My Favorite Countess (22 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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“Nonsense, brother,” exclaimed Miss Roston. “Nothing is as important as your work. I understand that, as does Lady Randolph.”
“Indeed I do, sir,” Bathsheba said, gifting him with her brightest smile. “I wish you will tell me all about it.”
Much to Miss Roston's evident annoyance, Sir David dragged his chair over and launched into a description of the new Irish Constabulary. Bathsheba did her best to follow him, making appropriate noises whenever he paused to allow her to do so. She had done it a thousand times before—flattering a man's vanity with careful little attentions. A seductive smile, a touch on the sleeve, an enthusiastic response to whatever idea he put forth—inane or not. And, as it had every time before, it worked. Sir David preened like a peacock, listening not so much to her but to the sound of his own voice. It was what he expected as his due, and she gave it in good measure. But doing it made her stomach turn, more strongly than ever before.
When Sir David paused to take a breath, his sister interrupted him. For once, Bathsheba was grateful to her. If she had to play the sycophant much longer, she'd be tempted to throw herself over the railing into the pit.
“Brother, Lady Randolph and I were speaking of a most interesting subject earlier in the evening.”
Miss Roston gave her that now-familiar malicious smile, instantly turning Bathsheba's gratitude to alarm.
“Do you remember, my lady? We were speaking of Sir David's philanthropic work, especially in relation to the charity schools. Those schools are very important to him—to both of us.”
Miss Roston paused to give her brother a treacly smile before returning her unforgiving gaze to Bathsheba. “My brother believes all women of good breeding have an obligation to spend much of their time engaging in works of charity. I know he would be most interested to hear what you do to contribute to the greater good of society.”
Sir David gave her a happy, encouraging smile. “Indeed, Lady Randolph. Please do tell us which charities you find worthy of your attention.”
She looked first at him, then at her adversary, grim resolve stiffening her spine. Miss Roston clearly hoped she would condemn herself out of her own mouth, forced to expose her frivolous, useless life to Sir David. It was time to show the mean-spirited old biddy exactly what she was up against.
“As it so happens,” she drawled, “I am about to become a governor at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I do believe that sitting on the board of London's finest hospital constitutes a most worthy cause.”
Miss Roston's sparse brows inched up her tight forehead, speaking volumes of derision. “Really? My brother and I are very good friends with Dr. Abernethy, and I've heard him mention nothing of the sort. One simply doesn't waltz in and become a governor, you know, whatever you might choose to believe.”
Sir David cast a doubtful glance between the two women, finally sensing the tensely charged atmosphere in the box.
“Nonetheless, it's true,” Bathsheba retorted, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
She winced at the look of surprise on Sir David's face. Miss Roston smiled, unable to contain her petty triumph.
Bathsheba cast a frustrated glance around the theater, cursing her temper and wondering how she had gotten herself into such a ridiculous mess. Even more importantly, how was she to get out of it?
Like the answer to a prayer, her gaze caught and held on a man in a box across the way. The man stared back. Well, glared back, if she wanted to be accurate.
John.
She couldn't repress a triumphant little smile of her own. “You might not believe me, Miss Roston, but I trust you will believe Dr. Blackmore. He's a physician on staff at St. Bartholomew's. Perhaps you've heard of him.”
Miss Roston's face grew positively Medusa-like. Bathsheba wouldn't have been surprised if the braids in her hair starting writhing like snakes.
“I've met Dr. Blackmore,” Sir David exclaimed. “He comes from a distinguished family. And he seems a most accomplished physician.”
“Well, he's sitting right across the way,” purred Bathsheba, enjoying how Miss Roston's forehead creased with baffled fury. “I met with him only yesterday to discuss the details. Perhaps the next time you speak to him, you might ask him about it.”
“Excellent,” enthused Sir David. “But why wait? There's no time like the present.”
He nodded and waved at the other box, clearly indicating his desire that John join them.
Bathsheba stared at Sir David, stunned, dismayed, and infuriated by her own stupidity. How could she not have considered the possibility that he would invite John to their box? She had virtually challenged him to do so. But she had been in such a fury, wanting to spike Miss Roston's guns. Instead, she was pitching her erstwhile lover and her future fiancé into close contact, creating the most potentially catastrophic social situation she could think of.
She stifled a groan, lamenting her impulsive invitation of yesterday. After all, she hadn't really expected John to show. Never once had she seen him at the opera or the theater, simply assuming he hadn't the time for such frivolities. But clearly he had taken her at her word, more fool that she was.
Steeling herself, she gazed across at John's box. Thankfully, he no longer glared at her, but now studied her with a thoughtful air. As their eyes met, she felt an unwelcome pull between them, the inconvenient, bittersweet yearning that afflicted her whenever she saw him. It made her feel stupid things, reckless things—like wanting to be with him again, forgetting all her obligations. Even forgetting who she had to be.
John smiled, and the force of it reached all the way across the theater, stealing every bit of breath from her lungs. He rose to his feet, exchanging a few words with his companions before disappearing from the box.
She choked back a gasp. He was coming to her, as surely as if she had called out to him.
“Well, Lady Roston, it would appear that Dr. Blackmore will be here momentarily,” said Sir David. “I look forward to hearing all about your plans to join the board.”
He reached over and took her gloved hand. “It is a most worthy goal indeed. I can't tell you how pleased I am that you have chosen such an important cause for the devotion of your charitable energies.”
Unbelievably, he raised her hand to his lips. Any satisfaction Bathsheba might have taken from the look of horror on Miss Roston's face died at the thought of John walking in on the baronet's clumsy attempts to flirt with her.
