A Passionate Endeavor (8 page)

While he waited, Nicholas moved to the window
to peer outside. His hand nudged an object in the window box. It
was a little brown spotted wren made of fired clay, no doubt one of
Miss Kittridge’s creations. Its little mates, posed in different
positions, were clustered all around a real nest with three
speckled clay eggs inside. The sight reminded him of all the joys
of boyhood in the spring when he had been able to escape the
confines of a housebound winter to look for signs of new life.

He heard the greedy screeching of a blue jay
beyond the open window as Dr. Kittridge entered the room.

“Ah, my lord. I am delighted to see you,” the
small man said, bowing. “I was just about to hasten to Wyndhurst to
examine you and His Grace. You have saved me half a trip,” he said,
rubbing his tired-looking eyes and replacing his spectacles. He
paused and peered over the rim of his eyeglasses. “You have not
decided to forgo the examination, have you?”

Nicholas waved the doctor’s doubts away. “No,
no.” He moved to the chaise the doctor motioned to him. “I rode
here for the exercise.” Nicholas extended his leg at the doctor’s
approach.

Dr. Kittridge ran his hand over the contours
of Nicholas’s bandaged thigh. “And how is the pain, my lord? Has it
abated at all?”

“The wound has healed, as you know. There is
still some pain from inside.”

Dr. Kittridge nwrapped the outer bandage and
pressed deep into the sides of his leg. Nicholas forced himself to
breathe slowly and not flinch.

“Hmmm,” murmured the doctor. “The bone
splinter seems to be less prominent. I do think it will indeed heal
itself without having to rebreak the bone. I must caution you,
though, to take more care. If you overuse your limb more than the
prudent amount, you might find yourself bedridden once again. I had
suggested mild activities such as a short turn in your garden, not
riding.”

“Consider the admonishment complete, sir.”
Nicholas smiled. The doctor rebandaged the leg and Nicholas got to
his feet awkwardly, before limping toward the window.

“I shall want to examine the leg again in
another two weeks—for a final decision.”

“Agreed,” said Nicholas, as he pushed aside
the frayed edge of the muslin curtain. Miss Kittridge was coming up
the walk, carrying a basketful of greenery in her delicate arms. He
swallowed as he remembered her gentle touch.

“And my father, sir? How do you find him? I
must soon make plans to return to my regiment when I am well enough
and if he rebounds.” As he spoke, he gazed at Charlotte. She was
almost childlike as she hastened up the flagged stones. There were
grass stains on the front of her plain gray gown, and a smudge of
dirt on her cheek. He felt old and unworthy in the face of such
sweet innocence. Nicholas turned to the doctor when there was no
reply.

“I would advise an unhasty departure, my
lord,” Dr. Kittridge said, as he walked to stand beside him. “It is
doubtful His Grace will survive the spring if he continues in this
fashion. But I think you are aware of that.” Dr. Kittridge peered
around to engage Nicholas’s attention. “If you will pardon me for
saying so, I would make arrangements to sell out soonest. You will
be needed here. Your father needs you here.”

“An intelligent suggestion, sir, but… I will
be rejoining my regiment. You will be answerable to my brother.
Although, I will, of course, make the recommendation that you
remain here. The people of the village and the neighboring
countryside are fortunate you agreed to come here,” Nicholas said,
then turned to face him. “I do hope you will stay.”

Dr. Kittridge wrinkled his brow in confusion.
Nicholas knew the older man would not condescend to ask for
clarification. In any event, Nicholas had no desire to explain what
long ago had been decided by all parties. If only his leg would
heal faster. Blast it all.

It was past the hour she was supposed to be
at the abbey, Charlotte thought, as she bustled into the cramped
hallway of the cottage after her visit to a neighbor suffering from
an inflamed joint. Doro buzzed around her collecting her basket,
helping Charlotte untie her apron, even dusting a smudge of dirt
from her hot cheeks.

“The good doctor has not yet left for the
great house, miss,” Doro said, as she took Charlotte’s soiled
gloves. “He be in the front sitting room with a genleman .with his
lordship.”

Doro must be mistaken. It must be another
lord visiting. More and more patients arrived on their doorstep
each week. Most had ailments so mild that they came on foot, on
horseback, or in vehicles of varying importance. They had little
patience for waiting for the doctor to call on them. She had
learned a long time ago that those who complained longest and
loudest were usually the least ill.

Charlotte had met so many of them in the last
month. It was the standard fare—the stomach ailments, the
toothaches. For the rich it was almost always the gout, or for the
ladies, their nerves. Charlotte listened patiently to them all and
made sure that her father saw the more serious cases between his
visits to the abbey.

“Best steep two pots of the herbs this
morning, Doro. Please add this willow bark to the usual other
leaves.” Charlotte pointed to the herbs she had picked from the
expanding herb plot near the cottage.

“Yes, miss.”

After straightening her gown, Charlotte
knocked on the sitting room door. The faint voice of her father
bade her to enter. The broad form and stark gaze of Lord Huntington
made her catch her breath when she entered and curtsied. “My lord,”
she said.

“Miss Kittridge,” he responded, nodding.

Her stomach tightened as she moved closer.
She was keenly aware that she made no impression on him.

She remembered and tried to relive his kiss
every day, especially each night, as she lay sleepless in her
narrow bed. He was saying some inconsequential civilities to her
father, and she knew without a doubt that the kiss she treasured
was of no consequence to him at all.

But she yearned to help him, despite his
station, and despite her embarrassment. It all seemed quite absurd
and impossible. And who was she to suggest her ideas to the heir to
a dukedom? She took her bold decision. She would speak to him.

“Father, the pots will be ready in a quarter
hour. I shall bring them to the abbey directly.”

