The Last Wicked Scoundrel (2 page)

As his eyes held hers, she wondered if he saw her as she was now or as she’d been. She didn’t wish to be vain, but it seemed that she was nonetheless. A diagonal white line marred one brow. She had a tiny scar on one cheek. Beneath her gown resided several others. William knew of their existence because he’d been the one to stitch her up, the one who had held ice against all the various areas that had swollen and bruised. He was the one who had spooned broth into her mouth when she could barely move her jaw.

She had been a married woman who, within only a few days, began to hold affection for a man who wasn’t her husband. Then Avendale was gone, and her guilt over her feelings toward William had spiked. Entirely inappropriate for her to think of him as anything other than her physician. And William, bless him, had never taken advantage of the situation, had never indicated that he saw her as anything other than a patient.

But now she almost believed she saw desire smoldering in his eyes. They didn’t speak. It seemed there was no need for words. But she was acutely aware of his hand holding hers tightly, his other hand pressing into the small of her back, his legs brushing against her skirt. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but she wasn’t threatened by his physical traits. Rather, she felt safe, protected.

Perhaps it was a result of the days she’d spent under his care. He had secreted her and her son away to his town home. His friend, Frannie, who later became the Duchess of Greystone, had seen to caring for Whit, while William had devoted all his time ensuring that Winnie recovered from the ordeal. It was more than the physical healing that had been required, and he saw to her emotional needs masterfully.

So many nights she awoke with a start from a nightmare to see him sitting in a chair beside the bed keeping watch over her. He filled her hours of recovery by reading Shakespeare and Dickens to her, playing chess, carrying her out to the garden so she could enjoy watching her son kicking a ball around with Frannie. He seemed to know what she needed without her voicing it. He was so attentive, and while she told herself that it was only because he was seeing to her recovery, in a small corner of her heart she could not help but believe that he enjoyed his time with her, that he welcomed excuses to be in her company a bit longer. Sometimes they would talk about nothing in particular into the late hours of the night, until she drifted off into restful slumber. She always seemed to sleep better when she carried his voice into her dreams.

Now the music drifted into silence, and very slowly their movements came to a halt. He appeared on the verge of saying something, asking for another dance perhaps. Or at least she hoped those were the words he would utter. She didn’t care if only two dances was proper. She would dance every one with him if he but asked.

Instead, he gave her a small smile and began to lead her toward the sweeping staircase where she could be on hand to greet any latecomers. Once they reached their destination, he again took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said.

“It was my pleasure.”

His eyes darkened. “No, Duchess, as always it was mine.”

With those parting words, he strode away, becoming lost in the thicket of guests. She had little doubt that he was off to search out his friends who were here. Others who had grown up on the streets with him supported her efforts, more for the good doctor’s benefit than hers, she was certain. He seemed to instill loyalty in people. But then that probably wasn’t unusual considering his skill at warding off death’s advances.

Yet she did often find herself wishing she had met him under different circumstances, that she had met him before she had ever become a wife.

S
tanding in a darkened corner of the terrace, William Graves sipped the whiskey that he’d pilfered from the library. He preferred the bite of hard liquor to champagne. It was more in line with the darkness that resided inside him.

Dancing with Winifred Buckland, Duchess of Avendale, served as his favorite moments of the year. Even though the activity was pure torment.

Three years ago, he’d done what was necessary to save her, although not everything was exactly legal. Not that he’d ever suffered any guilt over skirting the law. But he wasn’t certain she would be as accepting of his wrongdoing. As a matter of fact, he was rather certain she would despise him for his role in her husband’s demise, and so he kept his distance when he would prefer to close the gap between them.

Or at least explore the possibility of closing it. He was drawn to her in ways he’d never been drawn to another woman. She possessed a vulnerability that he suspected hid a reservoir of strength, and he would dearly love to help her uncover that secret about herself, but he feared her discovery of
his
secrets.

