those descended from Eve.”
He shook his head in disgust. “What an ass.”
She grinned, feeling inordinately pleased. “That's exactly what I said.”
They exchanged looks. He didn't smile, but he didn't have toâthe amused, appraising gleam in his silvery gaze told her everything she needed to know. A slow, syrupy pleasure welled forth somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
“Well, my dear lady, be that as it may, you have put me in a bit of a fix.” He looked suddenly very intent, almost stern. “As I understand it, neither Lady Silverton nor her husband has relayed to Dr. Steele that his services are no longer required. If I were to call on her ladyship without Steele's permission, I would surely offend him. He won't take that lightly, I assure you.”
She stiffened. “Are you afraid of him?”
He gave her a long-suffering look, and she relaxed.
“No. But there could be consequences, for Lady Silverton as well as myself. After speaking to me, she might decide she prefers to remain with Steele. If he were to discover she had consulted with me, he might refuse to treat her. Nor do I wish to cause a breach between a wife and her husband.”
Bathsheba gave her head a very positive shake. “You couldn't possibly do that. Lord Silverton is devoted to her. As for wishing to remain with Dr. Steele, I can assure you that she doesn't. She thoroughly dislikes him and does everything she can to avoid seeing him.”
As he contemplated the floor again, a new, very unpleasant thought struck her. If she hadn't been wearing her gloves, she would have been tempted to chew on a nail.
“Will you get in trouble with your colleaguesâwith the hospitalâif you see Lady Silverton?”
She studied him anxiously, knowing how much his position at St. Bartholomew's meant to him. If taking Lady Silverton on as a patient was to risk his position . . .
He shrugged, a graceful movement of hard muscle sliding under the light wool of his coat.
“Perhaps. Steele is an old friend of Dr. Abernethy, my superior here at the hospital. But that wouldn't stop me from doing it, if that is what Lady Silverton desires.”
The slow stream of syrup in her chest turned into a torrent, sweeping her over some internal cliff. John Blackmore was like no man she had ever known. His courage, his willingness to champion those who needed his helpâeven at the risk to his careerâoverwhelmed her carefully wrought defenses and tumbled her dangerously close to adoration. But the very qualities that made him so attractive also made her uneasy. That a man would be willing to risk his professional reputationâthe means by which he supported himselfâwas something she couldn't fathom. Try as she might, she would never be brave enough to risk her own security and social standing.
With a start, she realized he was studying her with a slightly bemused expression on his face. She flushed, knowing she must look like an absolute bird-wit. But her little moment of revelation had shaken her down to the soles of her shoes.
Don't think about it now. Think about Meredith.
“So, you'll call on the marchioness, Doctor?”
He hesitated, as if some unresolved scruple held him back. She glanced around. No one seemed to be looking their way, so she dared to rest a hand on his sleeve.
“John, I have no right to ask this of you, but please do it for me.”
He gave her a fierce scowl, but she thought she detected a mocking gleam in his eye.
“Lady Randolph, I do believe you are attempting to manipulate me.”
She smiled. “Perhaps.” Tilting her head, she studied him from under her lashes.
Definitely mocking.
Definitely mocking.
“Is it working?” she asked, letting her voice go husky.
He gave a grudging laugh. “All right, Bathsheba. I'll send a note to Lady Silverton this afternoon.”
Equal measures of delight and relief bubbled up within her. “Thank you! I'm so grateful. I can't begin to tell you.”
He stared at her, his eyes suddenly sleepy-looking and seductive. “I wonder how grateful? Perhaps I should ask you to demonstrate.”
His chair creaked under his weight as he leaned into her, just slightly. No one looking at them would notice he had moved closer. But she noticedâher entire body noticed, responding to the crackle of sexual energy that leapt between them. His gaze turned dark and smoky as it drifted to her chest, lingering there for a few moments before returning to her face. She felt her cheeks flush, and a hot pulse of desire throbbed low between her thighs.
“Ah . . .” she stuttered.
