She was mad. There was no other explanation. Had she really invited him to her room with a fib and a seductive wink? Goodness, she was a harridan, a harlot! She had never done anything like this, not even in the early days with Beeston. He had been so pursuant of her, she hadn’t needed to. But this was different. She wasn’t an innocent this time. Dr. Alcott—Graham—wasn’t a powerful lord that put stars in her eyes and clouded her judgment.

No, this was far more special. There was friendship and tenderness and…everything that wasn’t there with Beeston.

Damn Beeston! Why was she thinking of him at a time like this? Why did his memory choose to creep up and strangle her just when happiness was within her grasp?

“Hannah?”

Hannah whirled, her heart racing, to find Dr. Alcott behind her. Graham. Blast, it would take time to get used to calling him by his given name.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, clutching her hand to her chest. How had he opened and closed the door without her knowing?

“Did I startle you?”

He had, but that wasn’t why her heart was racing. “I’m fine,” she breathed, her eyes locked with his. The air in the room heavy. The charge of passion palpable between them, drawing them together, an unseen force that neither could deny.

And then, before she could even form another thought, she was in his arms. His mouth was on hers, coaxing her lips apart until she gave in, allowing his tongue entry, mingling with her own. Every nerve in her body stood on end, heat flooded her to her core. His hands, so familiar to her now as her doctor, held her so tenderly, caressed her so gently, and she melted against him. She’d been waiting for this for so many weeks now. No, years. She’d dreamt of this kind of passion often during her disappointing marriage, but she never could have imagined how wonderful it would truly be to be held. To be loved.

“My darling,” Graham whispered—it was easy to think of him as Graham all of a sudden, for who could consider their doctor doing this to them? “Are those tears?”

Hannah reached up to touch her cheek, which was indeed moist with her tears. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. “I suppose they are.”

His hazel eyes searched her face. “Might I hope they are tears of happiness?”

A giggle bubbled up inside of her. “You may,” she replied. “I have never been so happy in all my life.”

“Then you know exactly how I feel,” he said, just before he captured her lips again and kissed her completely senseless.

When he pulled away, he stared down at her, his eyes so full of love and tenderness, Hannah thought she might cry all over again. He stroked a finger down her cheek.

“I’m afraid I must go,” he whispered.

Hannah didn’t want him to, but she knew he’d be back. She knew she’d see him again, perhaps every day for the rest of her life, if she dared hope such a thing.

She nodded. “I understand.”

“I will be back in the morning.”

“I shall count the hours.” Such a silly thing to say, and yet, she knew it was completely true.

His lips spread into a smile and then he bent down to give her one last swift kiss before leaving her room.

* * *

Graham could hardly believe what was happening. He’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back. It was like a dream—a dream he’d never imagined could come true. But here they were, their feelings out in the open, sealed with a kiss. It was all Graham could do not to skip to his club that afternoon.

Plato’s Assembly was a club comprised of men of intellect, and they met at a small coffee house in Spitalfields. Graham maintained a brisk walk on his way there, attempting to keep warm amidst the suddenly cooler weather. The sun had gone behind the clouds and rain threatened to pour down on him as gusts of wind tried to steal his hat away. But the one thing the wind couldn’t steal from him was this buoyant mood.

He arrived at the coffee house and went directly to the back room where many of his friends and colleagues already sat about, sipping the strong Jamaican coffee that the establishment provided. All the way from the Blue Mountains, apparently. Good for one’s rigor and fitness. Graham couldn’t disagree—he always felt quite a bit livelier after a cup or two.

“Alcott!” His friend and scientist, Albert Baumgarten, waved at him from a nearby table at which sat Harry Cantor, another doctor, and Phillip Graves, a professor of Latin and Classic Literature at Oxford.

Graham gladly pulled up a chair to join them and promptly received a cup of coffee from the proprietor.

“Gentlemen,” he said and then took a sip of coffee in hopes of concealing the smile he couldn’t seem to wipe from his face.

