Dread roiled in Lavinia’s stomach as she followed Tad through lavish, unfamiliar halls and up a grand staircase decorated with oriental carpets, centuries’ worth of portraits on the walls. She wasn’t concerned so much for her mother’s health as for what sort of mischief she was about to wreak on them all.

“Does she do this often?” Marigold asked as they mounted the top step and turned down a long, well-lit hall.

“Only when she thinks she has something to gain by putting on the act,” Lavinia sighed.

Her mother’s plaintive groans floated down the hall from an open door, but that wasn’t what made Lavinia jerk to a stop. Dr. Armand Pearson had just stepped into the hallway from a staircase at the other end, followed by a second footman. Lavinia’s stomach dropped to her toes.

“Is something wrong?” Marigold asked, pausing and glancing back at Lavinia.

Lavinia pressed a hand to her stomach, eyes wide and fixed on Dr. Pearson as he marched toward her. Really, he was marching toward the door to her mother’s room, but Lavinia knew better. “She wouldn’t dare,” she whispered.

Marigold stared at her curiously, but all too soon her expression shifted to understanding. “My, she doesn’t like to waste time at all, does she?”

“No,” Lavinia sighed and started forward again.

Dr. Pearson had already headed into her mother’s room, sparing only a quick glance for her. There was nothing for it but to face the inevitable matchmaking that awaited her around the corner in the Rose Suite. She allowed herself one painful wince before soldiering on.

“Mama, whatever is the matter?” she asked, feigning innocence when she entered the front room, Marigold at her side.

“I don’t know, my dear, I don’t know,” her mother answered. She’d draped herself elegantly on a chaise that sat in a beam of cheerful afternoon sunlight, the back of one wrist pressed to her forehead, in a position worthy of the finest stages in London. “I came over so faint as soon as I was shown to my room.”

“It could be the strain of the journey,” Dr. Pearson said in a low, clinical voice. He sat on the side of the chaise and took Lavinia’s mother’s hand, testing her pulse.

“Oh, Lord Helm,” her mother said in a suddenly hale voice. “Have you met my daughter, Lavinia?”

It was all Lavinia could do not to cringe where she stood. When Dr. Pearson glanced briefly at her and nodded, a hot blush came to her face. She would die a thousand deaths if the doctor-turned-viscount caught on to what her mother was attempting. But then again, Dr. Pearson was a man of experience. She’d learned through her friends that he was in his late forties, considered the “baby” of his group, and that he had lived a vivid life while practicing medicine. There was no way he wouldn’t see what her mother was doing.

“I believe Lady Lavinia and I have been introduced on a few occasions,” he said, then went right on to, “Did you feel dizzy before the onset of faintness? Do you feel feverish at all? When was the last time you ate?”

“Lavinia, come closer,” her mother said, back to sounding as though she were on death’s door. With mortification in her soul and an apologetic look for Dr. Pearson—which she was certain he didn’t see—she inched closer. “No, no, dear. Come sit by my side.” Her mother patted the chaise.

Lavinia swallowed, praying she wasn’t as red as an apple, and slipped to the chaise. She lowered herself to perch gingerly on the opposite side from Dr. Pearson, glad, for once, that the copious material and cage of her bustle prevented her from settling comfortably.

Dr. Pearson lifted his eyes to study her for what felt like an eternity. His expression was grave, though his features were attractive. He’d aged well. His eyes were a deep, crisp blue, and his skin had a healthy glow. His jaw was square and strong, but at the moment, his lips were pursed in irritation. The lines around his eyes and mouth spoke of frustration rather than smiles and laughter. Lavinia began to tremble. He didn’t like her, she could tell. He didn’t approve of her at all.

“Lavinia, say something to Dr. Pearson,” her mother demanded as Dr. Pearson rested the back of his hand on her forehead to check her temperature.

Lavinia opened her mouth, but all that came out was a withered squeak of helplessness.

“Lavinia,” her mother scolded in a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” Lavinia managed to blurt, staring at Dr. Pearson with wide, frightened eyes. He was ten times greater than her. He’d traveled, seen things, done things. Even though he was clearly aggravated, he had a powerful aura of confidence around him. She wanted to lean toward him and run away at the same time.