He pulled back, a wicked grin on his face. “Lady Randolph, do you recall I once asked you to consider becoming a board member of this hospital?”
She blinked. “What?”
He rose from his chair, a study in masculine grace. She sat, gaping at him, feeling flat-footed and awkward.
“The hospital. Remember?” he prompted. “I promised to give you a tour.”
She frowned. “I don't remember any such thing.” Why would she agree to that? She hated anything to do with sickness, especially sick people.
“Wouldn't you like to see what it is that I do?” he asked, and now she heard the subtle note of uncertainty in his voice.
She gazed straight into his eyes, and her heart squeezed with a sweet ache. For a strong, confident man, John looked surprisingly vulnerable as he waited for her answer. She wanted so much to say yes, to give in to him, even if it meant following him around a disease-ridden and very public hospital. But it would be a colossal mistake to stay in his presence one moment longer. She had to leave, and she had to do it now.
“Yes,” she heard herself say. “I would like that very much.”
Chapter 13
John clenched his jaw, feeling the grind of his molars as they caught against each other. He'd developed the habit over the last few weeks, and the woman by his side was the cause. Most likely, also the cure.
Christ.
He must be losing his mind to allow Bathsheba Compton to pull him back into her web of sensual deceit. Despite the open invitation in her eyes, she didn't know what she really wanted from him. Hell,
he
didn't know what he wanted from
her
. Aside from the obvious, of courseâget her prone as soon as possible.
he
didn't know what he wanted from
her
. Aside from the obvious, of courseâget her prone as soon as possible.
Bathsheba drifted by his side through the Great Hall, a perfect little package of seductive beauty. The head of every man in the room turned as she passed, and one or two smiled boldly at her. Not that she would ever acknowledge them, but he hated that they eyed her like a common trollop.
When he'd first seen her a few minutes ago, contemplating the paintings over the staircase, weeks of repressed anger had welled up to the surface, competing with an equally unwelcome tug in his groin. She had dressed with the intent to distract, and it had worked. It had taken all his discipline to keep his eyes on her face and his emotions in check. But then she had apologized, appearing genuinely remorseful as she stared at him with emerald eyes full of longing and regret.
That had stunned him. After the stupidly tragic scene in Ripon, he'd done his best to forget her by telling himself his instincts about her had been wrong. That she was as shallow and wanton as the world believed. For a month now, he had battled to drive her from his mind and even from his dreams. But her imageâthe feel of her velvet skin, the honeyed taste of herâhad stuck to him like a plaster, and the surprising wound she had inflicted had stubbornly refused to heal.
Bathsheba murmured her thanks as he opened the door into the corridor that led to the wards. Her fluttering skirts whispered across the front of his trousers as she brushed past him, and his arousal went from a coiling ache to a full-blown erection.
With an inward groan, John flexed his hands and forced himself to keep them by his side. One more encouraging look from her and he would throw every last vestige of caution to the winds, yanking her into the nearest closet and pushing that virginal white dress up around her waist. Just thinking about her supple, moist flesh cinching around hisâ
“Dr. Blackmore?” Bathsheba's voice, holding a faint note of curiosity, pulled him from the brink of career suicide. Hauling a rich countess into a closet for a fast, hard rutting would hardly endear him to Abernethy or the Board of Governors.
Or, for that matter, to said countess herself.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, my lady?”
Her lips curved into a dimpled smile and she looked genuinely happy. She hadn't when she'd first launched into her stuttering apology. Instead, she'd looked wan, and the dark smudges under her eyes told him something had disturbed her sleep. He was a petty bastard, he supposed, but some part of him rejoiced in her suffering and hoped that he was the cause.
“Pardon me,” she said with a teasing lilt to her voice. “I didn't mean to break into whatever deep thoughts you seemed to be having, but . . .”
The little minx actually had the nerve to grin at him. From the gleam in those big green eyes, he could tell she knew exactly what he was thinking. And she seemed thoroughly pleased about it, too.
He responded with mock solemnity.
