Whitney, My Love (32 page)

"There'll be tune enough for all that later, if we
survive this," Anne panted, already unfastening Whitney's dress with shaking
fingers and jerking it unceremoniously over her head.

Clarissa was hauling back the bedcovers, then flying to
the wardrobe from which she snatched a fleecy dressing robe.

"Couldn't you have told him that I was asleep or
something, and sent him back to London?" Whitney implored as she dived into
bed and pulled up the covers.

"Dr. Whitticomb," Anne said, trying to catch her breath,
"is no fool, believe me. He's been sent here to treat your knee, and he
intends to do exactly that." Casting a quick, critical eye over Whitney, she
said, "Clarissa, bring two pillows and place them beneath Whitney's knee.
Then fetch some hartshorn from my room and put it on the bedside table. That
will be a nice touch, I think." She started for the door. "I'll forestall
Dr. Whitticomb for as long as I can to give you time, but don't count on
more than a few minutes."

Clarissa remained rooted to the floor, her eyes glassy,
her bands gripping the back of a chair. "Clarissa!" Lady Anne said sharply.
"Do not even consider fainting!"

"I thank you, Lady Gilbert, but no," Dr. Whitticomb
said, refusing for the third time the refreshments which, in an apparent
excess of polite solicitude, Lady Gilbert was again trying to press upon
him. He had already replied to her inquiries about the weather in London,
the weather outside, and the pleasantness of his journey from London. When
she tried to engage him in a discussion over how much snow they ought to
expect this winter, Dr. Whitticomb said bluntly, "I wonder if I might see
Miss Stone now."

Lady Gilbert led him upstairs and down the hall to the
fourth door on the left. After a curiously long interval, the door was
finally opened by a stout, elderly maid whose mob cap sat crazily askew atop
her wiry gray head. Dr. Whitticomb, who was no stranger to the temperaments
of wealthy, pampered young ladies, immediately assumed that Miss Stone was
spoiled and had harassed her poor maid until that woman looked ready to
swoon dead away.

This conclusion was reinforced by the appearance of the
patient herself, a young lady of stunning good looks and high color who was
reclining upon a large canopied bed, eyeing his approach with ill-concealed
antagonism. A pair of jade-green eyes narrowed briefly on his face, wandered
momentarily along his black frockcoat, then riveted in alarm on the black
bag he carried.

Trying in his compassionate way to distract his patient
from her terrified preoccupation with his instrument case, Dr. Whitticomb
put it down beside her bed and said soothingly, "His grace, the Duke of
Claymore, is most deeply concerned about you."

Two bright spots of color appeared on her high
cheekbones. In a strangled voice, she whispered, "He is the embodiment of
kindness and solicitude."

"Quite so," Dr. Whitticomb agreed, not able to believe
the sarcasm he thought he heard. "As I understand it, Miss Stone," he began
briskly, "you took a nasty fall down the staircase." Reaching for the
bedcovers, he said, "Let's just have a look at that knee, shall we?"

"Don't!" she yelped, clutching the bedcovers to her
pretty chin and eyeing him mutinously.

For a moment he stared at her in amazement, but then he
realized what was distressing her and his expression gentled. Drawing up a
chair beside the bed, he sat down. "My dear girl," he said kindly, "we are
no longer in the dark ages when a female denied herself the ministrations of
a competent physician merely because he was a man and she a woman. I applaud
your modesty-God knows we see it all too seldom in young ladies these
days-but this is not the proper time for it, as I am sure your aunt would
tell you. Now then . . ." Reaching out, he tried to draw the sheets back,
but his patient's tightly clenched fists exerted equal pressure to draw them
in the opposite direction.

Dr. Whitticomb reared back and frowned with frustrated
annoyance. "I am a competent physician with a score of female patients,
including Her Majesty, if that will reassure you, Miss Stone."

"Well, it doesn't reassure me in the least!" his patient
fired back in a voice remarkably strong for one supposedly in excruciating
pain.

"Young woman," he warned, "I am under specific orders
from his grace to examine your knee and prescribe the proper care. And," he
added ominously, "he instructed me to have you restrained, if necessary, in
order to do so."

