The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (3 page)

Aunt Frances’ head jerked up, and her gray eyes, so like Freddy’s, met his. “Dr. Meeker,” she said pointedly.

“Meeker. Right.” He stashed his watch again. “So where is he?”

“He has just been delayed a bit.”

James gaped at her. “We had an appointment, did we not?”

“Well, he is a very important man. He is much in demand.”

“I canceled all my own appointments and business dealings in London, without proper notice, so that I could come here immediately upon reading that last letter you sent.”

“I am sorry to have disrupted your pleasures, my lord.” Aunt Frances’ voice was crisp, her English accent more clipped than usual.

Her tone and general demeanor only added to his sense of growing ire. He wasn’t used to waiting on others. No inferior, be it in rank or social class, had dared to keep Rear-Admiral Sir James Blayne waiting. Now, as Baron Blayne, it was unthinkable that he should be inconvenienced like this by a physician.

It didn’t bode well for his opinion of the man’s character. It spoke of a general lack of respect for authority and decorum. A distinct laxness of discipline.

What kind of doctor lacked the basics of self-discipline?

What manner of commoner displayed such arrogance to the nobleman who employed him?

He scowled. “I have traveled miles to see him and he cannot be bothered to meet with me at the appointed time?”

Aunt Frances’ eyes widened.

He supposed he must have spoken too sharply. He was so unused to dealing with feminine sensibilities. He took a deep breath and tried to suppress the growing agitation that beat like a tattoo in his blood. He had hoped to have some real answers about Sunny’s situation by now. “Surely, he could have had some respect for my time.”

“Well, I suppose not many of his patients are such important barons, gentlemen with no time for their families.”

He pursed his lips, determined not to rise to any bait. She’d preferred him to stay away. They both knew it.

She handed him a cup of steaming tea.

He put his hand up. “I’ve no time now.”

Her brows, two dramatic slashes of thinning black, thickened by carefully drawn kohl, snapped together. “Surely, you can stay a little longer.”

He shook his head then leapt to his feet. “You send word to Meeker that I want to see him here tomorrow. And he’d best be on time. Lord knows I am paying him enough that he should take pains to be punctual.”

“But what about the matter I told you about?”

It was James’ turn to frown. “France?”

“Yes, she needs the change of scenery. There are many excellent doctors at that university, they can—”

He held up a hand to forestall her. “I don’t think moving Sunny away to France, hiding her away like some unwanted relic, is the way to handle this matter.”

Bright spots of color flared to life in Frances’ alabaster cheeks. “No one is talking about hiding her away!”

He stared at her steadily. It never paid to restate things once a point had been made.

“James, Sunny needs help. You don’t know what we’ve been through here.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Well, then let’s hear the whole of it.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, it is a delicate matter. Something best left to the ladies.”

“So you said in your letter.” With a last, sharp glare, he strode toward the door.

Aunt Frances rushed to him and placed her hand on his arm. “But your mind is set against doing what is best for Sunny?”

He stopped and glowered down. “Well?”

“You paint the picture as though we planned to shut her away in some dark and dismal asylum. But it is not like that at all!” She spoke rapidly, her face flushing with the effort. “It is for her to rest, far away from painful memories. Dr. Meeker says if she does not have some respite from the reminders of her sha—” Frances stopped and pressed her lips.

He raised his brows. “Her what?”

Frances’ face took on a strained look with her deep breath. “If she does not have some rest, he says she may go entirely mad. She would no longer be Sunny, at least not the Sunny we know. And she might never recover.”

Emotion rang in her voice. This doctor had worked hard to instill a sense of fear into Frances. Of course he had.

But how much was truth?

“Oh, James, do you remember our cheerful girl?” Frances’ voice seemed to crack, a rare show of sentiment from the matriarch.

His own throat grew tight. He resisted the urge to hook his finger into his cravat and yank it loose. Instead, he turned away, pretending to gaze out the window, but his eyes saw only Sunny and the wild, anguished look he’d seen in her eyes earlier today. His girl. His brilliant, sparkling girl. The tightness spread into his chest, and he took his next breath with surprising difficulty.

What the devil had they done to her?

Well, between Frances and Sunny’s parents, what chance had the poor girl ever had?

For Christ’s sake, she hadn’t even been allowed a season.

No free will to grow up and find her own life.

He didn’t know all the details, of course, but he had gleaned enough years ago from letters and gossip and servants’ talk. Frances had first seen a fifteen-year-old Sunny at the Duke of Hartley’s parlor, at a dinner party meant to raise monies for her clergyman papa’s missionary work. Accompanied by her mama on the piano, Sunny had sung an aria in her sweet soprano voice with far more emotion than any girl so young should be allowed.

She’d been merely passing pretty then, her face too thin, her mouth too wide and full. Yet, anyone who had ever heard Sunny sing would find themselves spellbound. Enchanted. Her quick wit, combined with a sweet innocence and the most radiant smile the Creator had ever gifted upon a female, had enabled Sunny to charm even the crustiest of hearts.

Just being near her, people felt they were standing next to a star that had fallen from the heavens. She had sparkled that brightly. And yet, she was possessed of a rare humility, a deep sincere kindness. She was the most singular person James had ever known.

He wasn’t the only one to feel that way.

The daughterless Frances had been smitten almost instantly, and Sunny had quickly become her dearest companion. In no time, there was talk of the marriage of this common-born, dowerless girl to Freddy Blayne. When her parents had lamented her tender age and made clear that they planned to move away to India soon and had no wish to leave their youngest and dearest child behind, Frances had immediately offered them an outrageous amount of money to fund their work.