And then he met her eyes with a flash of kindness and understanding that sent spirals of heat through her. “It’s all right,” he said softly. Yes, he knew precisely what her mother was up to.

“I…I didn’t know,” Lavinia blundered on, face burning with embarrassment. “That is to say, I assumed she would—” She snapped her mouth shut, biting her dry lips. “It’s the travel, of course,” she said, praying she’d covered her blast of badly-timed honesty well enough.

The faintest hint of a smile touched Dr. Pearson’s lips before he turned back to Lavinia’s mother. “My diagnosis is that you have overexerted yourself through travel. I recommend that you indulge in a long nap and take tea before—”

“Where is the patient?” a new voice shouted as a squat, balding man rushed into the room. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Dr. Pearson and Lavinia stood simultaneously, glancing to each other in question and then to the newcomer. Lavinia’s mother straightened, an odd, offended look twisting her smile into a frown. But it was Marigold’s reaction that gripped Lavinia. She’d gone white as a sheet.

“What are you doing here?” Marigold whispered, eyes wide and glassy, pressing a hand to her belly.

“I was told a doctor was needed, so I came,” the man said.

“Dr. Miller was just passing in the lane,” Anne, who had come in with the newcomer, said. “You told me to fetch a doctor.”

“Not this doctor,” Marigold said, fury rising in her voice.

In an instant, Lavinia remembered it all—the horrible news that had reached her after Marigold had been in a carriage wreck which caused her to miscarry the summer before, the reports of the doctor who had botched her treatment, resulting in Marigold’s loss of the ability to bear children.

Fury replaced embarrassment in Lavinia’s gut. “Stay away from my mother,” she hissed with a surprising amount of force. She stepped around the chaise to stand between Dr. Miller and her mother, which resulted in her standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dr. Pearson. “You’re not wanted here.”

“Oh?” Dr. Miller’s expression brightened as though she’d treated him to an inviting smile instead of a threatening scowl. “And who have we here?”

“Tad, fetch Mr. Croydon at once,” Marigold ordered, stepping toward the door. “Get out, Dr. Miller.”

“Yes, yes.” Dr. Miller waved away her order. He glanced to Dr. Pearson and said, “Ladies form grudges so easily. They do not understand the inevitability of unfortunate medical conditions.”

Dr. Pearson narrowed his eyes, standing taller. “I know who you are, sir, and I know what you’ve done.”

For the first time since entering the room, Dr. Miller lost his smile. “I am the doctor, sir,” he said. “I’ve been called to treat a patient.” He inched closer to Lavinia’s mother. “Now, ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

“I…what…that is….” Her mother gaped like a fish, glancing between Dr. Miller, Lavinia, and Dr. Pearson. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Miller, and I’m here to make you feel better,” he answered.

“Oh,” Lavinia’s mother said, blinking in confusion.

“Get out,” Marigold repeated, pointing a shaking finger at the door. “Now.”

“Is that any way to treat the man who has been called to your house to treat the sick?” Dr. Miller protested.

“This woman is suffering from fatigue, if that,” Dr. Pearson said, moving in such a way that Dr. Miller was forced to back toward the door. “I have prescribed rest and nourishment.”

“And who are you?” Dr. Miller asked, attempting to assert himself even as he was forced to step into the hall. Lavinia followed, Marigold just behind her.

“I am Dr. Armand Pearson,” Dr. Pearson said.

A knowing grin came to Dr. Miller’s face. “I know you. You’re that puffed-up, accidental viscount who thinks he’s still a doctor.”

“I am still a doctor,” Dr. Pearson argued.

Dr. Miller chuckled. “A doctor with a title, but not a practice. Whereas I have just been appointed to a prestigious position in an exclusive, private practice in London.”

“You have?” Marigold asked, incredulous. “Who in their right mind would hire the likes of you?”

Dr. Miller was saved from answering as Mr. Croydon turned the corner from the staircase at the end of the hall. “Miller,” he shouted, his voice booming down the hall and making Lavinia flinch. “Get out of my house this instant.”

Dr. Miller flinched toward Lavinia. “I’m relying on you to save me, my dear,” he murmured.

