That Scandalous Summer (15 page)

She bit her lip. It did not take a mind reader to guess at the pain that his neutral tone must conceal. She reached out to touch his arm. “You’re a wonderful doctor.”

He lifted a brow, glancing from her hand on his sleeve into her eyes. And as simply as that, her innocent touch seemed not so innocent. As though an electric switch had been flipped, the feel of his warmth beneath her fingertips made her whole body go hot.

How curious that her instant urge was to
remove
her hand—to withdraw and sit back. Now that she knew him better, this base attraction seemed dangerous, for it could go nowhere. Her future, and the future of boys like Paul and Harry Broward, could not be secured by a doctor’s income. A brief dalliance, she’d thought, would harm no one—but if her heart became entangled in it, a great deal of harm might result.

Her heart had been broken too many times now. She would not willingly break it herself.

Still, she forced herself to keep her hand where it was—praying that he did not notice the warmth rising in her cheeks. For she did not wish any awkwardness between them. If wisdom forbade her to take this man as a lover, then above all, she wanted him as a friend.

Yes.
That was right. Even her mother would have approved that.

“A wonderful doctor,” she repeated steadily. “We are very fortunate that you chose our district, Mr. Grey.”

He stared at her, his throat moving as though he prepared to speak—and then he looked away. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a great deal.”

Now she did withdraw her hand, feeling off balance somehow—oddly rebuffed, though his reply was in every way correct.

Then he said, “So you will stay, then. I’ll be glad of the help.”

And as easily as that, her mood brightened again.

Night was falling as Michael stepped out of the Browards’ cottage. Mrs. Chudderley’s carriage waited outside the gate. Michael tipped his hat to the coachman and looked down the road into the gathering darkness. The wind winding toward him carried the scent of fresh earth and green trees, and crickets were singing from hidden perches in the grass. An owl hooted, eager for the coming night.

He exhaled and felt as light as the air. Whether in London, rural Cornwall, or the remotest corner of the world—whether as a foreigner, a duke’s brother, or a nameless traveler—he could help. People would turn to him, and sometimes, when luck was on his side, his skill would make the difference.

Today he had made a difference. The fever had broken and Mary Broward would live. As always, on such occasions, he thought no scene had ever looked as lovely to him as this one, here before him.

As though on cue, thunder rumbled.

He turned toward the sound. The scattered clouds,
stretched like long swaths of gauze across the dimming western sky, could not account for it. He cast a questioning look toward the coachman, but the man was well trained, studiously bent on ignoring him.

The front door opened. For a brief moment, Mrs. Chudderley paused on the threshold, her silhouette small and sublimely curved against the warm flood of light behind her. He felt a mild shock, as though he were coming awake.

By God, but Pershall had been right. Greek sculptors might have used her figure as the inspiration for a goddess.

She pulled the door shut, and her skirts hissed over the stepping stones as she came toward him. “I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I wanted to thank you. For . . . everything, I suppose.”

“The thanks are mutual.” He always had a sense of the ones who would prove steady in a crisis. But his intuition about her had come abruptly, in the very moment of his need. That he’d been right seemed surprising only now, when the crisis was over and his brain could once again focus on pleasanter matters—such as she.

Elizabeth Chudderley hid her mettle very well. But now he had seen beneath the outward trimmings, the ruffles and lace and feline eyes. She had been a magnificent aide, even in the worst of it: collected, unfailingly cheerful, untiring.
Tell me what I must do
. So calmly she had said it, night after night.

In the darkness, he had the sudden, curious feeling that he had never truly seen her before.

He cleared his throat. “And you,” he said. “How do you fare, Miss Nightingale?”

She laughed softly. “Goodness. Very complimentary,
Mr. Grey—particularly from a man whose name is being championed in a family’s prayers tonight.”

“Excellent news,” he said. “I need all the help I can get to balance that tally.”

The tilt of her head suggested surprise. “That’s the first joke you’ve made since all of this began.”

“So certain it’s a joke, are you?” He gave her no chance to reply. “I tend to be very single-minded when I’m at my work.” It was one of the reasons he had never looked among his hospital’s Lady Bountifuls for companionship. At work, he was not charming. Though perhaps, had the Lady Bountifuls of London been as competent and lovely as this one . . . “And I don’t compliment you,” he went on. “You were a great help these last few days. I hope you know it.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “I wonder if you—”

Another explosion sounded in the distance. She looked toward it, as did he. “That’s the second one I’ve heard,” he said. “I begin to fear there’s been some mining accident, in which case—”

Her laugh interrupted him. “Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s fireworks. Goodness—how had I forgotten? It’s Midsummer’s Eve!”

“Fireworks for Midsummer’s?”

Her head turned toward him, a darker shadow in the darkness. “Goluan, we call it. Have you never seen our celebrations? But no, of course not—you being a northern savage.” The laughter yet lingered in her voice, making her insult a friendly tease. “Shall I show you? You can write home to the north about our own savage customs.”

They were both exhausted. Sleep and food, in that order, were what they required. And usually he preferred after his triumphs to bask alone in his satisfaction.

Yet from the close proximity at which she stood, her warmth translated to him like an invitation. She smelled like the soap with which she’d scrubbed her hands each time she’d approached Mrs. Broward’s bed. It was a commonplace scent, one he knew better than most any other. Yet on her skin, it became something . . . more. Something that made him want to take a deeper breath, and step closer.

“I may not be the best of company,” he said. He felt strangely unbalanced, uncertain of his own ability to recover the flirtation that had existed between them before that damned charity bazaar. He knew how to seduce women. But she had become, however briefly, a colleague. Respect made such an uncomfortable partner to lust.

