Doctor...to Duchess? (9 page)

He was no different to anyone in this room yet he knew why he wasn’t surrounded by the same chatting crowds Julia was. He came across as standoffish, wary—different. Absolutely rich, considering it was all of his own construct. Normalcy. He suddenly felt a craving for it.

Julia saw that in him. The regular guy. The Oliver behind the title. Or was it that he was a better man with her? A warmth spread through his chest. No guessing who inspired that, then.

Without Julia, he would’ve come and gone from the event in a matter of minutes. Or, more realistically, not come at all. As it was, he was enjoying being here with her, watching her, a fly on the wall.

“Lord Oliver, so good of you to come along!” Pamela Pryce, Reg’s wife, made a beeline toward him through the ever-thickening crowd.

Perhaps not so much of a fly on the wall, then.

“I’ve not had a chance to thank you for all of your heroics down in Shaw Field, pulling off that tractor and all. Mike told me it was you who raised it and I refused to believe him until I heard it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Anyone would’ve done the same.” He waved away the compliment, well aware it didn’t sit right.

“Stuff and nonsense, Lord Oliver! You’ve come home for a nice rest and jumped right into the fray.”

“Yes, but you know it was Dr. MacKenzie who did the real hard graft?”

“Oh?” Pamela’s eyes widened.

“Without her quick thinking—calling the helicopter—I dare say things would’ve been a lot worse.”

“But if you hadn’t pulled the tractor off...” She smiled up at him, her voice trailing off as Oliver stiffened. This was precisely the type of thing that gnawed at him. Undue credit just because of his title.

Be gracious.

His mother’s words echoed through him. And maybe the poor woman just wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t that strange a thing, after all. Talking to a neighbor who’d just helped your husband.
Get a grip, man. Don’t read so much into things—and, yes, be gracious.

“It wasn’t any trouble, Mrs. Pryce. I assure you. But it really is Dr. MacKenzie you should be thanking.”

“Oh, yes, I know. Of course, the village is ever so happy to have her here.” Mrs. Pryce carried on talking as Oliver looked over her shoulder toward Julia, now deep in discussion with a flat-capped gentleman giving out samples of hard cheese. She looked up at Oliver, lifted an eyebrow and smiled. Something in him tightened. In a good way. Over here was too far away. He was hardly the hovering type, but...

“So, anyway, the hospital says it should be another week and he can come home—so long as Dr. MacKenzie can do his checkups, of course. Or you? I hear you’re taking appointments while Dr. MacKenzie’s hand is all trussed up.”

Oliver looked at Mrs. Pryce blankly for a moment then shook his head. He’d been away with the fairies—the blond-haired, blue-eyed variety.

“Absolutely. Yes. Do bring him in. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s some cheese over there I need to get a taste of.”

* * *

“What a good night!” Julia enthused. She risked a glance over at Oliver, who had turned from amiable to visibly brooding halfway through the event. “Did you find anything you liked?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” She guffawed but kept her eyes trained on the wooded path they were following back to the Hall. “What kind of response it that?”

“It means there were a lot of nice things, but nothing that really spoke to me.”

Julia stopped, astonished he hadn’t found one thing to his taste. “Are you kidding me? I could give you a shopping list as long as my arm! I can’t wait to get back into my little cottage and fill up the larder. I had some amazing crisps made with heritage potatoes and just a hint of paprika. Delicious!”

“Is Clara’s cooking not to your taste, then?”

Touchy.

“
She’s a wonderful cook. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just surprised you’re so lackluster about it all. Some of these kitchen table projects could turn into a real boon for St. Bryar. The villagers could certainly do with the income.”

“There’s no point in getting attached to things you can’t have.”

Julia stopped, feeling physically struck by his words. She was pretty sure they weren’t on the topic of paprika crisps anymore.

“What exactly are we talking about here?”

“Nothing.” Oliver shook his head and picked up the pace. He was hardly going to tell her virtually every thought of his managed to touch on her in some way or other.

