My Favorite Countess (37 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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“That you marry me, Lady Randolph. Then I'll have to forgive you.”
She sucked in a breath, too full of emotion to reply. After the way she had treated him, all the cruel things she had said . . . he was giving her a second chance.
When she didn't answer—because she would have started blubbering if she even opened her mouth—a worried look crossed his features.
“It won't be what you're used to, Bathsheba. I know that. You won't be a countess anymore. But I'm not poor. I'll be well able to take care of you. In fact,” he said with an encouraging smile, “I already have a position. When I wrote Dr. Littleton to tell him that I was leaving London, he begged me to return to Ripon. He's ready to retire, and would very much like to turn his practice over to me.”
Joy mingled with horror in Bathsheba's breast. For a moment, horror won out. “Move back to Yorkshire? You must be joking! How will I ever bear it?”
His handsome face split into a relieved grin. “I'm sure Miss Elliott will be happy to give you whatever support and advice you need.”
She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “That's what I'm afraid of.”
“Bathsheba,” he said, tilting her chin up. “There's something else.”
“Now what?” she sighed. “I can't take much more.”
The grin faded from his lips and his eyes grew solemn. “Your sister . . . I've been thinking about how we could manage that.”
She took his hand and held it between her own. All she had to do was look into his eyes and she knew exactly what to do.
“It's all right, John. I've been thinking about that these last few days. I believe it's time for Rachel to come home. She's been away from her family long enough.” She shook her head, sick with shame that she had allowed it to go on for so many years. “God knows I should have insisted upon it when I married Reggie. I don't know what you must think of me.”
Understanding and compassion filled his gaze. “You did what you had to do to survive, and you always made sure Rachel was taken care of,” he said. “But are you sure? It won't be easy.”
“I know. But Boland will help. We'll manage. And as long as I have you, everything will be fine.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his face pulling tight with . . . what? Guilt? A frisson of panic rippled along her nerves.
“John, what is it? Tell me.”
“I must confess something, as well,” he said, finally opening his eyes. “What you said the other day, that I was needlessly risking my life—you were right. I allowed guilt for Becky's death to consume me. On some level, I didn't care what happened to me. I needed to punish myself, but I was punishing you, too, and putting you in danger. I couldn't see that—not until tonight.”
She clutched his hands, aghast that he might doubt himself.
“But your work is important,” she said earnestly. “I see that now. You mustn't ever stop—not on my account.” She gave him what she hoped was a confident smile. “I promise I'll do my best to support your work.”
He planted a light kiss on her brow. “Yes, my love, it is important, and I thank you for saying that. But the need for skilled physicians is just as great in Yorkshire as it is here, and there is much I can do to help those who are most vulnerable—even in a smaller town like Ripon. Others will continue my work in London. My student, Roger, for one. He's been training with me for the last two years, with the intention of opening a dispensary in St. Giles.”
John gave her a sly grin. “And while Lord Silverton is feeling in such a giving mood, I believe I'll have a word with him about funding that new wing at Bart's. The Board of Governors wouldn't dream of turning down so powerful and wealthy a patron.”
Bathsheba didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so great was her relief that he wouldn't turn his back on the work that meant so much to him. Of course, she was silly for not realizing that he never would.
John's expression softened as he tenderly captured her face in his hands. “But I want you, Bathsheba. You're the most important thing in my life. I'll never be happy without you.”
His features blurred, and she had to blink away tears before she could see again. He was grinning at her now, a world of devilment—and love—shining in his eyes.
“Well, then,” she said, putting on a mock scowl. “Will you listen to me from now on, and promise you won't run off into danger at a moment's notice?”
He laughed. “I'll try, my darling. What I will promise is that I will always return home to you. You're my life, Bathsheba. You're everything I've ever wanted.”
Then he swooped in, taking her mouth in a kiss so sweet, so hungry, that it made her head spin and her toes curl in her boots.
“Well,” she gasped, when he finally lifted his head, “as long as you try. I suppose that will have to be enough.”
Of course it was more than enough. It was everything.