“I know you’re tired,” she said. “We can take the coach to Bosbrea. Have you the strength for it?”

Oh, his
vanity
was not tired: he would drop dead before implying to her that he hadn’t the energy for an evening stroll—or, for that matter, a mountaineering expedition. “Of course,” he said. “Tally ho, then.”

•   •   •

The coach trundled down the road toward the village. He sat across from Elizabeth, who gazed out the window, her profile illuminated by the glow of the coachman’s lamp that radiated through the glass. The rumble of the carriage wheels over the tight-packed road produced a peculiarly pleasant vibration, one that made Michael relax further into the plush, tufted bench.

In his drowsy contentment, he might have ridden like this forever, watching her, his mind idle. He could not remember any other woman with whom silence had
seemed such a pleasure. She had commented on that, too, once.

“Look here,” she said as the coach slowed. “A procession.”

The light through the window strengthened suddenly, revealing the small details of her beauty: a tendril of hair that had escaped her chignon to curl at her temple; the small mole high on her right cheekbone, like a beauty spot from an earlier century.

He cleared his throat and followed her attention to the roadside, where a long line of young men hoisted blazing torches that topped their own heads by a foot.

“Good God,” he said. “How medieval.”

With a smile, Elizabeth pressed her palm to the glass. In reply, cries rang out, and the men began to wave the torches in great looping arcs. The flame stained a blazing trail across Michael’s vision; when he shut his eyes, he saw very briefly the symbol for infinity.

Elizabeth thumped on the trap. “We’ll walk from here,” she said. “Otherwise we’ll only get in their way.”

By the time they stepped out into the mild night, the men had already raced ahead up the road. They set a more leisurely pace, through warm night air that was alive with the dim music of cymbals and pipes and the cheers of a distant crowd.

Past the first houses of the village proper, a bend in the road brought into clear view the apex of Bosbrea Hill. Atop it, three bonfires burned, the two smaller ones flanking a blaze as tall as three men put together. They stopped to admire the sight. Now the lights spilling from windows illuminated her again, revealing her faint smile.

“You’re going to explain this, I hope,” Michael said. “Or am I to guess?”

“Oh, yes, please guess!”

“A minor revolution?”

“Against whom?”

“The local tyrant.”

“But that would be me,” she said. “And you’ll note they greeted me quite cheerfully.”

“Yes, well, they
are
men, after all.”

She laughed. “Mr. Grey! You’ll puff up my head with such talk.”

“That would be a pity,” he said, “for it’s already the perfect size.”

“Your next guess?” she asked as they began to climb again.

“Wanton destruction,” he said. “For that matter, I don’t recall the existence of a village fire brigade. Call me a pessimist, but shall we stop for buckets of water?”

“Good heavens! I hope it never comes to that! I’d have to indebt my heirs to the seventh generation, just to rebuild the town!”

It struck him how casually she assumed responsibility for this place. Perhaps Alastair would have liked her, after all.

The thought darkened his mood a little. He did not want to think on his brother tonight. “Does it weigh on you?” he asked. “Knowing that the entire district looks to you as their benefactor?”

“What an odd question! I would never wish it otherwise.”

There, too, he heard an echo of Alastair. Perhaps he himself was lacking some vital part, for noblesse oblige had always baffled him. “I would find it very limiting, I think, to be so beholden.”

She gave him a frowning look. “What nonsense.
You’re a doctor! Lives depend on your decisions. I can’t imagine being more beholden than that!”

“But it’s precisely the opposite.” Nothing bound him. No single tract of land could define his scope or shape his usefulness. “I may be powerless to prevent a fever, but I can certainly predict its arrival. And from there, my decisions are what dictate my course—not my tenants’ concerns, or rude boys’ carelessness with torches.”

She reached out—and tweaked his ear. As he gaped at her in astonishment, she burst into a laugh. “They won’t be careless,” she said. “Oh, the look on your face—I do apologize, but I had not imagined you such a pessimist!”

Belatedly he smiled back, for he deserved the ribbing. “And now you’ve learned my secret,” he said. “I’m an old woman in very good disguise.”

The moment the words were out, he heard the grain of truth in them. He’d always imagined himself the carefree counterpart to his brother’s rigid sobriety. But next to this woman, he felt almost staid.

The thought disagreed with him. “Perhaps I should ask for a torch of my own.”

“Oh, I would wait on that,” she said. “You haven’t seen yet what they do with them.”

“How ominous.” He would have pressed her further, but a door slammed open nearby, and out rushed a breathless woman with two tankards. “Goluan!” she cried. “God save you from evil, Mrs. Chudderley! God save you, sir!” With a bobbing curtsy, she pressed the mugs into their hands.

“Goluan!” Elizabeth replied. “God preserve you!” Lifting the glass, she drank deeply before handing back the cup. Michael followed suit. Damned fine ale, thick enough to chew.

The woman retrieved his tankard, then turned on her heel and dashed back into the house.

“I think I like this holiday,” he said. “Shall we be bombarded with ale at every doorstep?”

“Mrs. Matthews’s husband is a brewer,” said Elizabeth. “But I expect this will not be your last tankard, if that’s your fear.”

Near the bonfires at the top of the hill, her prediction proved true: stragglers at the edge of the crowd swept them toward a mass of barrels, where new cups were pressed into their hands. Around them, young girls in long braids were spinning each other in giddy circles, and farther off, a band of musicians with fiddles and flutes played accompaniment to young men who danced in a giant circle around the fires, their torches adding to the greater cloud of sparks scattering into the night sky.

Then one man broke free of the circle and hurled himself
into
the smaller bonfire—casting his torch into the flames before emerging on the other side to somersault across the dirt.