“Hang on a second.” Julia jogged a few steps to catch up with him and caught ahold of his sleeve. “What are you talking about, Oliver? Is there something I need to know?”

It would be so easy to take her in his arms. Hold her, take in that soft scent of hers, grab ahold of her hand and run through the woods like a couple of young lovers. But it would hardly be fair.

How could he explain that tonight—and every other St. Bryar-centric thing she’d gotten him involved in since he’d returned—was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid when he’d come home? Being attached, caring for people, loving people then losing them was precisely what he’d spent his entire adult life avoiding. Each and every moment he spent with her made the place feel more like—home.

“Oliver, are you sure you’re all right?” Julia’s blue eyes appealed to him to open up.

He ached to let her in. Anywhere else in the world, he knew he would’ve pulled her into his arms and savored the sensation of holding her and being held. Here? Where everything turned to poison?

Not a chance.

“Right as rain.” He flashed a practiced aristocratic smile and turned her toward Bryar Hall, just visible through the trees. “Shall we get you back before dark, then?”

* * *

Julia scrunched up her pillow. Nope. No good. Maybe fluffing it would do the trick. There. Perhaps now that she’d rearranged it about fifty thousand times she could get to sleep.

She tossed. Then turned. Then flung herself into a snow angel position and stared at the ceiling, willing her mind to slow down.

If only she could hoover the thoughts away, stick a tube to her ear and suck every single thought about Oliver Wyatt right out of her brain.

Oliver Wyatt.

It seemed every dark-haired, green-eyed morsel of the man was threatening to eat her brain alive. And her body. Her hands slipped onto her belly as yet another wash of warmth set her body alight. For heaven’s sake! She was responding to him like a giddy teen and he wasn’t even in the room! Yet again her body was playing traitor to her pragmatism.

Hadn’t she made a deal with herself? Play it cool while Oliver went through the books. Which, she noted with a wry grin, he hadn’t really seemed to do much of. She frowned.
Get on with it!

On the other hand, with him helping out at the clinic so much, there was every chance his love for Bryar Estate and the village would be reignited. It was the perfect match. Medicine and making a difference. Those seemed to be the things that made him tick.

Her heart sank a bit.

Just not here. His dark mood on their walk home from the village hall was proof positive he had little to no time for the place.

What was it that he hated so much? Being a duke didn’t have to be all that horrible if decorum wasn’t his thing. His father hardly looked taxed by his position. Look at the King of Spain! He was always roaring around Madrid on a motorcycle. Hardly restrained behavior. Then again, they were English. Firm-jawed in the face of adversity and all that.

She had to get to the heart of it. Find out what really made him hate it here so much. Then she would—what, exactly? Solve all his problems with a winning smile and a bit of emotional elbow grease? Unlikely.

Her hands slipped to her hips and ran along her thighs as she rolled onto her side. For the fifty-thousandth time.

Her thoughts flitted about before landing back at the moment when she slipped the chocolate in Oliver’s mouth. If she hadn’t run away, would they have carried on holding hands as if it had been a perfectly natural thing to do?

Would she have gone up on tiptoe to taste the salted caramel a second time? Pressed into him to feel if his appetite, like hers, wasn’t for food but for the other’s touch?

Aargh!
She turned flat on her belly and pulled a pillow over her head. Enough!

He didn’t want the same things—and the sooner she got that through her head the better.

CHAPTER SIX

O
LIVER
DREW
A
finger down the list of the day’s remaining patients. Between the two of them, they’d make quick work of it. He could’ve sworn the clinic of days gone by had been one of well-intentioned but hapless disorder.

Hats off to Julia. Yet another tick in “
the woman is a star”
book. The clinic was a world away from how he remembered it. She was efficient, professional and obviously very dedicated. Oh—and beautiful. Did he mention beautiful? And funny? And had the softest skin. He’d barely had a moment to trace the soft outline of her cheek—but by God he wouldn’t mind doing that again. Not that he’d had a moment alone with her since the Bite of St. Bryar.