Unfortunately, the men before him were quite astute, and his idiotic grin did not go unnoticed.

“What is this, my friend?” Cantor was the first to speak up. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve had yourself a bit of fun lately.”

Graves laughed. “But you do know better,” he said, and then they all laughed, even Graham. He wasn’t typically known for having fun—unless one counted endless hours of reading medical journals fun. Which he did.

“No, no,” he said, holding up his hands as if in surrender, “Cantor is right. I have been having a bit of fun.”

“With a bit o’ muslin?” Baumgarten asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Good God, man! What do you take me for? I’m a doctor—I’ve much more sense than to seek out a syphilitic woman.”

“Rather harsh, don’t you think?” Cantor asked.

“Not harsh, just true. I’ve cared for plenty of those women, and I don’t judge them for their profession. I’m just not going to bed one, is all.”

Cantor nodded. “Point taken.”

“Well, then,” Graves said, leaning forward in his chair and placing his elbows on the rough, wooden table. “Who is she?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say.” Then he added, “Not yet at least.”

“Ah.” Baumgarten relaxed against the back of his chair. “A patient, then.”

“I never said anything of the sort. Just that I’m not at liberty to talk about it yet.”

“We all know you’re caring for the Widow Beeston,” Cantor said, lowering his voice. “I would hesitate to engage in any—”

“It isn’t her,” Graham snapped. Damn his idiotic grin! He’d always prided himself on being able to mask his emotions—it came in handy when dealing with the ailing and downtrodden all the time. If he allowed his emotions to show, his patients would be in constant states of panic and fear, for many times the prognosis was heartbreaking.

“Fine,” Cantor pressed. “But if it is, you should be warned.”

An ominous silence fell over the table. Graham wanted to know what the hell his friend was talking about, but if he asked him to elaborate, would it implicate him in the affair? It took all his strength to keep silent, but thankfully, Cantor went on without provocation.

“It is rumored that Beeston isn’t really dead.”

A sick feeling stirred in Graham’s belly. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“He might still be alive.”

“Yes, I gathered that from your first statement,” Graham bit back, growing exasperated with his colleague. “But why? And where are you getting your information?”

“A maid in the Hawthorne household heard it from a footman in the Hastings household who’d heard it from a stable boy in the Hart household who’d—”

“Dammit, man! Get to the point!” Graham slammed his fist on the table. “What did they hear?”

“That the Duke of Somerset may have paid off Beeston and sent him to America.”

A coldness washed over Graham. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. If Beeston was still alive, exiled or not, then Hannah was not a free woman. If Beeston came back to claim her—

No. He couldn’t even fathom it. Surely, if this were true, the man wouldn’t dare step foot on English soil again. Somerset would surely kill him for good this time.

Damn it all. He knew Somerset was a powerful man, but had he truly gotten the magistrate to fake a death certificate?

Graham shook his head. How did he know if there even was a death certificate? Perhaps everyone had simply taken him at his word.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, standing abruptly and sending his heavy wooden chair backwards until it thudded to the floor. In a fluster, he righted it, and then swiftly quit the room. Perhaps his friends would suspect his smile was due to Lady Beeston now—how could they not draw that conclusion? But he was beyond caring at this point. He trusted them to keep the confidence. But his confidence in a certain duke had been swayed now, and duke or not, he owed him an explanation.

Or did he? Damn.

Graham stopped on the sidewalk outside the coffee house, vaguely aware of the noise and activity around him. His mind was whirling with the possible consequences of confronting the duke, even though every muscle in his body was aching to do so. But it was unlikely the man would take too well to being called out by a doctor. And then what would happen? More than likely he’d lose his post and never see Hannah again.

He closed his eyes and clutched his walking stick for support as people brushed past him. There was nothing for it. He was out of options. He couldn’t confront the duke. He couldn’t tell Hannah. He could only wait, and watch, and hope that what he’d just heard was only a rumor not grounded in any sort of truth.