"Restrained!" Whitney burst out. "Of all the
unmitigated, unbelievable gall! Just who does he think would dare to do such
a ..." She choked back her outburst, already visualizing Clayton striding
into her bedchamber in defiance of every law of decency and propriety, and
forcibly pinning her to the bed, so that Dr. Whitticomb could examine her
knee.

Frantically, she groped for some way to deter the
physician from examining her. Excessive modesty was her only hope. Her lids
fluttered closed, then opened to regard the man in charming embarrassment.
Shyly, she plucked at the sheets. "I know how silly and foolish I must seem
to you, Dr. Whitticomb, but I would simply the of mortification to be so
exposed ... to a perfect stranger, no matter how fine a doctor you are."

"My dear girl, we are only talking about 'exposing' your
knee, after all."

"But I can't help the way I feel," Whitney protested
virtuously. "You don't know me, but surely his grace, who does know me,
should have considered my tenderest feelings in this. I'm quite shocked by
his callous disregard of my . . . my .. . ?"

"Maidenly sensibilities?" the doctor offered
automatically, thinking to himself that Claymore was going to have his work
cut out for himself on his wedding night with this young woman, and that it
was a very good thing that the duke was no novice where females were
concerned.

"Exactly! I knew you would understand."

Reluctantly Dr. Whitticomb capitulated. "Very well, Miss
Stone, I will not examine your knee on one condition: You must permit a
local physician to examine it."

"Immediately!" Whitney agreed, beaming a bright smile on
him.

Leaning over, he snapped his bag shut and picked it up
"Do you know of someone who has experience with sprains and breaks-someone
with whom you could feel comfortable?"

"Someone with experience with sprains and breaks?"

Whitney repeated, searching madly for some name to give
him. "Why yes. Yes, I do," she announced triumphantly.

"Who?" Dr. Whitticomb persisted, standing up. "What is
his name?"

"Thomas," Whitney provided promptly, smiling widely at
her own inspiration. "I trust him implicitly, as does everyone for miles
around-whenever there's a sprain or a break, it is always brought to Thomas
for treatment." With a gracious smile, she said, "Goodbye, Dr. Whitticomb. I
do thank you for coming, and I'm most dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience
you've been caused. Clarissa will show you out."

"No need to bid me farewell just yet," Dr. Whitticomb
assured. "I'll be up to see you after I've spoken with Dr. Thomas."

"Oh dear God!" Clarissa gasped, blindly clutching the
bedpost for support.

Dr. Whitticomb ignored her outburst. Reaching into his
waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a heavy gold timepiece, glanced at the time,
then snapped it shut. "His grace's driver and coach are waiting, so if
someone will be so kind as to direct me to Dr. Thomas, I'll meet with him
and assure myself of his credentials, then bring him back with me."

Whitney levered herself up on both elbows. "Whatever
for? I mean, I've just assured you that he's qualified. You can take my word
for it."

"No, I'm sorry, but I can't. Even if I were willing to
entrust your health to some unknown colleague, which I'm not, I can assure
you that the duke would never permit it. Actually, we discussed calling in
Grundheim from Germany; he's a good man with injuries to the joints. And
there's Johannsen in Sweden-"

"He wouldn't dare!" Whitney retorted.

"Actually," Dr. Whitticomb admitted ruefully, "it was my
idea to have them come to examine your knee. Claymore thought it best if I
saw you first. He had certain-ah-doubts about the severity of your injury.
Lady Gilbert," he said, "would you be so kind as to give me directions to
Dr. Thomas?" He started for the door, but stopped in his tracks when, from
the occupant of the bed, there came a stifled moan, followed by a series of
blistering remarks about someone's character and integrity, liberally salted
with words such as "scoundrel, wretch, blackguard, and hypocrite."

Dr. Whitticomb turned in surprise. Gone was the shy,
demure young lady who'd sighed and languished in her bed but a moment
before. His lips twitched with laughter and admiration as he beheld the
tempestuous beauty who was now sitting bolt upright against the pillows,
positively emanating stormy wrath.

"Dr. Whitticomb," the beauty snapped at him, "I really
cannot endure another moment of this. For the love of God, look at my knee
before that man has every leech in Europe at my bedside!"