His secrets that could very well destroy not only her but every other soul about whom he cared.

So for two years now, he came to this blasted ball. He danced once with her. He inhaled her jasmine fragrance, felt the heat of her skin seeping through her clothes and his gloves to mingle with the warmth of his hands. He gazed into her somber brown eyes, and wished to God that he possessed the power to make her laugh. He studied her crooked nose, which in spite of its origins he found endearing, and wondered if she were aware how many times she rubbed the bridge of it, how many times she seemed to try to hide it. He was familiar with the scar across her eyebrow, the one on her cheek, and the faint one on the underside of her chin that she might not even know was there. He found no fault with them, as they were signs of survival, but he loathed the reasons that she possessed them.

Still, he often thought of how it would feel to trail his mouth over them, and wondered if in the process he would heal the inner hurts with as much success as he’d managed to heal the outer ones.

He longed to remove the pins from her mahogany hair. He doubted she was aware that during some of her moments of delirium he had brushed it to keep it from becoming so infested with tangles that it would need to be shorn. It fell to her waist, and was so beautiful. As beautiful as she was. He could gaze into her brown eyes for hours, but he’d done all the gazing he allowed himself for the night. One dance. A few moments. He dared not torture himself further by taking more. His ability to resist her was on a weak tether.

He downed the contents of the tumbler before setting it aside on the railing. Time to be off, to find another woman to distract him from his desires. Although unfortunately, since he’d met her, all other women paled in comparison, left him wanting. He often worked himself to exhaustion simply so he wouldn’t carry her into dreams, because she never wore a stitch of clothing there, and his frustration with past actions merely increased. But even knowing the price he paid, he would do it again without hesitation. He would do anything at all to protect her.

Turning on his heel, he paused as he saw the duchess descending the steps that led into the garden. He shouldn’t follow her. She might have arranged a tryst, but he seemed incapable of stopping his legs from making short work of closing the distance separating them. “Duchess?”

Stopping, she faced him. Within the pale light cast by the gas lamps that lined the path, he saw her slight smile. Gentle, warm, welcoming. She was the kindest person he’d ever known. In his youth he had longed for one kind touch, one sweet caress that would ease all the hurts. He imagined she would be a balm to his harsh soul.

“I do wish you would call me Winnie,” she said softly.

“You’re a duchess; I’m a commoner.”

“A commoner who serves as one of the queen’s many physicians. I would say that makes you uncommon, Dr. Graves.”

Ignoring her argument—he needed nothing to create a sense of intimacy between them that might weaken his resolve to remain aloof—he said, “Should you be out here alone?”

“It’s my garden. As a widow, I have no need of a chaperone.” She looked back over her shoulder. “It’s such a crush in there, which is a great benefit to the cause, but I was beginning to feel as though I were suffocating. I just needed a bit of fresh air, so I thought to take a quick turn about the garden. Would you care to join me?”

He knew the correct answer, the safe answer. Instead he heard himself uttering neither. “I would, very much.”

Then he did something equally stupid: he offered her his arm. She placed her small hand on the crook of his elbow, and while he wore a shirt and jacket, he could still feel the indentation of each finger through the cloth until he would swear that she was burning a brand onto his skin. Her head was a good six inches below his shoulder. She was such a tiny thing, which made him even angrier when he thought of her brute of a husband taking his fists to her, before holding her down and forcing himself on her. He’d gotten what he deserved, and William had no regrets about it. If it added the weight of guilt to his own conscience so be it. It wasn’t the first time.

A cool breeze wafted through the lovely summer evening, holding the fog at bay. A few other couples were walking about. The whisperings of some who had strayed from the path mingled with the chirping of insects. The darkness created an intimacy that made it easy to believe that secrets could be kept there.

“Why does Victoria require so many physicians?” the duchess asked.

