“This is Prufrock,” the duke said. “Miss Thrynne, my son’s fiancée. I’m sure Piers informed you of our impending arrival.”
Prufrock ushered them through the huge doors straight into a great, open room with a huge staircase going up either side. The door was as thick as Linnet’s hand was wide, and clearly built to withstand sieges.
“Where shall we find my son?” the duke asked. There was something in his voice, some sort of barely suppressed joy, that made Linnet wonder.
She took off her bonnet and pelisse, and handed them to a footman.
“Lord Marchant is in the west wing, and he has been informed, of course, of your arrival,” Prufrock said. “I sent a footman there as soon as we caught sight of your carriages. I expect he will join you any moment. If Miss Thrynne wishes to refresh herself, I can escort her and her maid to her chamber. Perhaps Your Grace as well?”
“Nonsense,” the duke said. “We left our inn only a matter of an hour or two ago. Patients are housed on the third floor, aren’t they, Prufrock?”
“Yes, but—”
The duke strode off. Then he hesitated, turned around, and grabbed Linnet by the wrist. “I’ll take you with me,” he said, as if to himself. Before she even opened her mouth to reply, they were halfway up the left hand flight of stairs.
“Your Grace,” she gasped, catching up her skirts.
“Come along, come along,” he said over his shoulder. Now that they were finally at the castle, he seemed to be possessed by a ferocious compulsion. He towed her down a corridor.
Linnet concentrated on keeping up, though she could feel her heart beating faster and faster. At any moment she would meet the paragon she was to marry. She’d formed a picture of him in her mind: tall and willowy, with a limp that gave him a slight tilt to the side, a face lined by pain but imbued with the quite remarkable beauty that his father still possessed.
They rounded a corner. She could hear voices now. The duke walked even faster, pulling her along behind him. A door at the end of the corridor stood open and the duke dove through.
They were in a room with six beds, most of them occupied. A group of young men was clustered around a bed to the left. The duke let go of her arm at last and stepped forward. “Piers,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
None of the men looked around at the interruption. Most of them were younger, probably students, and all were intently focused on the patient.
“A teaching session,” the duke breathed.
Linnet’s eyes darted over the men, immediately locating her fiancé. In fact, he was speaking. “Miliary fever. Presents with rash, febrile state.” His voice had the ring of utter authority. “The eruption appeared on the third day, which is conclusive evidence.” Marchant had a longer chin than she would have imagined, but the rest of him was perfect: sleekly blond hair, wildly intelligent, lean, with an arrogant look.
That was what got him the nickname of Beast—that arrogant look, as if he were more intelligent than anyone in the room. Still, she could see a kindness in him that belied the label.
His costume was exquisite. Frankly, she would never have thought to see a morning coat of that magnificence in Wales, or indeed anywhere outside London. Her father would have envied it, which was saying a great deal.
A young man to the right of the bed spoke up, rather hesitatingly. “Huxham says the rash might appear on the seventh, ninth, or eleventh day.”
“In my experience, eruption occurs on the third day,” her fiancé replied. His voice was just the sort to soothe a fretful patient, Linnet thought, wondering why he had a French accent, before remembering that he’d spent most of his life in that country, with his mother.
“Your experience is worthless,” some graceless student snarled from the other side of the bed. She could not see him since he was obscured by the other men. “And so is Huxham’s. The man was flailing in the dark. Seventh, eleventh; he might as well say that the eruption comes with the new moon. It’s all magic to him.”
“This eruption was accompanied by oppression and sinking spirits,” her fiancé responded, his voice a quiet reproach. “Lobb explicitly mentions those symptoms in connection with miliary eruptions.”
“Wouldn’t you have sinking spirits if you found yourself covered with a disgusting, crusty eruption?” the harsh voice said.
Beside her, the duke shifted to the side to see the speaker, and then smiled. Linnet’s heart sank as she grasped the meaning behind that smile.
“Here, you in the bed, aren’t you finding your condition sinking, if not oppressive? That eruption means someone might as well start carving your gravestone, so why not be depressed?”
“Yweth,” came from the bed.
“Now this is fun,” the man said. “Someone ask him what color the sky is, why don’t you?”
No one said anything.
“Bwuu,” the patient offered.
There was a crack of laughter.
“You’re an ass,” the blond doctor stated. Linnet agreed. How could that lout make fun of a dying man?
Just then the group of young doctors parted, and she could see who was spouting all this incivility. “The ass in this room is the person who diagnosed a patient without asking him a single question. Now this man has a thick tongue, leading to that amusing lisp. Could be dry, could be swollen. Either way, not a good sign. If it’s dry, it could mean miliary fever. But if swollen, what would that indicate?”
Her first impression of the rude man was that he was big—huge, in fact. The blond doctor was tall and lean, but this man was even taller, and much bigger. His shoulders seemed twice as wide as those of the other men. He was all muscle, with a kind of predatory force that looked out of place next to a sickbed. In fact, he looked as if he should be out leading hordes of Vikings . . . berserking, or whatever it was those men did for a living.
He’d been pointing out something on the patient’s chest, but he looked up and their eyes met. Instantly his face went stony.
