Chapter Twelve
July 11, 1818
Isobel laid in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, as the long-case clock in the downstairs hall chimed half past the midnight hour. The full moon outside sent shadows skittering over the walls and floor, for she hadn’t bothered to close the drapes at the window.
What was the point of anything now that Royce kept himself aloof and withdrawn?
She’d been all too shaken when she and William had called on the new earl. Granted, his life had been thrown into shock, chaos, and grief, but the fact he hadn’t even tried to arrange an assignation with her made her nearly sick to her stomach. Was she once again considered not good enough? Since he was a titled peer, did he have no more use for her?
With a huff of annoyance, Isobel flopped onto her side and punched her pillow for good measure. Yes, she still detested any man who held a title within the ton, but she’d hoped the doctor would prove different. Sadly, that wasn’t the case, for with his absence and silence, he was quickly making himself into the very thing he’d never wished to be.
So she assumed, for when it came down to brass tacks, she didn’t know him well at all aside from the delights she’d gained from exploring his body and bedding him in the most unusual and risqué of places.
That thought brought about a grin and a delicious heat moving through her veins. As a lover he’d been incredible, but over the course of being with him, laughing with him, she’d come to rely on him as a friend, and though they hadn’t discussed deeply personal things, gut instinct told her he could become a close confidant with very little provocation.
And right now, she sorely needed to talk with someone, for her world was shattering piece by piece about her proverbial feet. It was only a matter of days before her mother would leave this mortal coil, and Isobel could scarcely breathe from the fright that it brought. For the last few days, Wills and Fanny had been keeping constant vigil at her bedside. Isobel attended to her mother when she could but being that close to imminent death only brought about more anger and a sense of hopelessness she couldn’t escape.
This is ridiculous.
Lying in bed thinking about a man was beneath her, yet here she was, wondering where he was and what he was doing. It was unbecoming and unproductive, especially when they could be together for a quick tryst. She needed to know if he’d been deliberately avoiding her or if life’s circumstances had merely taken his time. Either way, it was all part of the trap of changes that currently shaped her life, and she didn’t like it one bit. Isobel flung back the bedclothes. She swung her legs over the side of the bed.
I need answers.
*
Thirty minutes later,she marveled that the Marsden clinic in the Marylebone neighborhood was still open. Granted, it probably wasn’t, for there weren’t candles or gaslights giving off illumination, but knowing Royce like she did, this was where he’d be.
Moonlight left silver pools over the tidy hardwood floor as she waited on the perimeter of the large, open room that contained perhaps eight cots, all containing tidy stacks of bedclothes and a pillow. The slight medicinal aroma mixed with the more astringent scents of soap and cleanser tickled her nose. It didn’t feel as deserted; someone must be in residence, and she hoped to God it was Royce. Otherwise, scandal would once more be her lot, and this time not of her making.
“Doctor Marsden? Are you here?” Her inquiry sounded overly loud in the silence. The rustle of fabric alluded to the fact she wasn’t alone. “It’s Isobel. I… I thought you might wish for company.”
Among other things.
Shadows moved in a doorway at the opposite end of the room. Fear leapt into throat while her pulse ricocheted through her veins, but when the form of the doctor separated from the clinging darkness, she uttered a sigh of relief and relaxed.
“Isobel.” He stared with the expanse of the room separating them, and even from that distance it was evident he’d passed more than a few fitful nights. “I fear my mind is tired for it’s as if I conjured you here from my thoughts.”
“Well, that is a step in the right direction.” Quickly, she turned the lock on the door before prowling over the floor toward him. “Uh, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve sought you out.” What would she do if he didn’t wish to see her in any capacity?
“At this point, I could use the company.” He shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it in rows of red disarray. Clad in his waistcoat, shirt with no collar or cuffs or even a cravat and rolled to the elbows like he’d been that evening of the cadaver exam, dark gray breeches and scuffed boots, he resembled a pirate of old, especially with the faint shadow of stubble clinging to his jaw and cheeks. And he was irresistible. A shiver of need careened down her spine. “Yet this is highly irregular.”
“As if what we’ve done to this point has been staid and proper?” she couldn’t help but tease as she closed the distance.
“True.” His laugh sounded forced, and when she peered upward into his face, the grief and longing that mixed in his hazel eyes tugged at her chest, for it mirrored some of her own struggles. Like he couldn’t help himself from touching her, he rested a hand upon her shoulder and drew it down her arm leaving heated tingles in its wake. “Why are you really here?”
It was both troubling and flattering that he knew her so well, and that made some of the bars about her heart rust away and bend. Suddenly, she didn’t want to go about presenting a strong front where emotion was frowned upon. Her chest tightened, and once more drawing breath hurt. To her horror, quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Quite honestly, I want to be held, comforted even, and I didn’t know where else to go,” she admitted in a choked whisper.
“Ah, Isobel.” He took her hand and led her into the dark corridor beyond where he’d first appeared. “We can be companions in misery, but I warn you, I’ve already made inroads into feeling sorry for myself.”
“It matters not.” The touch of his hand holding hers was enough to make her tremble. For far too many days she’d missed that. When he guided her into a small room at the end of the hall, she frowned. Equally dark and with moonlight filtering through a half-shaded but open window, it contained a desk that was littered with papers and journals and thick books. There was a cupboard under the window, and a narrow bunk on the opposite wall with disheveled bedclothes, as well as a washstand. “Do you spend many nights here?” Clearly, it was an office of sorts.
“It depends upon how busy the clinic was from day to day.” He guided her to the bed and gently pushed her onto it. An empty bottle of brandy spun when the toe of her slipper bumped it. Beside it, an open bottle of whisky waited.
“You’ve been drinking.” It wasn’t a question, and the fact that he’d turned to spirits stood as a testament to the state of his mind.
“I have. All day, in fact, and pacing myself.” Royce sat beside her and reached for the bottle. “Not yet in my cups but close enough that my feelings are beginning to numb.” He took a swig, his swallow audible, then he offered it to her. “It’ll help, at least temporarily.”
She took a few sips and gasped when the liquid burned her throat, but it tasted different than the brandy and provided a smoother finish. “Not bad.” The feeling of vulnerability she remembered from childhood came over her, but the difference was that she had Royce… at least for now. “I despise that life is changing on all fronts and I can do nothing except watch.”