A Lady of Persuasion (28 page)

“Jeremy!” Lucy’s pained cry clawed through the ceiling. “If you hear me down there, I want you to know … You are never. Coming near me. Again.”

Toby and Jeremy looked at one another.

The voice became more of a growl. “Never. Ever. Again.”

“You see?” Toby remarked at length. “That’s determination for you.”

When Jeremy made no response, Toby decided it was time to speak of other things. Diversion, that’s what this group needed. “How are the legal studies progressing, Joss?”

Joss stared out the window. “Fine.”

Several moments’ silence followed. Well, so much for that vein of conversation.

“I met with Felix in the park the other day,” Toby began again. “Jem, really—one of us needs to ward him off whenever he mentions Tattersalls. Or accompany him, at the least. He laid down an outrageous sum for a team of bays last week, more than double their worth. They’re not evenly matched at all, and his carriage pulled left so egregiously, I found him spinning in circles in the midst of Rotten Row.” Toby chuckled. “Not that driving has ever been Felix’s forte. He really ought to leave it to coachmen, instead of—”

“Toby.” Lifting his head from his hands, Jeremy gave him that insufferable autocratic Look.

There really was no disobeying that Look. He would make a formidable father, indeed.

“Yes?”

“Shut it.”

Toby raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Jeremy lowered his head again, and quiet reigned. Gray sipped his drink. Joss stared out the window. Toby tugged at his neck cloth. The midsummer heat choked the room, oppressive and mute.

A scream tore through the tense silence.

Every man froze.

“Toby,” Jeremy said, his fingers white-knuckled webs against his black hair.

“Yes?”

“Keep talking.”

So he did. For hours. Afternoon faded toward evening, brandy dwindled in its decanter, and coats and cravats peeled away from restless, perspiring men. Through it all, Toby kept talking.

He talked of foxhounds and boxing and every inane, meaningless topic he could dredge from his imagination. Mundane, everyday concerns that he hoped would serve as a reminder that beyond this day, beyond Lucy’s labor, mundane, everyday life would continue.

As the sinking sun painted the salon carpet in shades of plum and crimson, Toby was just embarking on a detailed description of the new writing desk he’d ordered for his study. By this point, he was growing hoarse, and boring even himself. But until Jeremy told him to stop, he was going to keep talking. “I ordered dark-blue felt to line the drawers,” he said, yawning.

“And the handles are carved in the shape of—”

Miss Osborne saved them all, thank God, when she flung open the salon doors.

Jeremy shot to his feet. Toby, Gray, and Joss followed suit, with lumbering movements.

“No babe yet,” Miss Osborne said.

Four chests deflated in unison. Jeremy sank back into his chair with a muttered oath. “Oh, God. She’s going to die.”

“She is not going to die,” Miss Osborne said firmly. “There is no cause for concern.

Everything is progressing as it should. First labors are always lengthy, and Lucy is weathering the pains well. I expect it will be a few hours more.”

“Can I see her?” Jeremy asked.

She paused. “No, my lord.”

At the words “my lord,” Jeremy seemed to recall his position of authority. Toby watched the decision to pull rank travel up his face, starting with the firming of his jaw and ending with his ice-blue eyes and heavy brow as they flexed the Look.

“I’m going to see her,” he said, standing again and drawing to his full height.

“No, you’re not.”

Toby had to salute Miss Osborne. There weren’t many women—there weren’t many
people
—

who would have stood their ground against Jeremy in full Earl-of-Kendall arrogance.

“You can’t keep him away from her,” Joss objected. “She’s his wife.”

Gray joined the effort to argue Jeremy’s case. “Miss Osborne, surely you can permit him a few minutes with Lucy.”

The young woman shook her head. “It’s not a matter of me granting my permission, it’s a matter of Lucy granting hers.” Her sharp gaze landed on Jeremy. “And she doesn’t want to see you, my lord. She expressly told me so, and I will heed my patient’s wishes above even the demands of an earl.”

Jeremy swore again.

When Joss echoed him, Miss Osborne threw him a strange look.