She was always at the clinic before him, beavering away at some paperwork or cleaning, and she’d never left until well after he’d hung up his stethoscope. She wouldn’t be avoiding him, would she? Had she seen through his veneer of charm and realized he was a man who couldn’t commit? Or maybe it was simpler: she loved her work here at the clinic. And who could blame her? He’d enjoyed the past few days immensely.

Word had quickly spread that there was an extra pair of hands in St. Bryar Hospital—and not just any old hands. After an initial surge of patients, who all seemed to be suffering from hypochondria more than anything else, the appointments list had settled back to a steady trickle. He grinned as he pictured Julia re-enacting the disappointed faces of patients who’d drawn the short straw and been seen by her.

“Ooh—I was just hoping Lord Oliver might have a listen with his stethoscope, you see. I’m sure you’re very good, but this condition might call for a specialist.”

“What have you done to my practice?” she’d wailed. “Everyone’s out for their heartbeat to be listened to by the future Duke of Breckonshire.”

How she managed to push all his buttons and make him grin instead of growl was beyond him. Perhaps because she had one heck of a gift for mimicry, he could forgive it.

Realistically? His soft spot for the cheeky blonde was growing despite his resolve to push it into the back of a wardrobe somewhere and forget about it. That in and of itself was steadily sanding away the sheen of his well-laid plans.

Apart from feeling like a bit of a tourist attraction, he was genuinely beginning to enjoy this whole country-living thing much more than he’d bargained for. He’d been an idiot to think springtime, when the estate was virtually exploding with new life, was the best time to wipe his hands of St. Bryar. There were lambs bouncing around the fields and gorgeous, fluffy calves gorging themselves on their mother’s milk—not to mention every shrub, hedgerow and fruit tree bursting into spectacular life. And—of course—Julia. The place was a rural idyll. Anyone would be a fool not to want to be a part of it.

He rapped a pen on the desk. That was just the point, wasn’t it? Did he or didn’t he want to be a part of it? He’d been doing a fairly terrific job of avoiding the real reason for coming home—and he’d be hard pressed to eke out this “lending a helping hand” ruse for much longer. A couple of more weeks and Julia’s hand would be right as rain, the cottage would be fixed and he would have all the time in the world to focus on the estate’s books. He rapped the pen on the desk again. He wasn’t behind a pile of ledgers yet!

“Let’s see,” he said aloud. “What have we got here? Post-op hernia check for Arthur ‘The Knife’ Potts. Mole removal for Elaine Duncan. Blood pressure check for Mrs. Winters.”

A smile crept to his lips. The butcher, the baker...and the schoolgirl who’d come to ride at the stables once a week when he’d been a boy. St. Bryar had never had a candlestick maker, so far as he knew. Pity.

The names all pinged with images of encounters he’d had with each of them over the course of growing up. Part of him was astonished all of these people from his childhood were still here.

He hadn’t appreciated how few tabs he’d kept on everyone here and it bridled. What he’d seen as the frippery and excess of the Bryar Hall tea parties and village shoots unexpectedly made sense: they were ways for his parents to see and be with the villagers on a level other than that of employer, landowner, duke and duchess. He could’ve easily held open clinics during his annual trip home and given Dr. Carney a much-needed holiday. Caught up with folk. Made a difference. He sat back in the chair and sighed. Truth be told, he could’ve done a lot of things.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to, but it keeps us busy enough!” Julia’s soft voice broke into his thoughts.

“Looks more than enough for a clinic running on little more than loose change!”

Her expression told him in an instant he’d said the wrong thing. Again. He’d meant it as a compliment but his words had definitely cast a shadow across those blue eyes of hers.
Blue eyes he’d grown awfully fond of seeing brighten when they rested on him.