“All right, then.” Dr. Kittridge looked
toward his lordship, and left after realizing Lord Huntington would
not precede him out the door. He was too high in the instep for her
father to insist that he leave for propriety’s sake.

On the heels of her father’s departure,
Charlotte was tongue-tied. What had she been thinking?

“You have something to say to me?” he asked
quietly.

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, desperate for
another topic. “The mare. I have not had a chance to see her in
many days. How does she fare?”

“Very well, considering.”

“I shall have to stop into the stable again
to see her.”

“Hmmm,” he replied.

Silence. Loud, oppressive silence. She looked
up from the floor to see him gazing at her in expectation, not a
smile in sight. She was a coward. How could she have ever thought
to impose her views on this man? He would order her out of the
cottage with great fury and pride. And he would be right to do so.
She looked toward the door and planned her escape. He took one step
toward her, using his shiny black cane.

“Is there nothing else, then? I had the
distinct impression you wanted a word.” He hesitated. “We have
never discussed my bold actions of more than a fortnight ago. I
fear I embarrassed you. I must apologize.”

“Oh, no, my lord. I.… I am sure I have quite
forgotten it.”

“It was unpardonable. I was out of line
taking advantage of you after all the long hours you spent nursing
me with such gentleness and care.”

The seeds of an idea took root. “It is not
that,” she continued, “I knew it meant nothing. It is just that… of
course, I would not presume to… But, I thought,” she rushed through
the words, then stopped abruptly.

“Yes, my dear? What may I do for you to show
regret for my actions? Name it and it shall be yours.”

“No. No, sir, it will not do. Forgive my
interference. It is not my place to—”

“Come, come, Miss Kittridge. This is unlike
you. There is no need to fear me. You have seen me at my very
worst, I do assure you. You have never failed to tell me what is on
your mind, nor to listen to my ramblings. A refreshing attribute
here in Wiltshire, if I do say so,” he said with a slow smile.

He smiled so little. She hated knowing it
would fade if she told him her idea. She closed her eyes. “Lord
Huntington… it occurred to me that I could perhaps offer, or
rather give, you a book I was looking at yesterday.”

His smile disappeared. He looked away from
her, out the window. The loss of his intense gaze allowed her to
breathe again. “Let me explain—”

“No, I thought I had explained it to you,” he
interrupted in his deep, mellow baritone. “Miss Kittridge, I have
no use for books, as you know.” He moved toward the door behind
her.

Charlotte presumed to stop him with her hand
on his sleeve and he looked down at her, his green eyes filled with
furious anger. “I must return to the abbey, Miss Kittridge. Please
remove your hand.” He snatched his arm away.

“No, please wait. Allow me to—”

“No.”

“Please,” she said in a low tone.

He was looking at her, waiting, she realized
when she dared to raise her gaze to his. “Well?” he said, his
irritation thinly veiled.

“Well, I thought you might enjoy looking at a
book I have about birds. You were well-informed of the cuckoo’s
nature. You could look at the exquisite engravings and I could read
the descriptions to you. And perhaps, just perhaps you could
try—”

“Are you proposing to teach me how to read,
Miss Kittridge?” he interrupted again.

“Well… Yes.”

“And do you not think that every known method
has been applied during my youth? Do you not think that over the
course of the years five scholars were brought in to attempt the
impossible?”

“No, you misunder—” she jumped in.

“Do not interrupt me, Miss Kittridge,” he
said, and continued above her plea. “Do you not think that I was
sent off to Eton at the age of seven, returned at nine, along with
a note saying that I was without doubt an ‘ignorant, incapable of
reading the written word, incapable of learning, incapable of
anything save bashing the heads of those who mocked me’? Do you not
now think that I and my father have tried everything in the power
of a dukedom to try to learn how to read? It is impossible,” he
said, his dark green eyes flashing. “And you have the audacity and
presumption to think that you will find a solution? Do you believe
that one of your miraculous potions will cure me of a tendency
toward stupidity, a nodding toward the nod-cock, a, a, a… Ah,
there, you have forced me to betray my weakness in vocabulary, Miss
Kittridge. Enough said.”

She wanted to sink into the floor. She would
really be grateful if she could just have one good swoon, say like
Mrs. Bennett in
Pride and Prejudice
. But she had never
swooned in her life.

“I believe you would enjoy the book, my
lord.” She looked him in the eye, determined to disarm him with her
resolve. “And I believe you owe me, my lord.”

Oppressive silence again permeated the walls
of the room. It was emotional blackmail, it was. And she was sure
Nicholas knew it as well. He had probably not thought her capable
of it. But then, he had underestimated her spirit.

“Are you blackmailing me because I had the
audacity to kiss you or because you have nursed me back to
health?”

She wouldn’t blink. She wouldn’t blush.
She would gain her point in whatever fashion necessary
. “Which
reason would force you to take the book, my lord?”

“You are playing most unfairly, my dear.”

“Playing fair did not seem to be working very
well in this case, Lord Huntington.”

“Ah, the old ‘ends justify the means’
tactic,” he said, with just the hint of a smile. “Blackmailer.”

“Coward,” she said, bracing for a barrage of
curses.

He almost laughed.

“You would like me very much to look at it,”
he said, not committing himself.

“Yes.”

“For what purpose?”

What could she say? Nay, what would she dare
to admit? That she loved him? Not in a lifetime of repressed
longing. “The engravings are exquisite. We could—we could discuss
any of the birds that are not familiar to you.”

He said nothing for a long moment.

“Where might this paragon of information on
the beaked and feathered world be found?”

She rushed to the nearest stack of books
behind the settee and retrieved a volume. Charlotte placed it into
his outstretched hand. “It is precious to me.”