“I came to inform you of Lucy’s condition,” she continued. “Now that I’ve done so, I must return upstairs.”

She turned to leave, but Jeremy darted forward to catch her arm.

“Hetta, please.” His voice cracked. Toby thought he had never seen his friend look so vulnerable. “I know Lucy’s angry with me. We did not part well earlier. But you must let me see her, give me a chance to put things right.”

“You will have a chance, my lord. After the babe is born, but not before.”

“You mean to keep me from her?” Jeremy loomed over the young woman. Her face blanched, throwing her freckles into sharp relief. “If I decide to see my wife, ten men couldn’t keep me from her.”

“Jem.” Toby stepped between them, placing a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and guiding his friend back with a light yet firm touch. “I know it’s difficult, but you must respect Lucy’s wishes. As Miss Osborne says, you’ll have ample time to make up later.”

“Listen to your friend, my lord.” With that, Miss Osborne dropped a perfunctory curtsy and left the room.

Frustrated, impotent silence resumed. Jeremy paced the carpet. Gray moved to uncork a fresh bottle of liquor. With a vicious oath, Joss quit the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Toby supposed he ought to start prattling again, provide more distraction. But he didn’t really feel like talking. What he felt like doing was charging upstairs, finding Isabel, gathering her into his arms and burying his face in her sweet-scented hair. He didn’t want to kiss her, or lie with her, or even speak to her. He just wanted to be near her. Desperately. The yearning hit him like a fist, leaving a dull ache in his chest. And with it came a realization that left him without words.

He was deeply, irretrievably in love with his wife.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Miss Osborne froze on the first riser of the staircase, hand on the banister. She didn’t turn around.

“If a man wants to see his wife, who are you to stop him?” Joss demanded, stepping closer.

Staring into the fine wisps of auburn hair where they curled against her pale neck. So delicate and soft. So completely unlike her.

“If a woman does not wish to see her husband,” she said calmly, pivoting to face him, “who am I to force her?” Miss Osborne was a small woman, but with the benefit of one step’s height, she stood nearly eye-to-eye with him.

“Do you know what it does to a man, listening to his wife in such agony, knowing he is powerless to help her? Knowing she could die? It is the most acute form of torture imaginable.

Any devoted husband would swallow hot coals to spare his wife a moment’s suffering.” He jabbed a finger toward the closed salon door. “That man is sick with worry, and your heartless remarks only multiply his distress.”

“If Lord Kendall is sick with anything, it’s guilt. He regrets their argument, and well he should, from Lucy’s report of it. But his apologies will have to wait. I’m here to deliver an infant, not coddle a grown man’s conscience.”

Her impersonal tone only added fuel to Joss’s anger. It was clear from her prim carriage, the proud jut of her chin—she meant to deny his presence had any effect on her. But he knew it did.

He stepped closer, knowing she would not back down. Though she stood perfectly still, her pupils widened a fraction, and her auburn lashes quivered as she blinked. Good. He wanted to unsettle her. He wanted to crack open the ice encasing this woman and discover the warm, beating heart that instinct told him must lie somewhere within. “Miss Osborne,” he whispered.

“Hetta
. Can you truly be so cold, so devoid of sympathy?”

“I’m not cold, I’m competent. I’m a physician.”

“A physician treats
people
, not merely injuries and illnesses. You would be a better doctor if you gave some consideration to your patients’ feelings. And you would be a better person if you allowed yourself to feel.”

She laughed bitterly.
“You
would encourage me to feel. Of course—by your accounting, one cannot claim true suffering without a proportional measure of public grief. Not all of us have the luxury of indulging our emotions, Captain Grayson. Don’t you know Lucy is my dearest friend? I do not enjoy watching her in pain, any more than Lord Kendall does. Should I come join you gentlemen, then? Spend the evening cursing into my brandy? Perhaps that would give you sufficient proof of my sympathy, but it would not help Lucy deliver her child.”