“I can assure you, Oliver, that the people of St. Bryar are happy to have what little we can offer. The alternative would cost them a lot more than loose change.”

“Go on.”

From the look on her face, she was hardly asking for his permission to continue. His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. It was almost worth annoying her just to enjoy the myriad expressions that lovely face of hers could morph into. All of them, no matter how cross, featured those lovely, deep red lips of hers.
Zwerp!
Focus.
The woman was trying to make a point.

“For starters, just think of the fuel it costs them to get to the nearest town. That’s a forty-mile-odd round trip. Or if they have to go all the way to the city—that’s over ninety miles’ round trip on quite a few single-track lanes. There and back for a pensioner is a lot of time and money.”

“Good point, but what about the flipside? An estate without an obvious income supporting a cottage hospital? Where’s the return in that?”

“Are you kidding me?” Julia stared at him incredulously.

“Wait. That didn’t come out exactly how I meant it.”

“Or maybe it did.”

“No. Be reasonable, Julia. I’d hardly have donated the last ten years of my life to helping people in conflict zones if I didn’t see the value of medicine.”

“But you don’t seem to see the value of it here.”

“That’s not fair. What about the people overseas?”

“What about the people here? Right here in your hometown?” She tamped a finger down on the desk.

“I’m not saying they shouldn’t have medical care.”

“Then what exactly are you saying? That Dr. Carney should spend his final days in a hospice too far away for his friends to visit regularly? That Elaine Duncan lose a day’s wages to get a simple mole removed when she’s got two children to care for? That Arthur close up his shop for half a day or more?”

“I don’t know the answer. Not off the top of my head.”

“Then why are you hiding out down here doing checkups with me when you could be going through the books with your father like you said you would?”

Because I like it here. With you.

The screech of the iron gate at the front of the clinic put an abrupt halt to his thoughts.

“This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”

“When
is
a more appropriate time?” Julia’s stance was solid. For a woman a good head shorter than him, she sure had presence.

“Tonight.” He held her gaze steadily, waiting for her to waver.

“Great.”

No wavering.

“Time?”

“Seven. I’ll cook.”

Julia’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “You don’t fancy Clara’s cooking, then?”

“Yes, but we have this odd custom called a day off.” He tipped his chin to the side and teased a smile out of her.

“So we’ll be eating lemon drizzle cake then?” She giggled.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Julia.”

The front door opened and a patient walked in.

“Go on—get out of here and let me do good.” She shooed him down the corridor as she ushered her patient into the exam room.

Oliver felt a smile forming. She was already good.

Very good. He slipped out the back of the clinic after a quick farewell wave to Dr. Carney. Yet another person who was lucky to have her in his life. Something told him that, no matter how many times he went over the books, he’d come up with the same conclusion: Julia was the one who added value to things here, not the paltry stipend the estate had the clinic on. She was an intelligent, fun, spirited, life-charged, passionate doctor who ticked all of his boxes—including “wrong place” and “wrong time.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you did all of this in an hour!” Julia ogled the plate Oliver placed in front of her, stopping just short of clapping her hands. Steamed coconut rice, a white-miso eggplant dish with a sprinkle of black sesame seeds, glossy bok-choi and thick slices of soy-glazed pork tenderloin. It looked amazing.

“We don’t exactly have a Chinese takeaway round here and this is how I sate my desire. Chopsticks?” Oliver brandished a pair of silver-tipped bamboo chopsticks for her to inspect.

“Easier than a fork and knife!” Julia quipped, waving her bad hand in the air, hoping it hid the fact she abruptly crossed her legs at the mention of “desire.” How could eyes be so green? Or cooking skills so sexy? Too bad her brain was in direct conflict with her body’s response to Oliver. This was, after all, meant to be a meeting of the minds in regards to the clinic. She needed to be steeling herself, not melting at his prowess with a wok.
Neutral territory, please. Keep it neutral!

“Will your father not be joining us?”