Epilogue
Nidderdale Cottage, Yorkshire
November 1817
John glanced up from his correspondence as the landau rumbled by his study window and pulled to a halt in front of the house. Dodger, the half-grown spaniel puppy asleep at his feet, twitched awake, tail thumping in anticipation. As usual, the puppy sensed that his new but already beloved mistress had arrived home. Bathsheba pretended to regard Dodger as nothing but an infernal nuisance, only tolerating him for Rachel's sake. She lied, of course. Bathsheba would constantly slip Dodger treats under the table when she thought no one was looking, and she would croon baby talk to him as he followed her around the house, close on her heels.
Dodger yipped as several thumps sounded out in the hallway, followed by clomping noises on the stairs. Then peace reigned again. The study door opened, his wife stepped into the room, and Dodger launched himself at her.
“Oh, do get down, you ghastly beast,” Bathsheba ordered. The puppy ignored her stern command, romping around her skirts. With an exasperated sigh, she picked him up and cuddled him before dropping into the chair in front of John's desk.
He rose to greet her and tipped her chin to plant a lingering kiss on her soft mouth. As always, she melted into him, opening her lips in sweet surrender—until Dodger thrust his bony little head between them.
“Bad dog,” she scolded as she deposited him on the floor. The unrepentant puppy gave her a doggy grin, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.
John untied the ribbons of her bonnet, tossing the hat onto his desk. “How was your visit to Compton Manor, my love? I trust you found Lady Randolph and her lord in good health?”
She rolled her eyes. “I still can't get used to calling her
Lady Randolph.
She'll always be Miss Elliott to me, especially when she starts lecturing. But I must admit that Matthew has never been happier, and the manor house looks beautiful. I shouldn't be surprised if the repairs are completed by Christmas, because all the workmen are scared to death of her. I'm sure they can't wait to escape her clutches.”
He laughed. “And what about Rachel? Did she have a pleasant visit?”
“It's the oddest thing, but Rachel adores Lady Randolph. She attaches herself to her as soon as we walk in the door, and refuses to leave her side. Today, Lady Randolph tried to teach her to make scones. It was a disaster, of course.”
Bathsheba gave a wicked chuckle, the one that always made John want to take her upstairs and ravish her into exhaustion.
“There was more flour and milk on Rachel and Lady Randolph than in the scones,” she said. “Rachel certainly tried her patience, but Lady Randolph never loses her temper with her, which certainly surprised me.”
John smiled. The former Miss Elliott and the former Countess of Randolph would never have tolerated each other, but Lady Randolph and Mrs. Blackmore had reached a tacit agreement to let old quarrels rest, for the sake of their families.
“And did you help with the scone-making?” he enquired, enjoying himself.
She wrinkled her nose. “I tried, but Lady Randolph said my lack of enthusiasm was apparent to everyone. She made me leave the kitchen. I did not protest.”
John couldn't help laughing. Bathsheba was a lamentable housekeeper, and he suspected she always would be. But she had other talents as a loving wife and sister that more than made up the difference.
She grinned at him and settled more comfortably into her chair. Dodger gave a contented moan as he flopped down on her feet.
“Well, Dr. Blackmore,” Bathsheba asked, “what have you been doing with yourself while I was being tortured all afternoon by Lady Randolph?”
“Attending to my correspondence. Wardrop wrote me a lengthy missive about the outcome of O'Neill's trial.”
She instantly turned solemn. “And?”
“Thanks to my intervention, he will escape the gallows. Wardrop says he'll be deported to New South Wales in the next few days.” He shook his head, feeling the old guilt tug at him. “Despite everything, I can't help but feel sorry for the man. He lost all that he loved in the world. Little wonder he struck out at me so violently.”
She took his hand in a comforting grip. “You're not to blame for what happened, John. You did everything you could to help that poor woman and her baby. Besides, you always tell me to let the past remain in the past. You've done what you could for that man, and it's more than he deserves.”
He nodded, knowing she was right. It served no purpose to speak about O'Neill, especially when Bathsheba found the subject so disturbing. She still experienced nightmares about that harrowing rainy night in St. Giles, although they came less frequently now that they were settled in their comfortable house in Ripon.