“Miss Osborne, you’re the most educated woman I know. Surely you’re more clever than that argument implies.” Joss inhaled slowly, tempering his frustration. Why did this woman affect him so? Every time he was in her presence, he felt compelled to defend his behavior, explain himself in ways he shouldn’t need to explain himself to anyone. He didn’t know why it should matter what she thought of him, but somehow it did. It mattered a great deal. “You needn’t choose between the two,” he said. “Can’t you be both a physician and a human? Both Lady Kendall’s doctor and her friend?”

She stood silent for a long moment. Joss waited for her to speak.

“My mother,” she began at last, “was ill, bed ridden for more than a year. My father personally saw to her treatment. He consulted specialists, spent long nights scouring medical journals for new treatments. Not once—not even toward the end, when she forgot our names—did my father indulge in a moment’s self-pity. Not once did he allow her to see his distress. And the day she died, did he sit by her bedside and weep useless tears, just to prove his love for her?

No, he went to tend victims of a mining explosion the next county over. Because he was the doctor, and they needed his help.” The sparks of green flashed in her hazel eyes. “Everyone has wounds, Captain Grayson. Some of us do our bleeding on the inside.”

Suddenly, she raised a hand to her temple and closed her eyes. Her posture softened, and Joss finally glimpsed what he’d been waiting to see since the day of their introduction. At that moment, she wasn’t a doctor. She wasn’t efficient or headstrong or abrasive or cold. She was simply a woman—and an exhausted one, at that. The long hours of work weighed heavy on her shoulders. Eyes still shut, she swayed slightly on her feet. She desperately needed a rest.

More than that, she needed to be held.

He could hold her. He had two strong arms, and her slender frame would fit quite neatly in their circumference. On another day, she might be strong enough to hold him in return.

But it couldn’t be that easy. Nothing was ever that easy. There were questions and enmity and ghosts between them. And Joss knew from experience that taking a woman in his arms was a great deal simpler than letting her go.

“I’m sorry.” He rested a hand on the banister, sliding it slowly higher until it rested an inch from hers. “I realize this day has been a trial for you as well. It’s just that I know what a living hell it is to be in Lord Kendall’s place. In many ways, his misery is my own. If you cannot have a care for his feelings, perhaps you could have a care for mine.”

“You would ask me to care,” she said, eyes still shut. “Care for you.”

“Yes, damn it. Do I not deserve as much? Am I not just as human as Lord Kendall, as any man?”

“Lord. You are just as much a fool, as any man.”

Her eyes opened and looked to his. There was something there. Not the respect he’d been seeking, but something better and worse at once. Emotion, raw and intense. She did care for his feelings. She cared a great deal. Good Lord, the girl was half in love with him, the devil knew why. For weeks now, he’d been searching for her weakness, and the truth had been staring him in the mirror all the while.
He
was her weakness. And now that they both knew it, she trembled.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize.”

She made a choked sound, rather like a swallowed sob.

Some tender, protective impulse uncoiled in his heart. Leaning forward, he slid his hand along the banister until his thumb rested in the crook of hers. A warm pulse fluttered there, where her skin was chafed and cracked from frequent scrubbing. He soothed the spot with his thumb, at every moment expecting her to pull away. She didn’t.

“Could you, Hetta?” he asked quietly. “Could you care for me?” He hadn’t known, until that moment, how much he’d been wanting to ask her exactly that. Neither had he realized how much of his rudeness had been aimed at avoiding the answer.

“Captain Grayson …”

“Joss,” he corrected, raising his other hand to cradle her smooth, flushed cheek. Closing her eyes, she leaned ever so slightly into his palm. “My name is Joss.”

Then a low moan sounded above them. Hetta bristled away from his touch. Joss dropped his hand from her face, but he kept the other twined with hers. They stared into one another’s eyes for a few seconds more, and in that remarkable shade of hazel, Joss read possibilities and questions and fears. And then—he saw the moment of her decision.

He released her before she could pull away.

“I can’t care for you,” she whispered. “Grief, bitterness … those are wounds I don’t know how to cure.”

“Hetta, wait. I didn’t mean—”

“I have work to do.” Crossing her arms, she retreated up the staircase. “Go back to your brandy and be at ease. No one is going to die here today.”

* * *

“I’m going to murder him.”