“Me?” Lavinia yelped, taking a step away from him. That step knocked her squarely into Dr. Pearson, who was forced to grip her around the waist to keep her from tumbling over. His touch sent electric jolts of panic through her, but she couldn’t seem to move away from him.

Mr. Croydon marched down the hall like a general going to war. He didn’t stop when he reached their flustered group. Instead, he approached Dr. Miller, grabbing a fistful of his lapels and nearly wrenching him off his feet.

“Get out of my house and off my property this instant,” he seethed, eyes fiery with anger. “If I get so much as a whiff of you again, I will cut you into a thousand pieces and throw you into the fire, where you belong.”

Lavinia was convinced Dr. Miller was about to soil himself. His jaw flapped, and he glanced desperately around. His gaze fell on Lavinia. “B-but I was just making the acquaintance of this lovely lady.”

“You leave Lady Lavinia out of this,” Mr. Croydon seethed.

Lavinia hid her wince in her hand.

“Lady Lavinia, is it?” Dr. Miller seemed to perk up a fraction. “I love a red-head.”

Mr. Croydon responded with a growl as he jerked Dr. Miller off his feet and propelled him down the hall toward the staircase. “I am giving my staff orders to shoot you on sight,” he said as they turned the corner.

They could still be heard—Mr. Croydon threatening and Dr. Miller protesting—for a few more seconds before calm returned to the hall. Lavinia let out a breath, moving her hand from her face to her stomach. She wanted to hide again as soon as she realized Dr. Pearson was staring at her with narrowed eyes.

“You do have red hair,” he said, as if just realizing the fact, even though they’d seen each other a dozen times before.

Lavinia still wore her traveling hat, but she managed to touch the chignon at the back of her neck. “Unfortunately, yes,” she whispered, voice shaking. There were more important things to consider at the moment than the color of her hair, though. She turned to Marigold, who was still pale and shaking. “Are you all right?” she asked, moving to take her dear friend’s hands.

Marigold was silent and still for a moment before nodding slowly. “I will be. I need a cup of tea.”

“I’ll come with you,” Lavinia said.

They hadn’t gone more than two steps before her mother’s shrill call of, “Lavinia, get back here this instant,” snagged her.

Lavinia cringed. Of all things, Marigold smiled, some color returning to her cheeks. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll be in the garden with Katya and Mariah. Join us when you escape your dragon.”

Lavinia nodded, her gut churning all over again. She watched Marigold head down the hall as her mother called, “Lavinia,” once more. But when she turned around to face the inevitable, Dr. Pearson was still standing by the door, studying her with a frown.

Swallowing, hand still pressed to her stomach, she moved closer to him. “Please allow me to apologize for my mother, Dr. Pearson,” she whispered, darting a quick glance into her mother’s room, where she sat upright on the chaise. Lavinia banked on the hope that as long as her mother saw her speaking to Dr. Pearson she wouldn’t intervene. “She has ideas,” she continued, glancing up into Dr. Pearson’s eyes. My, but he was tall.

A faint smile touched his lips. “This is not the first time a meddling mama has tried to tempt me into bondage by throwing her daughter in my path.”

Lavinia’s cheeks burned with shame and she glanced down, mortified. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he said with a cringe, reaching toward her, then pulling his hand away. “I didn’t mean to offend or embarrass you by saying that. I have a horrible habit of speaking out of turn.”

She risked looking at him once more. “Believe me, sir, it is not you who offend and embarrass me.” She cast another miserable look at her mother, who seemed to be straining to hear what they were saying.

“I’m sorry for that as well,” Dr. Pearson replied, a note of genuine sympathy in his voice. “It must be frustrating to be a woman at the mercy of her mother.”

A flicker of hope formed in Lavinia’s heart. Perhaps he did understand. “The thing is,” she confided, feeling bold but lowering her voice further, “I came here to escape her.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow.

“Mrs. Croydon, Lady Stanhope, and Lady Dunsford are three of my closest friends. We’ve hatched a plot to separate me from Mama so that I can, at last, be the independent woman I long to be.”

Dr. Pearson’s expression twitched to puzzlement. “You wish to be an independent woman?” When she nodded, he went on with, “Most women I’ve known wish to marry an important man and to be a mother.”

