Chapter Six
June 17, 1818
Royce shifted position in the leather chair he occupied. The library he shared with his brother was small and not stocked with a robust variety of volumes, but the mostly medical journals, texts, and treatises he and Trey used were well-loved and all the more valuable because they pertained to the work at the clinic. Perhaps one day in the future he’d look into acquiring more books on subject matter that had nothing to do with the medical field like what resided in his father’s vast library, but today was not that day. There was plenty of time for all of that.
Thinking of his father brought out an indulgent chuckle. Right now, his parent was no doubt arguing on the floor of the House of Lords. He was quite the force to reckon with while in his glory as a member of Parliament. His mother would have been so proud of him had she still been alive. That forthright, determined attitude was one he wished to emulate once it was his turn as earl and to take on the stodgy, unchanging men who made the laws.
Thank goodness that wasn’t a worry Royce needed to mull over any time soon.
A cool June breeze came through the open windows. It ruffled his hair and flirted with the pages of the tome that sat open on his lap, but his attention had long ago wandered from the words. All his mind wished to contemplate was Isobel and her reaction to the cadaver exam two days ago.
Oh, she’d been curious, that much had been evident, but as he’d spoken of the life Mr. Smythe had allegedly led, compassion had pooled in her eyes. Emotions had played over her expressive face, and he’d almost been able to hear her thoughts in that moment. No doubt she’d considered the horrific divide between the classes in England, wondered if the man had had a family that had fared equally horridly.
His respect for her had gone up a notch. Yes, she courted scandal almost to the point of harm, but beneath that façade beat a heart for the people. If she’d let herself, she could work toward changing the political and social landscape of London if not England. But that meant she’d need to lower that guard, let people see past the mask of sensation she persisted in living behind.
The question was why she did so. What was driving her to portray herself in such a reckless, shallow light?
It was merely one of the questions he wished to have answered regarding the fascinating Storme. Just like her cousins and brother, Isobel was a creature of high emotion and even higher drama, but if she could harness that power, there’d be no stopping her.
He’d enjoyed having her at the cadaver exam all too much, and it had given him the opportunity to show himself in a more favorable light than she’d seen before. When they’d spoken briefly on the terrace, it had been evident she held him in high esteem and had admired his work. Never had he craved praise like he did in her company. Her regard made him feel more alive as a man—in a different way than helping his patients. And damn his eyes if he didn’t want another kiss merely to see if the first one—and his reaction therein—had been an aberration.
With a sigh, Royce gave his head a firm shake and returned his attention to the medical textbook on his lap. There was a particular procedure he’d hoped to learn more about before he needed to perform it upon a patient, but sadly there wasn’t much knowledge regarding such surgery. Did he have the bravery to go forward in what was essentially an experiment even if it did manage to heal the patient?
A slight clearing of a masculine throat at the doorway alerted him to the presence of the butler.
“What is it, Dirkens?” He set aside his book. Though the nine o’clock hour had just struck, he hoped there wasn’t an emergency. The clinic had remained open until seven that night, but Trey and Finn had manned that particular shift. No doubt they were taking dinner together at their club as was their custom on the late nights.
“There is someone here to see you, Doctor.”
Obviously. Tamping on the urge to huff in annoyance, Royce rose from his chair and faced the other man. “Who?”
“A Miss Storme.” Dirkens raised a brown eyebrow as if having a woman beneath a bachelor’s roof was the height of scandal. He wasn’t far off the mark. “Currently, she’s in the parlor and quite unescorted. What shall I tell her?”
Royce snorted. “That largely depends on why she’s here.”
“The lady didn’t say.”
Of course she didn’t. That would be too tame and quite uninspiring. “Very well. I’ll attend to her directly.”
“Very well, Doctor. Will there be anything else?”
“I can’t imagine there would be.” Royce waved a hand. “Consider yourself off duty.” Once the butler departed, he ran a hand through his hair and then straightened his cravat. What the devil was Isobel doing showing up here at night without an escort or companion? Still, his heartbeat quickened as he made his way through the corridors. At the parlor door, he stopped short, and his breathing temporarily failed him. “Dear God.”
She turned at the sound of his voice. Dressed in a gown of silver satin with a gauzy, ethereal overskirt that twinkled and glittered with tiny spangles, Miss Isobel Storme was a vision that had apparently fallen from the heavens to glow with starshine in his parlor. He could easily imagine her as a lost deity of old, and when he peeked at her feet, she wore matching silver sandals whose leather ties crisscrossed up her calves. “Good evening, Doctor.” When she bestowed a smile upon him, it held a certain wickedness that spelled disaster for him.
“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Good evening. What are you doing here, dressed for a ball, I assume?”
Her dark brown hair had been pinned into a glorious mass high upon her head ala a Greek goddess. A delicate dual band shimmered from those tresses while curls provided temptation at her temples and nape. “When one is going to a ball, one must dress for the occasion. Don’t you think?”
“I… suppose.” That didn’t answer his question. “I mean, if you’re going to a ball, why are you here?” The spicy, orange blossom scent of her wafted to his nose to further cloud his thinking.
“To ask you to accompany me to the Marquess of Brandenshire’s annual midsummer masquerade.” She held up a hand. Clutched in her fingers was a domino mask of silver satin and glitter that matched her gown. “Well?”
“I haven’t been invited.” Never had he been more devastated.
Isobel’s tinkling laughter bounced through the room as if she were visiting from fairyland. “Neither have I, which is why it’ll be so much fun to crash said ball.”
For the second time that evening, Royce was rendered speechless. He stared at her with his lower jaw hanging slightly open. “I… I beg your pardon. You mean to sneak into a society event?”