“You are pardoned, Lady Randolph. What is your question?” he asked as he led her down the stairs to the South Wing.
“What, exactly, will you be showing me on this tour?”
The smile still curved her lips in the most charming fashion, but her voice held a faint note of apprehension.
Damn. It hadn't occurred to him until this moment that her recent illness might have made her skittish about hospitals and sick people. The tour had mostly been an excuse to keep her by his side as long as possible.
He laid a hand on her arm and drew her to a halt.
“I'm sorry, Bathsheba. Apparently, I'm a fool. The last thing you need right now is to spend your time wandering around a hospital. Come. I'll escort you back to your carriage.”
Her expressive eyes filled with dismay. “Please don't. I want to see the hospital. Truly, I do. It just that I'm rather . . .” She trailed off, her pale cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“Squeamish?”
“I can't help it,” she grumbled, looking adorably defensive.
“Don't worry, my lady. The surgical theater is not part of the tourâat least not today. Besides, we don't have any amputations currently scheduled, so it's not really worth the effort.”
She choked back a gasp, eyes widening with alarm.
He laughed. “Bathsheba, you really are a very easy mark.”
The stunned look on her face quickly transmuted into a scowl. “And you, Dr. Blackmore, are an absolute beast. If we weren't in a public place, I would be tempted to inflict a very severe punishment on you.”
Oh, he would know just what to do if she tried something like that. “And what might that punishment be, my lady? I do hope it involves something that goes on behind closed doorsâpreferably while both parties are naked.”
She shot him a startled look, then gave a grudging laugh. “A lady generally keeps those kinds of thoughts to herself, sir. Especially in public, and especially when an esteemed medical doctor is about to give her a tour of a hospital.”
“Fair enough,” he said, escorting her through the entrance of the South Wing. “But I reserve the right to return to the subject of my punishment at your hands another time.”
She obviously didn't know whether to look offended or interested, so she compromised by sweeping by him, sticking her pretty nose up in the air. Hurrying into the entrance hall of the South Wing, she made sure to keep several feet ahead of him.
John prowled behind her, enjoying the sway of her luscious backside as a surge of purely masculine satisfaction hummed beneath his skin. Yes, she was well and truly caughtâof that he felt certain. The sexual heat practically shimmered in the air between them. She might fool herself into thinking she had come only to request help for a friend, but she sensed the pull between them as strongly as he did, although she might not be ready to acknowledge it. For now he would push her no further.
He lengthened his stride to catch up with her.
“I thought we might start in the women's ward,” he said, slipping back into his professional demeanor.
She cast him an uncertain glance, then squared her shoulders and nodded. “I'm ready.”
Poor darling, steeling herself for the worst.
John bit back a smile, both flattered and moved by her tenuous courage. She expected God only knew what, but it wouldn't stop her. Even better, he knew she did it for him.
He threw open the door to the women's ward and she froze on the threshold. But with a gentle nudge and a light hand on her waist, he guided her into the room.
Bathsheba moved slowly toward the center of the ward, her pink lips dropping open in a sweet oval. He watched with pride as she gazed around the spacious, light-filled room. The tiled floors had been sanded and swept clean, and the faint smell of limewater attested to the recent whitewashing of the walls. The sisters, neatly dressed and starched to perfection, attended to their patients under the careful supervision of the ward sister.
“I had no idea it would be like this,” Bathsheba murmured.
She turned in a slow circle, her astonished eyes taking in everythingâthe quaint wooden bedsteads framed by their blue Lindsey curtains, the cupboards for the patients' belongings, the tables holding the various potions sent up from the apothecary's room. “It's so much . . .”
“Cleaner and better organized than you expected?”
She ducked her head, looking vaguely ashamed. “It's just that one hears such terrible stories about hospitals.”
“And many of them are true, particularly when it comes to the lying-in hospitals. The rate of infection and death in those institutions is particularly high. But the governors of Bart's pride themselves on a well-run ship. We have our faults, but dirt and disorganization are not amongst them.”
