There wasn’t anything to get worked up over. Not a thing. He was only a doctor, just like Dr. Pritchard. He was going to tend to her and help her get better, and once she was better enough—for Dr. Pritchard had made it clear she would never be completely better—he would be on his way again. Never mind she’d spent half the night dreaming of him, or that the images and scenarios continued to swirl in her head in the light of day. He was still just a doctor.

Hannah craned her neck to see out the window. Not that she could see much from this far away, but if he were walking on the far side of the street, she might catch a glimpse of the top of his head.

Oh, it was no use. She slumped back to her pillow with a pout. He would be here when he was here—there was no point obsessing over where he might be now or when he might arrive.

She’d set her resolve to read some more, but just as she opened her book to the page she’d left off, the handle to her door jiggled. Her heart raced, and she sat there, stupefied, waiting to see who was on the other side.

“Good morning, Hannah.”

Botheration, it was Mother. The Dowager Duchess of Somerset.

“Hello, Mother,” Hannah replied, suddenly feeling like a little girl again, instead of a thirty-year-old woman. She hated that her mother had that power over her, yet she felt helpless to change it. “What brings you here today?”

“I live here, if you remember right,” she said, her tone condescending and sharp, as always. She crossed the room, her black bombazine skirts swishing loudly in the silence, her hair refusing to move with the movement, thanks to her maid’s tight hand and a thousand pins. “Are you feeling any better today?”

She asked that every day, as if Hannah might one morning leap from the bed and declare herself ready to reenter society. It was all about society for Mother. She lived and died by Debrett’s, and expected everyone else to do the same. The society pages, more aptly referred to as the gossip columns, were as vital to her morning routine as tea and toast were. They were a source of life to her, which was why Hannah and her mother had never really understood one another.

Of course, Mother had come ‘round after the shooting, defending her against Beeston—something she’d never done before. Not in the ten long, lonely years that Hannah had suffered as his wife. But she supposed her mother’s change of heart—however short lived—was something to celebrate.

“A bit,” Hannah finally answered. “But when the laudanum wears off again…”

“You’ll just take more,” Mother finished.

Hannah sighed. “But I don’t like to take it. It makes me sleepy.”

“Rest is what you need. That’s why Dr. Pritchard prescribed the stuff to you.”

And yet Dr. Alcott seemed to disagree with him on that point. “I think I’m tired of resting,” she blurted out.

The dowager turned sharply to look at her. “Rest is vital for your recovery.”

Hannah knew she was treading on shaky ground, picking an argument with her mother, but she couldn’t help it. She was bored. “Is it? It’s been nearly two months and my condition is hardly changed.”

“Well, it hasn’t worsened.” Her mother was getting agitated, if her flaring nostrils were any indication. “Now, see here, you will do exactly as the doctor dictates, do you understand?”

Hannah allowed herself a small smile. Of course she would. But clearly, Mother didn’t know she was no longer under the care of Dr. Pritchard.

“I think that’s a very wise idea,” came a masculine voice from the doorway.

“Who are you?” Mother asked, her voice as stern and biting as ever as she looked Dr. Alcott up and down with a shrewd eye. Clearly, she was scandalized that a handsome man was in Hannah’s bedchamber.

Hannah couldn’t stop her heart from fluttering or her toes from tingling at the sight of him, for he was indeed very handsome. She might never get over how tall he seemed, even in her rather large bedchamber. And the way the light streamed in through the windows, catching his sandy hair just so, made the strands of gold shimmer brightly. But it was the way he looked at her that truly made it hard to catch her breath. Did he look at all his patients that way?

“Mother,” she finally managed, “this is Dr. Alcott. He has taken over for Dr. Pritchard. Dr. Alcott, may I introduce you to the Dowager Duchess of Somerset, who is, coincidentally, my mother.”

* * *

One could immediately see why Hannah was as meek and quiet as she was—someone else had clearly been speaking on her behalf her entire life. The dowager duchess was a formidable woman with a sharp tongue, and Graham had deduced that in a mere thirty seconds. If he thought the duke had been intimidating, his mother was one hundred times more so.

He bowed to the woman, nonetheless. “An honor, Your Grace,” he said, and then righted himself once again.

“Where is Dr. Pritchard?”

Apparently, she wasn’t one for pleasantries.

“He is gone, Mother,” the baroness answered before Graham even had a chance to open his mouth. “The Countess of Kilworth has requested his presence during her confinement, and he cannot care for both of us, what with her being in the country—”

“This is an outrage!” The dowager’s skin had turned to an unnatural shade of purple, and she nearly shook with rage. “He valued a countess over you?”

“In truth, I am only a baron’s widow.”

“Yes, but your brother is a duke,” Her Grace bit back, “and he is the one paying for your care.”

“Perhaps I could find it in myself to be as overset about this as you are if I didn’t have a great deal of confidence in his replacement.” She smiled up at Graham, and it warmed him all over. “As it stands, I’m very happy with Dr. Alcott.”

Graham smiled back, completely locked in her gaze. “Thank you,” he said with a slight bow of his head.

The dowager stared at him, her lips drawn together in a straight line, her nostrils flaring with each breath. “What credentials have you?” she demanded.