“What else does Wardrop have to say?” she asked. “Any news of Dr. Steele? Is he still on staff at Bart's?”
“For now, apparently. But Lord Silverton has made Abernethy and the Board of Governors aware of his displeasure with Steele. I shouldn't be surprised if we soon heard that Steele will be retiring from public life.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Bathsheba scowled. “I also received a letter today—from Meredith. She says that Silverton is determined that no woman or child will ever suffer at Steele's hands again.”
“I'm sure Lord Silverton will prevail,” John remarked dryly. “But enough of that subject. Tell me how Lady Silverton is doing. And your godchildren—are they well?”
“Very well, although Meredith says she no longer remembers what it's like to get more than a few hours' sleep. Little Bathsheba, of course, is a perfect angel, but young Stephen thinks nothing of keeping his mother up half the night. Oh, but I haven't told you the best part yet,” she said excitedly. “Meredith and Lord Silverton are going to donate two thousand pounds toward the building of the new hospital here in Ripon, and General Stanton and Robert Stanton equal amounts. It took some doing to convince the general, but I finally managed it. Six thousand pounds! Isn't that wonderful?”
She beamed at him, her beautiful face alight with triumph. Once given the chance, Bathsheba had thrown herself enthusiastically into meaningful work—including his scheme to persuade the local town fathers to build a public hospital and dispensary. True, they still sparred over what Bathsheba deemed his tendency to take unnecessary risks when going into the unsavory parts of town to treat patients. But she held fast to her promise to do everything she could to support him and his work.
Their arguments never bothered John, since their resolution often took place behind the closed door of their bedchamber. Bathsheba's passion for debate was more than equaled by her passion for lovemaking, and for that he was exceedingly grateful.
“John, aren't you going to say something?” she demanded, her lips pursing into an adorable pout. “I thought you'd be thrilled.”
“My darling, as always, your talent for managing the male of the species renders me speechless.”
She glowered at him with mock irritation. He captured her face in his hands, more than ready to show her how thrilled he could be. Her eyelids drooped as he leaned in to kiss her.
A tap sounded on the door. “Oh, blast,” she muttered as he reluctantly drew back.
Boland sailed into the room with the tea tray. John took it from her and set it on the desk.
“Is Rachel coming down for tea?” he asked.
“Not today, Doctor,” Boland replied as she prepared a cup for Bathsheba. “Poor thing is plumb worn out from her visit to Compton Manor. I put her to bed for a nap. She should sleep until dinner.”
“I'm not surprised,” Bathsheba said, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “Lady Randolph would exhaust anyone.”
“If you don't mind my saying so, my lady,” Boland said with a stern look, “you could use a nap yourself. You've been on your feet all day.”
“I haven't done a thing today, and you know it,” protested Bathsheba. “And, Boland, you really must stop referring to me as
my lady
. I don't think the current Lady Randolph appreciates it. Nor does my husband, I would imagine.”
Boland shot him a look so guilty and apologetic that John had to laugh.
“It's quite all right, Boland. I sometimes still think of her that way, too. As for wearing herself out, I'll see that Mrs. Blackmore gets some rest.”
“Honestly,” Bathsheba huffed after Boland left the room, “you two fuss over me like I'm an old lady. I'm as healthy as a horse, and you know it.”
“And I intend to keep you that way,” he said, pulling her out of the chair and into his arms. Dodger gave a little growl in protest, but they both ignored him.
“Boland's right,” he murmured, skimming his mouth along her delicately angled cheekbone. “A nap is a capital idea. But first, I think an examination is in order. A very private examination. In our bedroom.”
A sultry smile curved her perfect lips, and her emerald eyes glittered with a knowing heat. “Doctor's orders?” she asked as she nestled her lush body against him.
John's heart filled with a boundless joy even as lust surged through his veins. He captured her mouth, too swept up by his need to love her to bother with words.
After a short but ravenous kiss, Bathsheba broke away, her eyes shining with mischief.
“As I've told you many times before, my darling husband,” she said, pulling him eagerly to the door, “I always follow my doctor's orders.”

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