Tugging her hand away, she dredged up another weak smile for her suitor. God, who would have ever thought she would become a ghastly imitation of a nervous miss?
Sir David gave her a look of mild reproach, but was too much a gentleman to protest her rebuff. Before she could think of a suitable remark to assuage his pride, the curtains at the back of the box parted. She twisted in her seat, both dreading and longing to see their visitor.
“Dr. Blackmore, do come in,” Sir David said, rising to exchange bows. “Of course you know Lady Randolph.”
Bathsheba gave John a brief nod, then ducked her head.
“And you have also met my sister, Miss Eugenia Roston,” continued the baronet.
The proper greetings were made as Bathsheba kept her eyes firmly cast down.
Idiot.
Why had she not prepared for this? Had she really thought their social paths would never cross?
With a welcoming gesture, Sir David indicated the seat vacated by Lord Torton. Out of the corner of her eye, Bathsheba watched John settle in comfortably, as if ready to spend the night. She sighed, wondering what other nightmares the evening would bring.
Miss Roston wasted no time going on the attack. “Dr. Blackmore,” she said, making his name sound like a call to battle, “I understand from Lady Randolph that she is to be a governor at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Is this true?”
John raised a brow at the impertinent tone of the question. He cast an amused glance in Bathsheba's direction before answering.
“I certainly hope so, Miss Roston. We spoke about it at some length. I know she would make an excellent addition to the board.”
The other woman went from grim to positively foreboding. “I'm amazed to hear so. I spoke with Dr. Abernethy at Mrs. Podworth's dinner party just the other night. He mentioned nothing of the sort to me.”
John gave the spinster a disarming smile. Even though it wasn't directed at her, its potent charm made Bathsheba's heart skip several beats.
“Lady Randolph only met Dr. Abernethy yesterday afternoon, Miss Roston. I can assure you, he is delighted that she is considering taking up the position.”
“As am I, Dr. Blackmore,” exclaimed Sir David. “Any project her ladyship takes on is of great interest to me.”
He reached over and took her hand once again, gazing at her with possessive pride. Bathsheba almost fainted on the spot.
John's eyes narrowed into chips of ice. “And why is that, Sir David?”
For once, Miss Roston served a useful purpose. “Dr. Blackmore,” she interjected, clearly annoyed by the direction of the conversation, “I'd like to ask you a question about the admissions policy at St. Bartholomew's. It seems to me there has been a great deal of laxity as of late. Or so I'm told by Dr. Abernethy.”
John kept silent, his big body at ease as he lounged in his chair. But his gaze remained fastened on Bathsheba's hand, still captured in Sir David's grip. A hot flush crept up her neck. She tried to extract her fingers, and the baronet finally let her go. Only then did John turn his attention to Miss Roston.
As Bathsheba struggled to recapture her abused composure, Dr. Blackmore responded to the other woman's question. She apparently didn't like his answer, for her reply came back sharp and disagreeable. Bathsheba, however, didn't comprehend a word, too caught up in her struggle to appear calm in the face of impending disaster. If John were to give even the slightest hint of their past relationship—
His deep voice interrupted the downward spiral of her thoughts.
“Lady Randolph, are you quite well?”
She gasped and pressed a hand to her temple. Perspiration dampened her kid glove.
“I . . . I beg your pardon, Doctor. I seem to have developed a headache.”
John frowned, and as she could have predicted, reached for her wrist. He felt for her pulse through the thin material of the glove. Bathsheba forced herself to keep still, even though the feel of his strong fingers made her want to jump out of her skin.
Miss Roston's face pinched with outrage. “Dr. Blackmore. Really! Is that appropriate?”
“Lady Randolph is only recently recovered from a severe infection, Miss Roston. She was under my care,” he replied.
Sir David clucked his tongue. “Oh, dear. I didn't know that. She mentioned earlier that she found the air rather close.” He peered at her, looking genuinely concerned.
John ignored him as he studied her face, keeping her wrist in a light clasp. Bathsheba's heart took up a hard, pounding rhythm as she met his steady gaze.
“Her pulse is tumultuous and her complexion is flushed. I think it best Lady Randolph cut short her evening and return home. It won't do for her to become overstimulated.”
She blushed even harder, knowing exactly why she was overstimulated. And, she suspected, John knew it, too.
“Of course,” exclaimed the baronet. “We will take her home immediately.”
“Oh, no. Really, that won't be necessary,” protested Bathsheba. “I feel fine.”
“I don't think you are,” John said in a soft but determined voice.
“Really, Doctor,” spluttered Miss Roston, “if Lady Randolph doesn't think it necessary to leave, then why should we? And Miss Stephens is about to perform.”
She cast Bathsheba an angry glance before turning to her brother. “You know how much I enjoy hearing her sing. I would be devastated to miss her performance.”
Her brother looked startled. “You would? I—”
John smoothly interrupted him. “There's no need for you to trouble yourself, Sir David. I will escort Lady Randolph home. It wouldn't do for her to suffer a relapse, as I'm sure you will agree.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Roston enthusiastically agreed. “That would no doubt be the best course.”
Sir David hesitated, looking like a whipped puppy as he gazed at his sister. It suddenly occurred to Bathsheba that she would like nothing better than to get as far away from the Rostons as she possibly could.
“Perhaps Dr. Blackmore is correct,” she said, affecting a plaintive voice. “I
am
feeling rather light-headed. It might be best if I were to return home.”
As Sir David embarked on a confused attempt to explain why he couldn't escort her, John helped her out of her chair and bundled her into her shawl. The baronet jumped to his feet, still apologizing, as Bathsheba murmured her farewells.

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