“He comes on recommendation from Dr. Pritchard, Mother. What more do you need?”

Graham appreciated her defense, but he didn’t want the dowager to think he couldn’t fight his own battles. “Quite a few, actually,” he said. “My father was a doctor, and I grew up watching and learning from him. After his death, I became the local doctor in our town, and eventually was honored with an apprenticeship here in London, with Dr. Pritchard. I’ve been working with him for six years now, while also attending lectures and symposiums on medical advancements. Does that satisfy Your Grace?”

Perhaps he should have left off that last bit—it did come across as rather goading. But he couldn’t help himself. The woman was intolerable, and he’d only been in her presence a mere few minutes.

She narrowed her beady eyes on him and straightened her spine. Graham didn’t dare look at Lady Beeston, for she was likely trying to keep a straight face. It wouldn’t be terribly professional to burst into laughter just then.

“I will sit here while you see to my daughter today,” the dowager finally said, slipping onto the tufted window seat.

Graham finally turned to Lady Beeston. “Is that all right with you?” he asked.

She nodded, though a bit reluctantly, it seemed. “I’m certain I don’t have another choice.” Then she sent a pointed look to her mother.

After an awkward moment of silence, Graham sprang into action, trying to put all this nonsense behind him. “Well, then. Let us begin.” He moved across the room and set his large, black bag down on the night table, knocking over the bottle of what he assumed was laudanum at the same time.

Lady Beeston gasped and reached for the vial as if she were a rabid dog. Once she had it in her grasp, she slowly looked up until she met Graham’s eyes, before quickly looking away again. Damn.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I just didn’t want it to drip to the rug.”

Right. “Thankfully the lid was on tightly. No harm done.”

She cleared her throat. “No harm done,” she repeated. “So, what are you going to force me to do today?”

“First,” he said, plucking the bottle from her hands again and placing it further away, atop the dresser. Her eyes followed it carefully. Was she worried about how she would get to it in his absence? “First, we will ring to have a bath drawn.”

“A bath?” the dowager called from her spot by the window. “Is that safe?”

“I have already been through this with Dr. Alcott, Mother.” She turned up her lovely brown eyes at him. “He assures me it is perfectly safe.”

“I’m going to dress the wound,” he went on to explain, breaking the startling eye contact she’d initiated and addressing the dowager. “I shall attempt to keep it as dry as possible.”

“You don’t mean to say that you’re going to bathe her?” the dowager balked.

Graham looked back to Lady Beeston, who’s face was flushed a bright pink. She was now trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

“No,” Graham said, laughing just a bit in spite of the fact the idea of bathing her was quite arousing. Damn. He must keep himself in check. She was a patient. Nothing more. Perhaps he needed a visit to a local madam to ease his ardor. It wouldn’t do to go springing up every time he was in her presence. “No, of course not,” he went on. “Once the wound is properly dressed, I will step out of the room while your maid bathes you. When you’re finished, I will return to apply a poultice. Then I will let you rest.”

“No walk today?”

Oh, how he wanted to walk with her. To have his arm around her waist again and feel her slight body pressed into his side. “Not today. The bath will be taxing enough.”

The dowager shook her head as she made her way to the bell pull in the corner of the room. She tugged on one of the bells, and then tsked. “I don’t know how I feel about this, Dr. Alcott, but I will defer to your expertise…for now.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Your confidence means the world.”

And truly, it did. Getting past the duke was one thing; pleasing the dowager was a feat of a whole different nature. To get her approval—even if temporary—felt like a victory.

“May I?” he asked Lady Beeston as the dowager returned to her spot by the window.

The baroness nodded, though her lashes fluttered and she looked away from him. Clearly, she found this part uncomfortable, and Graham did too, for the first time in his career. He’d cared for many a pretty lady, but none like her. Lady Beeston, in spite of the fact she hadn’t had a bath in far too long, had captivated him. It was easy to see she was a beautiful woman, even with matted hair and a sallow complexion. He could see past that, right to her heart.

“How does it feel today?” he asked as he pulled yesterday’s bandage from her leg with as gentle a hand as he could manage.

“Sore, but perhaps not as bad as before.”

“Have you taken any laudanum today?”

There was a pause. Her throat worked as she swallowed loudly. “Yes,” she finally answered, and there was shame in her tone.

She ought not to feel ashamed. Laudanum was the cure-all in their world. But he wanted to show her a better way—a different way. He’d seen what the stuff could do to people over time, the way it held them in its grasp and wouldn’t let go. Oftentimes, the effects of the medicine turned out to be worse than the ailment in the first place. With a poultice of ancient herbs and oils, perhaps they could simply treat the wound and not her entire person.

The maid arrived while Graham tended to the wound, and at the dowager’s instruction began the process of preparing Lady Beeston’s bath. When it was time for him to make his exit, Graham found it hard to leave—almost as if his feet were refusing to move.

“Dr. Alcott,” the dowager said sharply as he stood lamely at Lady Beeston’s bedside.

“My apologies,” he said, coming to. “I will wait downstairs until you are ready for me.”

Unable to look her in the eyes, Graham left the room, stopping to catch his breath once outside the door. His breath and his heart, God help him.