What was beautiful in his father was harsh in him; his blue eyes were frosty, like bitter winter. He didn’t look civilized. No one would put that face on a coin, Roman or otherwise. He looked too tough . . . too . . . too beast-like, she suddenly realized.
Her heart skipped a beat, but his eyes moved over her face and then down her body, as if she too were a patient he was diagnosing. Quite carelessly, without looking away from her, he said, “It’s petechial fever, numbskull. He should have been put in the east wing, not the west, though he’s likely no longer infectious. You should stick to sawing off legs; you’re an ass when it comes to diagnostics.”
And then, “Look who’s here! My father actually managed to find a woman more beautiful than the sun and the moon.” There was a faint ring of contempt in his voice that made Linnet’s backbone stiffen.
“Piers,” the duke said.
His son’s implacable eyes moved from Linnet to the duke, standing next to her. “And accompanied by Dear Old Dad, no less. Well, this will be a jolly party. Guess what, fellows?”
The other doctors were frankly gaping. Unlike the earl, they each had a quite normal reaction to Linnet; she saw that in one lightning glance.
“I’m getting married,” he said. “To a woman who apparently has a remarkable wish to be a duchess. Aren’t I the lucky one?” He walked forward, around the end of the bed.
Linnet just stopped herself from stepping backward. She realized with a jolt of nerves that she could either stand up to him, starting now, or she’d spend the rest of her life being bullied.
Because he was a bully, no question about it. He walked over until he was standing too close to her, using the fact he was so much bigger to intimidate her.
“My father did inform you that I’m planning to live a normal life span, didn’t he?” Marchant said, his voice liquid with distaste.
“He didn’t mention it,” she managed, grateful to hear her voice unshaken. The contempt in his eyes was so thinly veiled that her back went rigid. “S
ometimes plans change,” she added. “One can only hope.”
“My plans rarely do. I wouldn’t want you to have scampered all the way to Wales just because you thought I was lining up pallbearers.”
“The duke told me everything essential about you, and your reputation provided the rest,” she said.
His eyes drifted slowly down her body again. “Interesting. There are a few things he seems to have forgotten to tell me.”
Linnet turned to the duke. Surely he’d mentioned the baby in his letter—that is, the baby she was supposed to have? Marchant’s eyes had definitely paused at her thickened waist.
But the duke was staring at his son like a greedy man in front of a French custard. There was a great deal more going on here than she had realized.
“And you must be my father,” Marchant continued. His voice was not in the least welcoming.
“I am,” the duke said, his voice halting. “I am he.”
There was a painful silence. It was clear that Marchant wasn’t going to say anything else, and the duke didn’t seem to have the nerve.
“Now we all know who each other is,” Linnet said brightly, “perhaps we should go downstairs and leave this poor patient to himself.”
The man in bed had propped himself up on his elbows and was staring in fascination. “Not on my account,” he said, his swollen tongue making a mangle of the sentence.
Marchant looked from the patient to her. “Beautiful and cheerful. My, my, this really is my lucky day, isn’t it?”
“A delightful family reunion of this nature brings out the best in everyone, don’t you think?” She turned and walked to the doorway, where she paused and turned around. Just as she expected, the men were staring after her, including—she noticed with a pulse of pleasure—her own fiancé, not to mention the patient. “Doctor?”
“I believe that’s my cue,” Marchant said. For the first time she realized that he was leaning on a cane clutched in his right hand. She watched as he made his way toward her. Oddly enough, his huge body gave the opposite effect to the gentle list to the side that she had expected.
He lurched as he walked, moving like a wounded but still ferocious lion, all the more dangerous for his injury.
“Don’t tell me that His Grace forgot to inform you that your future husband is a cripple,” he said, reaching the door. He had walked straight past his father without seeming to notice the way the duke’s hand started toward him and then fell to his side.
Linnet decided to hold the family smile back for a better moment. “He mentioned it,” she said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t take your arm, in case I topple you?” She ignored the fact that he hadn’t offered his arm.
He narrowed his eyes. They both knew that he was built like a brick house, and her hand on his arm wouldn’t shake him.
“You’re playing a deep game,” he said.
“So, are the three younger men your students?” she asked. They walked down the corridor. Behind them, she could hear the duke introducing himself to the remaining doctors.
“You can count to three,” he said approvingly. “That bodes well for our offspring.”
“And here I thought we weren’t having offspring,” Linnet said.
“It is true that the responsibility for the business rests on your shoulders,” he said, walking with a sort of rolling gait that sent him stalking just before her. “Though I must say that my father’s letter seemed to imply you were more precipitate in that regard than you appear to be.”
The worst thing she could do was to skip to catch up with him. He was obviously far too accustomed to young doctors tagging along at his heels.
He turned his head. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Unluckily for me,” she said sweetly, “I don’t know what the word precipitate means, so I missed the compliment you were giving me.”
“I was talking about that scrap of royal blood you’re supposedly carrying in your womb,” he growled.
Linnet glanced over her shoulder. There was still no sign of the duke or the medical students. “What of it?”
