July 1818
Dr Joseph Warriner sat down behind his desk with an air of resignation. Despite today’s genuine attempt at resolve, he realised such efforts were ultimately futile. His situation was pathetic. Worse—he was pathetic. He flicked out the dented gold pocket watch he always wore secured to his sensible dark waistcoat and knew, before even looking at the dial, it was almost eight o’clock. The fact he had checked the stupid thing every two minutes for the last half an hour irritated him, as did the sorry realisation he had also been drawn to participate in this ridiculous ritual for almost a month now. Drawn like a sailor to the sirens.
And for what? One transient dance exactly twenty-eight days ago. A few exchanged, meaningless pleasantries whilst he had stood with her other eager admirers, tossed randomly like discarded breadcrumbs to a yard full of chickens. Or like today, for a surreptitious glimpse of the cause of his torment, guiltily stolen through the heavy lace that covered the windows, when he knew, deep down, his foolish heart was once again chasing a shadow.
The whole sorry situation was pathetic.
Angrily, he snapped the watch closed and turned his chair towards the window and waited. Just like he had every Tuesday or Friday morning in the last few weeks, at precisely eight o’clock, the glossy black carriage turned into the square exactly on time. It was market day in Retford and she always came to shop on market day. And the fact she was always so punctual also irritated him. Just for once he wished she would be late and he would be forced to attend to his first patient of the day, whose appointment was now timed for five past the hour on market days instead of on the dot of eight as usual. Another sign of how lamentable this folly was. It would be much better to do something worthwhile rather than waste his time engaging in this pointless ritual, especially as he already had a mountain of tasks to complete today. But, no—this carriage was a creature of habit, much like its vexing occupant, and it slowed to a stop just past the window of Joe’s surgery as it always did. To torture him.
Carefully, he moved the very edge of the curtain so that he could get a better view and watched as the footman opened the carriage door. After a few seconds, one surprisingly sensibly shod foot, with an intriguingly shapely ankle, appeared. His breath hitched.
He had never seen her ankles before and was staggered a common formation of bones would affect him so. How many ankles had he seen in his career? Hundreds? Thousands, probably, yet the sight of hers made his heart beat faster.
The glorious ankles was closely followed by a bonnet-covered head. Without even seeing it, he knew her golden hair would be arranged in a becoming and fashionable style, but that already several of the silky strands, the colour of which he had often considered to be the exact shade of wheat freshly harvested and kissed by the sun, would have resent being tamed and begun escaping its pins. True to form, these would frame her bewitching face in tiny spiral curls he yearned to wind around his fingers.
Of course, he could never do that. If he did—well, then he would probably have to remove every single pin so he could enjoy watching that mass of curls tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Especially now he had seen those ankles. He closed his eyes and savoured the fantasy for a moment.
Lady Clarissa Beaumont.
Joe exhaled slowly and watched her gather herself together. For a fleeting moment she turned and he saw just her cheek—perfect peaches and cream skin—but was cruelly denied the sight of her wide, almond-shaped blue eyes in a shade so glorious that it would have made even the Caribbean Sea jealous. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her plump pink lips as she smiled at the footman and a bolt of ridiculous jealousy surged through him at the innocent exchange.
Because the delectable Clarissa, fêted society beauty, was largely ignorant of the fact he even existed. Thank heavens the ethereal Clarissa was also blissfully unaware the man currently hidden behind the curtain of his office was suffering from a terminal case of unrequited love. More painful this morning, for some reason, than it had ever been before. Probably because of those ankles, he realised. A few inches of silk-covered leg and he was already burning with lust. The lust was a new sensation. Up until today his love had been pure, the courtly kind of old and not sullied with that base, human emotion. But up until today he had been denied the sight of those magnificent ankles, so he supposed his sudden physical reaction was to be expected. What was love without passion anyway?
She turned and his heart soared—then promptly plummeted to his toes. She was quite the wrong sister. Not Lady Clarissa Beaumont at all, charming, blonde and effervescent. But Lady Isabella Beaumont. Pretty, yes, and clearly in possession of a damn fine pair of legs, but rather a serious, unsociable individual. And very definitely a brunette. Her ruler-straight dark locks suited her dour personality. She took the basket the footman offered her, stood and regarded the marketplace with obvious disdain and strode away purposefully. Hardly a surprise when Lady Isabella did everything with purpose, whether that be blatantly reading a book during an assembly when every other girl was dancing or doing good deeds.
Whilst she always accompanied the beautiful Clarissa on market days, until this week Joe and the scary Lady Isabella had collided only briefly. Once at the monthly assembly held in the village hall, where she was stood next to her lovely sister. For the duration of the festivities, as far as Joe could ascertain, she had worn what he suspected was a permanent expression of complete disgust, as if the provincial society of dankest Nottinghamshire was quite beneath her. Fortunately, she tended to fade into the background stood next to her sparkling sister, so Joe rarely noticed her.
That wasn’t completely true. He always noticed her; he just wished he hadn’t. Why would he waste time staring at the darkness when he could gaze at sunshine? Yet something about those dark, serious eyes always drew him, nevertheless, and he found himself frowning. A little bewildered. A little irritated, yet oddly curious. Goodness knew why. It was almost as irritating as yearning for her unobtainable sister.
However, since last week, he had seen Lady Isabella twice at the foundling home run by his sister-in-law Letty, so he had no choice in the matter. She was volunteering in the infirmary and watched him like a hawk whenever he visited and while he examined the young patients with such determined concentration, and such a sour expression, it made him feel as though he was not a particularly good doctor at all. It was most disconcerting. Yet she never said a word. Not one! Preferring to loiter in the doorway as he worked and then bolt the moment he turned. It was all very curious. All very odd. Much like Lady Isabella.
If anything, Isabella was vinegar to her sister’s honey. Always so stand-offish. Devoid of any discernible sense of humour as far as he could make out. Dour. Certainly rude. Perhaps even a little intimidating. He felt his lip curl at the thought.
He waited with bated breath for the appearance of the other Beaumont. The one his poor heart yearned to see, but alas, the footman smartly closed the carriage door and took his place at the back, forcing Joe to accept the disappointing fact he would not see the object of his unrequited affections today after all. A crushing blow when he had been so looking forward to it, even though he knew it was an exercise in futility and one which rendered him utterly pathetic. Lady Clarissa would never consider him.
Aside from his unfortunate Warriner ancestors and the dreadful family reputation which still lingered in Retford like a bad smell, he was merely the brother to an earl with no hope of ever getting a title, what with another brother and already two robust nephews in the way. Not that Joe had ever coveted any title other than Dr, but women like Lady Clarissa were raised to care about such things. She was the daughter of the Earl of Braxton and