Instantly, Sunny’s papa, a grandiose man James believed to be moved more by personal vanity than religious piety, had become an important man, with power and money to fund whatever missionary plan moved his fancy.

But what of Sunny? She had been pushed and pushed, led along with heaps of obligations and gratefulness. Led to give all her loyalty to Aunt Frances. Led to believe herself in love with the likes of Freddy Blayne.

She had rejected James.

And so doing, she had broken his heart beyond all repair. Had shown him every fanciful, sentimental, mawkish weakness that had lain hidden within him, thereby forcing him to transform himself into something sterner, harsher than he might otherwise have been.

Did he owe her scorn for that?

Or gratitude?

A memory of that pain wrenched through his gut, like swallowing a spoonful of ground glass. He fisted his hands, trying to block it out. It was no good, the feelings were just as vivid as though he had been transported back in time. God, that unbelievable, soul-hollowing pain, grief that could never be quenched by any amount of spirits or nights spent exhausting himself with nameless, faceless women.

He tightened his fists, straining the cloth of his gloves. Anger at himself arose, bitter and hot as bile rising his throat. This was so unnecessary and far too dramatic a lapse in self-control. Unworthy of him. It had been years since he had allowed himself such a foolish self-indulgence as to remember.

“James, you don’t know how I miss the old Sunny.” Frances voice, still shaking with emotion, cut jarringly into his thoughts.

Strengthened by the anger at himself and now a renewed vexation at the whole situation, he turned to face her, but seeing her genuine distress, he softened. He understood his aunt. Far better than she knew. Yes, he could even  sympathize with her, as no one else possibly could. She wanted Sunny whole and healthy. Sunny, whom she had handpicked for all her remarkable qualities.

However, he refused to believe all of Frances’ motives to be based on love and friendship alone. She had never wanted to have to relinquish her power to any strong-willed, well-connected, well-dowered daughter-in-law.

Sunny, groomed her whole life to be obedient, with no dowry, with her common-born, though well-educated and genteel, poor and money-hungry parents, had been the perfect bride for Freddy.

Wasn’t that why you wanted her? You wanted her sparkling brilliance, her kindness, her sweet, biddable nature? They denied her a season, her own personhood. Would you have done better?

He pushed the uncomfortable thoughts down and narrowed his stare at Frances. “Why France? She will have no one there but this doctor and her servants.”

He recalled that disquieting exchange in the garden between Sunny and her—her what? Her keeper?

Frances’ gaze lit with determination. “My grandmother left me a mansion there. It is a grand place in the country, with large floor-to-ceiling windows! Vividly painted frescoes on most of the ceilings, so lifelike you feel you’ve stepped back in time! And the grounds! Miles and miles with a wood and a stream. You know how Sunny loves the country. We would send servants to tend to her every need. I have two widowed cousins who have been living there, they will love her. They will cosset her as though she were their own daughter.” She stopped and gulped for several breaths. “She will heal there, James. She will come back to us whole and healthy, and things will be as they were before.”

“This doctor, he really thinks this is necessary?” James asked, unable to ignore the growing uneasiness in his stomach.

“Yes, absolutely vital to her recovery.”

“You trust this man?”

She released his arm and put her hand to her collar. “Of course I do! He is a very learned physician, and he came highly recommended—the highest recommendations we could find. And he will go there with her, do not forget that part. He will be constantly by her side.”

“I suppose he will want a blood—” James caught himself before the vulgar word slipped out completely. “I suppose he’ll want a fortune.”

Aunt Frances looked shocked. “He will be hers exclusively. Available to care for her round the clock. Of course he must be compensated for that.”

James compressed his lips and turned to the window. He stared at the growing dusk, at the evening traffic of fine carriages with brass lanterns and glossy painted exteriors, taking their finely dressed occupants to suppers, balls and routs. Uneasiness churned his insides.

“Well, Jamie?” Aunt Frances said in a softened tone.

Ah, Jamie was it now? How many times had she had a soft word for him? He might have laughed had he not begun to feel so miserable. “Send for Meeker. I want to hear what he has to say before I make any decisions.”

* * * *

They had left her alone.

Sunny lay on her bed, naked but for the towel wrapped about her damp hair. She had stripped away the coverlet and now she rolled on the sheets, luxuriating the crispness of the fresh linen against her skin. Savoring the lavender scent.

Dr. Meeker would not approve of such sensual abandon.

She pictured him, dressed in his physician’s dark suit, gazing down at her with disdain. His gnarled hands, corpse-white with prominent blue veins. Ice blue. As though he had no hot, red blood in his body.

A shudder of pure horror wracked her. Briefly. It couldn’t overpower the other feelings. The deep relaxation of the warm bath, the caress of the fabric on her breasts, her belly…her nipples began to tighten. Warmth spread through her pelvis.

Nothing could ever dampen her carnal urges.

She should not nurture such thoughts and feelings. She should resist all sensual pleasure. Didn’t she want to recover? Dr. Meeker was trying to help her. But she had to do her part. She had to become pure again.

Her channel clenched, sending a stronger wave of pleasure up through her belly. Wetness trickled from her sex and a thrill of anticipation made her heart speed even more.

On her belly now, pressing her legs together, she took a deep, ragged breath. Then she lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder at the door.

They would return. Soon.

Privacy.

She had never appreciated it until it became such a rarity in her life.

They would come back to dress her in a heavy flannel nightdress and button her from neck to toe—as though that could discourage her bad habits.

Would that it could. Wicked thoughts.