“Sorry, no. He sends his apologies. The spiced delights of the Far East aren’t really up his alley.” Oliver sat opposite her at the large wooden kitchen table. “He had a bowl of soup and some of Clara’s bread earlier and thought he’d turn in early. He’ll join us tomorrow if you’re happy with that.”

“Delighted.” Julia replied honestly. “Your father is fascinating. I’ve had such a great time hearing all of his stories about this place. The ‘olden days’ when the house was transformed into a hospital for soldiers in World War II...” She knew it was a leading statement but she might as well grab the bull by the horns.

“It’s a shame the ‘olden days’ aren’t like modern times,” Oliver parried.

“In what way?”

“Pragmatic. Sensible. Forward-thinking.”

“That’s interesting. Those are words I’d easily apply to the olden days. Add to that list
generous, community-minded, caring
...” Julia retorted sharply. She stabbed a bit of eggplant with her chopstick and popped it in her mouth. Just as quickly the piece came flying out again.

“Hot, hot, hot, hot!”

“What a relief,” Oliver replied drily. “I thought it might have been my cooking.”

“Apologies,” Julia muttered into her serviette. “That wasn’t very ladylike of me.”
Understatement of the year!

“Not to worry,” Oliver said with a smile. “Plenty else is.”

Julia felt her cheeks flush. If catching her off-guard with compliments was his method of disarming her, it was definitely working.

Taking care to blow on her food before taking another bite, and then another, Julia began to eat with true relish. “This is really delicious. You know your stuff.”

“I spent a bit of time in China.”

“Cooking school?” She guffawed at the thought—Oliver in an apron. Then again...
just
an apron...

“Hardly.” He gave her a “you should know better” look. “Working.”

Of course.
What else did Oliver Wyatt do but work on other people’s causes? Anywhere But Here. That seemed to be his motto.

“There are a lot of isolated communities out there and when an epidemic hits—SARS, for example—they are the ones to suffer most. We fly out and bring medical supplies and extra pairs of hands in exchange for training.”

“Training for what?”

“Acupuncture, herbal remedies—that sort of thing. The Chinese are great with preventative medicine in the form of what they eat—the exercise they take. A lot of the communities I’ve worked in just don’t have the resources to pay for Western medicines. Any techniques we can bring to their practitioners that help keep costs down help enormously.”

“So what would you recommend for me?”

“You?” It was Oliver’s time to look surprised.

“Sure. I work in a clinic with limited means and a community to serve. Anything you would recommend I could do to keep costs down?”

Oliver put down his chopsticks and folded his serviette on the table in a definitive gesture.
Whoops
. Looked like she’d brought the chatty atmosphere to a close.

Oliver looked her directly in the eye. “What you’re doing here is amazing, but there’s no chance one or a hundred muddy fun runs could raise the money to buy the building from the estate, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

Gulp!

“How’d you know?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Not in the strictest sense of the word.” Her stomach clenched in a tight ball.

“I saw your grant application forms,” he explained. “And I don’t think you’ve got the right angle for what most of those groups are looking to fund.”

He cleared his throat as if to continue, but Julia dove in. It was “now or never” time.

“I get it, Oliver. You’ve seen the big wide world out there and want to solve all of its problems. But have you stopped—for a moment—to think about all of the people right here in St. Bryar who you’ll be letting down? People who’ve lived here and worked here for generations? I can’t believe how selfish a decision you’re making!”

“Selfish? Seriously? You think I’m
selfish
for wanting to help women and children caught up in a war they having nothing to do with?”

Julia felt as though a plug had been pulled out of her. No. She shook her head; she didn’t think that at all.

“I’m sorry, Oliver.” Tears began to form a queue in her eyes. The first few fell in an orderly fashion, then there was a sudden scramble for the front and she felt her cheeks burn with a flood of grief.

“This is the exact same fight I had with my husband the day he was killed and I promised never to do it again.”