He stopped again. “There’s no baby in that belly, Miss Thrynne. The fact that you have tied a cushion around your waist may be sufficient to confuse my father, but not me.” He started walking again.
Linnet looked at his shoulders and realized that she would have to curb this habit of his, or she would spend the rest of her life scrambling after him. “Is it your limp that makes you walk like this?” she asked, raising her voice.
“What do you think?” he said, halting again. “Do you suppose that I stagger like a drunken sailor for the pure pleasure of it?”
“I don’t mean the stagger,” she said. “I mean the way you’re scurrying along the corridor like a kitchen maid afraid of the cook.”
He froze for a moment and then, rather to her surprise, gave a bark of laughter. It sounded rusty, as if from disuse. “I’m bored by corridors,” he said.
“I’m bored by people’s shoulders.”
His eyes were remarkably lustrous in the dim light of the corridor. He didn’t have his father’s beauty, but Linnet began to see that he had his own. It was a more brutal, stronger kind, a sort of beauty that burned from his eyes.
“Bloody hell. You’re not what I expected.”
“I must not be quite as famous as you are,” she said, catching up to him. He didn’t offer, but she put her fingertips on his right arm, thinking that would at least keep him at her side.
“With that face, I would imagine that polite society knows all about you.”
“And what do you know of polite society?”
“Not a thing,” he said, starting to walk. He didn’t mention her touch, but he did slow down to keep beside her.
“At the moment, I’m more notorious than famous,” she said, taking the bull by the horns.
“Because of that baby you don’t actually have,” he said. “Odd, that. I thought the gentry were more outraged by babies, than the lack thereof. Did you start wearing the cushion as some sort of joke?”
“I put it on this morning just for you,” she said.
“How did you figure out that my father would be unable to resist you, under the circumstances? It was a remarkably clever ploy, given his obsession with the family name.” For the first time there was a germ of admiration in his voice.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not that it’s going to work.”
Linnet was thinking precisely along those lines, though she saw no reason to let him know. “Oh, but I think we’re perfectly suited,” she said, just to needle him.
“A barking-mad doctor—that’s me—and a wickedly conniving beauty—that’s you—limping along together in a lifetime of happiness? I hardly think so. You’ve been reading too many fairy stories.”
“Who says I can read? I can barely count, remember?”
He glanced at her and she decided, once again, to withhold the family smile. “I’m starting to think I may have been wrong about your abilities. You can probably count all the way to ten and back.”
“That just warms my heart,” she cooed. “Since it comes from the great doctor and all.”
The corner of his mouth curled up. “So just when did you think you’d inform your husband about the royal baby that doesn’t exist?”
“I could have lost the babe.”
“I’m a physician, remember?”
“I thought you were a surgeon.”
“I do it all,” he said, starting to speed up again.
She tightened her fingers on his arm, feeling muscles flex as his arm took the weight of his body, leaning on his cane.
He looked sideways, slowed down, but didn’t say anything.
“So you’re a surgeon,” she prompted, and asked once more, “Are those men all your students?”
“I don’t have students,” he said in a disgusted tone. “I leave that for the fools in London. What you saw are hopeless idiots who found their way here to make my life hell. Yo
u may have noticed the driveling idiot in the front, the blond one. He’s the worst.”
“He looks old to be a student,” Linnet said.
“Sébastien. My cousin. He’s actually not a bad surgeon. Claims to be writing a book on the subject, but actually he’s just got the wind up, so he’s hiding here.”
“Hiding from what?”
“He seems to be convinced that Napoleon is losing his mind. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s Marquis Latour de l’Affitte, by the way, so it’s a miracle he made it through the last ten years with his pretty head intact.”
They reached the stairs leading down to the main floor. “If you want to keep holding onto me, you’ll have to move to my left side,” Marchant said. “Though, of course, there’s always the possibility that you could descend the stairs all by yourself.”
Linnet moved to his left side, just to irritate him. She curled her fingers under his arm this time. She rather liked all that muscle under her hand. It felt as if she were taming a wild beast.
“I suppose you think I’ll fall in love with you,” he said.
“Quite likely.”
“How long do you give yourself?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“Two weeks at the outside.” And then she did give him the smile—dimples, charm, sensuality and all.
He didn’t even blink. “Was that the best you’ve got?”
Despite herself, a giggle escaped, and then another. “Generally, that’s more than enough.”
“I suppose I should say something reassuring at this point.” He pitched his voice to a groveling apology. “It’s not me, it’s you.” Then: “Oops! Got that backwards. It’s not you, it’s me.”
“I suppose your injury gives you immunity,” she said, having already figured that out. She’d miscalculated when she counted his incapability as a plus. It made him uninterested in her charms, which meant their marriage would never work.
The duke was simply going to have to reconcile himself to the lack of an heir.
Marchant’s frosty blue eyes flickered over to her and then away. “Something like that.”
“I didn’t mean to mention it, if it’s a sore subject,” she said, making up her mind to irritate him all she could. “I’m sure it must be difficult to feel that you’re . . . what is the phrase? A pussycat. A powder puff.”