“Not me,” Lavinia said. She tilted her head to the side. “I wouldn’t mind being a mother, but not now. I want to taste freedom. I want to make my own decisions and stand on my own two feet for once in my life.”

Dr. Pearson met her declaration with an indulgent smile. Lavinia was instantly aware that she’d overstepped her bounds. Heat flooded her face once again, and she lowered her head and her hands started to shake.

“I admire your determination,” Dr. Pearson said, surprising her. When Lavinia glanced up, there was a distant, almost painful look in his eyes. “There are few things more important than determining your own path in life.”

“Yes,” Lavinia agreed. She smiled, the funny feeling that Dr. Pearson needed more smiles in his life growing inside her. He met her look with kindness in his eyes. A spark ignited inside her, like someone striking a match to light a lantern that would show the way.

“Lavinia?” Her mother’s impatient snap doused the fire and the feeling. “Lavinia, come here at once. Whatever are you saying to Lord Helm?”

“I believe he prefers to be called Dr. Pearson, Mama,” Lavinia said with an apologetic look for Dr. Pearson. She stepped toward the door.

“Either will do,” Dr. Pearson sighed. “I suppose I should get used to ‘Lord Helm’. Or you could call me Armand.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Lavinia said, ducking into her mother’s room and away from the odd feelings Dr. Pearson gave her.

She didn’t look back, but somehow she knew that Dr. Pearson walked away. “Would you like me to fetch some tea for you, Mama?” she asked, glancing toward Anne, the only servant who had stayed in the room.

“No, no,” her mother said, irritated. She paused, then looked to Anne. “On second thought, yes. That would be nice. Fetch me some tea, girl.” Anne jumped into action, leaving the room. “And shut the door behind you.”

As soon as Anne closed the door, Lavinia’s spirits sank in advance of the lecture she knew she was about to get. “Mama,” she started, crossing to the chaise.

“That was a golden opportunity, and you missed it,” her mother hissed. “I couldn’t have set things up for you more magnificently.”

“Mama, Dr. Pearson does not need a charity case like me throwing herself at him,” Lavinia said, plopping onto the corner of the chaise with far less grace than the way she’d sat while Dr. Pearson was there.

“Charity case?” her mother nearly shouted. “You are anything but, my dear. You are a beautiful young woman of intelligence and talent. Thanks to my instructions, you are perfectly suited for the life of a viscountess.”

“Mama, please don’t throw me at Dr. Pearson’s head during this house party,” Lavinia begged. “That’s not what I’m here for, not at all. In fact—”

“That is exactly what you are here for,” her mother interrupted her, eyes blazing with indignation. “And what is wrong with Lord Helm? He is unmarried, he needs a wife to organize his estate and run his social life, and he is friends with the husbands of your closest friends. It is an ideal match, if you ask me.”

“But I don’t want to marry,” Lavinia sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Blasphemy,” her mother gasped.

Lavinia rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to marry right now. I want to experience life first. I want to—”

“You will want what you’re told to want, Lavinia,” her mother snapped. “I have not gone to all this trouble and expense to bring you up right, clothe you fashionably, and ensure that you have made well-placed friends so that you can end up a spinster on a dusty shelf.”

“But Mama—”

“Mrs. Croydon is hosting a ball tomorrow night to inaugurate her house party,” her mother blazed on. “Along with her guests, half the wealthy, titled people in the country will be in attendance. You do not have to endear yourself to Lord Helm—though I think he is by far the best choice for you—but you will engage yourself to someone by the end of the month or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Her mother’s voice took on a pleading, suffering shrillness at the end of her speech, so rather than argue, Lavinia simply sighed. “Yes, Mama,” she said, not because she was inclined to follow her mother’s dictates, but because she couldn’t go on protesting without developing a serious megrim.

“Good,” her mother said, patting her hand and smiling once more. “Now, go take tea with your friends. I’m sure they’d counsel you on the same course of action as I am.”

Lavinia rose without the heart to reply to her mother. She headed for the door, but once she was in the hall, she leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh. Already she could see that her Winterberry Park holiday wasn’t turning out to be the glorious bid for freedom that she’d hoped it would be.