"I personally do not condone leeching," Dr. Whitticomb
remarked as he walked back to the bed and put his instrument case down. This
time there was no resistance when he drew back the bedcovers. He parted her
dressing robe well below the thigh, exposing a pair of long, shapely limbs,
one of which was propped upon a pile of pillows.

"That's odd," he said, suppressing a smile as he glanced
at his rebellious patient. "Yes indeed-I wondered about the lump created by
this pile of pillows."

Whitney frowned at him. "I can't see anything the least
bit 'odd' about two pillows propping up an injured knee."

"I quite agree with you there." Dr. Whitticomb's eyes
twinkled. "But unless I misread your note to his grace, it was your left
knee which was injured. Yet it is your right knee which we see here upon
these pillows."

His finger pointed accusingly to the wrong leg and
Whitney pinkened. "Oh that," she said hastily. "We propped the right leg up
to keep it from bumping the left."

"Very quick thinking, my dear," Dr. Whitticomb said with
a chuckle.

Whitney closed her eyes in chagrin. She wasn't fooling
him at all.

"There doesn't appear to be any swelling." His fingers
gentry felt first her right knee, then her left, then the right again. "Do
you feel any pain here?"

"Dr. Whitticomb," Whitney said with a resigned smile
trembling on her lips, "would you believe, even for one second, that I am in
any pain?"

"No. I'm afraid not, actually," he admitted with equal
candor. "But I must say I admire your knack for knowing when the time has
come to throw in your cards and call the game lost." He replaced the
bedcovers and leaned back in his chair, gazing at her in thoughtful silence.

He couldn't help admiring her spirit. She'd concocted a
scheme and she'd done her level best to see it through. And now, when she
was defeated, she conceded the victory to him without rancor, no missish
sulks and sullens, no tears or begging. Damned if he didn't like her for it!
After a moment, he straightened and said briskly, "I expect we should
discuss what I am going to do next."

Whitney shook her head. "There's no need to explain. I
know what you're obligated to do."

Dr. Whitticomb gave her an amused look. "First of all,
I'm going to prescribe absolute, undisturbed bedrest for the next
twenty-four hours. Not for you"-he laughed at Whitney's joyous
expression-"but for your poor, beleaguered maid behind me, who's been torn
between grabbing the nearest heavy object and bludgeoning me unconscious or
swooning dead away." Plucking the hartshorn bottle from the bedside table,
he passed it to Clarissa. "If you will take some free advice from an
extremely expensive physician," he told her severely, "you will not involve
yourself in any more of this lovely hoyden's intrigues. You haven't the
constitution for it. Besides, your face quite gave your mistress away."

When Clarissa closed the door behind her, Dr. Whitticomb
turned his gaze upon Lady Gilbert, who'd gone round the bed and was standing
beside Whitney, waiting like a condemned man in the box to share her niece's
sentence. "You, Lady Gilbert, are not in much better condition than that
maid. Sit down."

"I'm quite all right," Lady Anne murmured, but she sank
to the bed.

"Much better than all right," Dr. Whitticomb chuckled

"Quite splendid, I should say. You never betrayed your
niece by even the flicker of an eye." Whitney was the next object of the
doctor's penetrating gaze. "Now then, how do you think your future husband
is going to react to this deception of yours?"

Whitney closed her eyes against the frightening image of
an enraged Clayton, his gray eyes icy and his voice vibrating with cold
fury. "He'll be furious," she whispered. "But that was the risk I took."

"Then there's nothing to be gained by confessing the
deception, is there?"

Whitney's eyes snapped open. "Me confessing? I thought
you were going to tell him the truth."

"The truth I have to tell, young lady, is this: An
injury to a joint, any joint, can be difficult, even impossible, to
diagnose. Despite the absence of swelling, I could not definitely rule out
the possibility that your knee was injured precisely as you claimed. Beyond
that, any further revelations will have to come from you. I am here as a
physician, you know, not an informant."

Whitney's spirits soared. She snatched a pillow from
beside her and hugged it to her chest, laughing with relief and gratitude.
After thanking him three times, she said, "I don't suppose that you could
tell his grace that I should stay in bed?"

"No," Dr. Whitticomb said flatly. "I cannot and would
not do so."

"I quite understand," Whitney said generously. "It was
just a thought."