She began to look interested. “Is that why you want to establish a wing for pregnant women here at St. Bartholomew's? Because of the conditions at the lying-in hospitals?”
“Yes. Those who are fortunate enough to gain admittance here receive the best care in London. I'd like to extend that to any woman in her time of need, whether she can afford to pay for it or not.”
She frowned. “Why doesn't St. Bartholomew's already have a lying-in ward?”
John searched her beautiful face, looking for signs of polite disinterest. But she actually seemed genuinely curious.
“Because there are many physicians and surgeons who believe the practice of midwifery is inferior to other branches of medicine.”
She looked quizzically at him. “But
you
don't. And men like Dr. Steele are very well regarded in the community.”
you
don't. And men like Dr. Steele are very well regarded in the community.”
He grimaced, feeling the usual frustration when he thought of the obstacles in his way. “You are correct, my lady. But Steele and his colleagues confine their practices to women of the upper orders. My goal is to establish a ward that will never differentiate between a respectable woman and one who is not. Those who live in the rookeriesâthe prostitutes and the very poorâneed the most help. It is they who end up suffering the most in childbirth. I'd like to change that, and I'll do whatever I must to make it happen.”
She studied him, her gaze sharply perceptive. He suddenly felt exposed, almost vulnerable. If only he had held his tongue.
“So,” she said, “you're willing to risk your standing at the hospital to fight for something the other doctors don't want. That makes me curious, Dr. Blackmore. Why does it mean so much to you?”
He shrugged, mentally backing away. “It's what I do. I'm a physician. I help people who need me.”
Her mouth twisted in a wry, disbelieving smile. Those pink lips opened againâobviously to ask another uncomfortably probing questionâbut he'd had enough.
“Come,” he interjected before she could say anything more. “Let me show you around the ward.”
She looked startled and a bit annoyed, but allowed him to tuck her hand into his elbow.
Relieved when she let the subject drop, he slowly led her around the room, explaining the workings of the ward as they strolled. He pointed out a few of the patients, explaining their ailments, but was careful to keep any distressing details to himself. Most of the women bobbed their heads and smiled. Bathsheba even managed to return their greetings with a tentative one of her own.
When they reached the end of the room, the supervising sister, ensconced behind her desk, gave Bathsheba a curious glance. But after a slight shrug and a respectful nod to John, she returned to her work. The other sisters ignored them, too busy dispensing medicines and folding linens to pay them any heed.
“I thought it would be much more crowded,” Bathsheba said when they returned to the head of the room. “It's quite airy in here. I didn't realize the windows would be so large, or that there would be so much space between the beds.”
“The large windows promote the circulation of fresh air. And the beds are kept at least six feet apart in order to diminish the risk of fever and contagion.”
Her hand jerked on his arm. He glanced at her, concerned to see the roses fading from her cheeks. Her features suddenly looked pinched.
“Bathsheba, you needn't be concerned,” he said in a quiet voice. “There are no fever patients in this ward. Every woman in here is a surgical patient.” He tapped a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I would never put you at risk.”
She glanced sideways at him and gave a tight smile that failed to reach her eyes. Drawing her hand from his arm, she put a few inches between them. It an instant, her trust seemed to have bled away and a barrier of fear stood in its place. He could sense the ugly emotion draining the vitality from their connection, and it caught him completely by surprise.
“I'm sorry,” she said in a flat voice. “You must think me a complete coward.”
“You were very ill. Your reaction is perfectly understandable.”
She nodded and turned away, hiding her face behind the rim of her bonnet. Recognizing the signs, he had to swallow a groan. She had gone into full retreat.
“If you don't mind, Dr. Blackmore,” she said in a distant voice, “I should like to go now.”
Frustration took holdâsharp as the cut of a scalpel and just as painful. How could he have been so foolish as to believe she would be interested in his work? Or in him, for any other purpose than a sexual dalliance? If he needed proof of the gap that separated them, this seemingly innocuous episode had provided it.
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