Because she suffers greatly from hypochondria.
Not that he was about to share that information. He did not discuss the ailments of those he attended. “She’s the queen and wants to ensure she stays healthy for her subjects. Sometimes it helps to have more than one opinion on a matter. Medicine is not an exact science, and we still have much to learn.”

“It must be fascinating, though, to see all that you do.”

“Fascinating, heartbreaking. I prefer the days when my patients recover to the days when they don’t.”

“Strange, but I never consider that you lose patients. I suppose I was so near death when you brought me around that I believe you can accomplish miracles,” she said.

“Hardly. I am but a man, not a miracle worker.”

They were farther into the garden now, away from the lights, but his eyes had adjusted and he could see clearly where they were going. No other couples seemed to be about. They should turn around. But then he didn’t always do the things he should.

“Do you know much about the workings of the brain?” she asked.

“I’ve managed to remove a tumor or two, quite successfully. Are you experiencing headaches?” He didn’t like the notion of her suffering further. She’d experience enough pain at the hands of her husband to last a lifetime, but he was well acquainted with the fact that people didn’t always get the carefree existence they deserved.

“No, not at all. It’s forgetfulness mostly. It’s silly really. I have a sapphire necklace that I’d planned to wear with this gown but when I went to retrieve it from the safe in my bedchamber, it was gone.”

“Stolen, then.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. The safe was closed up tight. Who would steal it? The servants have been in my employ for years. Why would they suddenly begin pilfering? Although to be honest, it’s more than that single incident. There have been other things happening that have given me cause for concern.”

“Such as?”

“It seems that I keep misplacing things. I don’t know why I’m so forgetful of late.”

He stopped walking, placed his hands on her shoulders, and turned her so she faced him directly. He’d removed his gloves when he’d left the salon in search of stronger drink. It took all his inner strength to not take his palms on a leisurely sojourn over her silken bared skin, not to peel off
her
gloves, not to toy with her hair, not to take advantage of this moment when she was gazing at him with such earnestness. Forcing his errant thoughts back to the matter at hand, he wished he had more light, had his instruments with him so he could examine her eyes more closely. From caring for her before, he was quite familiar with the brown depths, the darker circle around her iris, the small golden flecks that caught the light. “You took quite a blow to the head three years ago. What you’re experiencing could be a result of an injury that I failed to properly diagnose.”

“But why only now?”

“When did it start?”

She shook her head, and he found himself wishing that her movements would loosen the pins, until her hair escaped its bonds and he could tunnel his fingers through it. Why was it always so hard with her to be the impersonal physician he had been trained to be? He was supposed to look at her as an object to be analyzed, not a woman to be explored.

“Two, three months ago,” she said lightly, completely unaware of the turmoil wreaking havoc with him. “Right after I came back to London for the Season. Would damage to my brain take that long to manifest itself?”

He didn’t think so, but as he’d told her, the medical community was still learning things about the human condition. “Have you had any other blow to the head recently? Any accident? Have you fallen?”

“No, nothing. And I’m sorry.” She laughed lightly, a tinkling of bells that caused his gut to tighten with the memory of the first time he’d heard the sweet sound. She was watching her young son play with Frannie in William’s garden, and her delight had given him his first sprig of hope that she would indeed recover, that he had managed to discover every injury that needed tending. But now he had to wonder if he had overlooked something, something vital that might plague her for the remainder of her years. “I didn’t mean to cause you undue worry. Tonight is supposed to be for merriment.”

But he was concerned. People could appear perfectly fine, but something dark and sinister could be lurking, waiting to snatch away life. In his youth, he’d been far too familiar with dark and sinister, and his fears had led to disaster. No matter how many lives he saved, he could not make amends for the life that had been forfeit because of his weakness. “I want you to come to my office tomorrow for an examination.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“I won’t know until I have a look. And I’ll send word ’round to Inspector Swindler of Scotland Yard. I’m not an expert on safes. They weren’t my purview when I lived on the streets, but he should be able to examine yours in order to determine if someone without a key managed to break into it.”